A Nose for Death (32 page)

Candy was behind a folding table covered in a holly-and-sleigh-bell vinyl cloth, handing out plastic glasses of wine, laughing flirtatiously with a large man in a plaid shirt. Although his back was to Joan, there was something very familiar about him. She wracked her brain, and unable to contain her curiosity sidled up to eavesdrop. When she was within three feet, Candy saw her and lunged with arms spread wide. The man turned, and she was face-to-chest with Staff Sergeant Smartt.

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Ms. Parker,” he said in his most formal tone and waited to see which way her judgment would swing.

Candy took him by the arm. “Now everyone is here, I'm going to make a speech. I'm so nervous but somebody has to do it.” The colour had risen in her cheeks. Smartt kept his eyes on Joan.

“Do you have a first name besides Staff Sergeant?” asked Joan.

“Stuart,” he replied.

“Well, Stuart, I would've suspected me, too. I'd be top of my own list, as a matter of fact, very top. You were doing a job.

Can't fault you for that.”

He smiled, then looked over the heads of the revelers and turned to Candy. “Do you have a liquor licence for this event?”

For a moment Joan worried that she'd unleashed a madman.

Candy's response was to slap him hard on the back. “C'mon, Stu, give me a . . . ” and, a buxom Tammy Wynette, she spelled out the last word, “ . . . b-r-e-a-k,” accentuating every letter with a poke in his belly. Candy had completely charmed Staff Sergeant Stuart Smartt.

He hesitated as she charged toward the stage, then turned to Joan and spoke in his official voice. “It was a good move for Theissen to request your assistance.”

“He told you?”

“I even forgive him for his little ruse this afternoon. If I'd known the truth, that he trusted this business about you smelling the accused killer, I would have taken you both in then and there.” He knew that. “Theissen's methods are unconventional. I would have said ‘criminal' if this hadn't worked out.” At that, he strode across the auditorium after Candy.

Joan smiled. So Gabe had been watching her back the entire time.

Candy was calling for attention in a booming voice. When that didn't work, she stuck two fingers in her mouth. A shrieking whistle exploded across the gym. Once the many conversations petered out, she spoke.

“Hello, everyone. I'm so glad you're all here.” She looked around, making eye contact with many of the forty or so people in attendance. “And so would Peg have been. Like most of you, I left Madden not long after high school. I went country . . . ” Hoots went up in the crowd from several other ranchers. Once they'd settled, Candy continued. “Most of you became citified. But Madden stayed in our blood. Peg Wong knew that, and she knew it was important that we all come together again. She wanted us to remember that our roots are always here, in my case showing a lot of grey these days. Peg knew that we may as well embrace where we come from, give our own selves a little bit of lovin' for who we are.” Her voice became shaky. She stopped for a moment, then started again with full volume. “Coming back to Madden and having Peg as a friend gave me my life back. She taught me that I was okay, even if I thought I was broken, especially because I thought I was broken. And I know that she thought all of you were great too.”

Joan looked around and could tell that they were all relating. At times during the past few days, they'd forgotten about all the things they hated about this town. They'd embraced the good times and found that the bits that had turned them into pearls and diamonds — the irritants, the crushing weights, the rough stuff — ultimately had made them stronger.

“So,” Candy raised her wine glass, “here's to Peg.” She looked up toward the heavens. “We know you're here with us, doll.”

Joan felt a tap on her shoulder and jerked her head around. Hazel and Gabe, like giant, unscrupulous five-year-olds were holding fingers over their lips, warning her to be silent. Each grabbed an arm and marched her out of the auditorium. As soon as the double doors closed behind them, she asked where she was being taken.

“You'll see,” responded Hazel.

Joan looked up at the word “welcome” from the front seat of Gabe's truck, where she was squeezed between her two friends. Her lavender bath scent blended with Hazel's eucalyptus cough drops and Gabe's wet wool, coffee, and soap. It was the aroma of friendship. The evening sun cast dazzling bronze and coral tones on the trees behind the sign. In the old days, this would have been Hazel's dad's old truck, and they'd be driving behind Steve's old Parisienne, charging ahead, packed to the doors with teenagers. A couple of older 149cc motorbikes would be puttering up to the Welcome sign, loaded down with drivers and passengers, barely making it up the hill. Tonight the gravel parking lot was deserted, just as they wanted it to be. This would be their own reunion and their private goodbye.

While Hazel was in the woods peeing, Gabe knelt by the makeshift fire pit to stack the split pine and lay the dry kindling that he'd brought from his woodpile at home. Joan handed him the matches and admired his weathered hands as he opened the package. When he struck a match, the smell of sulfur and fresh pine filled her nostrils. This was her Gabe. The man with magical hands that could make fire, turn her to butter in bed, capture criminals. Gabe, who still found a way to win right over wrong, even if it meant breaking the rules. She rested her hand on his back. It was comfortable there.

When Hazel returned, they ceremoniously opened a bottle of lemon gin, sipping the potion to prove that they had made peace with the past. Between mouthfuls of roasted hot dog, Hazel revealed that Joan's life wasn't the only one that had changed paths as the result of Labour Day weekend 1979.

“Gabe told me about your pact,” she revealed. “That the two of you would lose your virginity together that night if you hadn't already. We were stoned out of our gourds, and he was so serious.”

When Joan looked to Gabe for confirmation, he smiled meekly. The attack by Roger had dominated her memory of that night. She barely remembered the pact.

Hazel continued: “When he couldn't find you, and believe me we tried, I was your stand in.”

Joan was stunned. “But you were already . . . ”

“A confirmed lesbian?” She nodded. “Yeah, but I felt sorry for Gabe, and I needed to know for sure.” She slapped Gabe on the back. “And you did that, thank you very much.”

Gabe slunk into his jacket. At no time in the past few days had he reminded Joan of the teenager he'd been as much as he did at that moment.

“Hazel, you know I could turn you around now, you sexy broad.”

“Sure, lover boy,” replied Hazel.

“Yeah, well,” he continued. “You made it so crystal clear that I wasn't up to snuff, I didn't try again until after I was engaged.”

Both women looked at him.

“You're kidding?” said Hazel.

He shrugged sheepishly.

Joan couldn't take her eyes off him. Gabe, stalwart and sure.

As she studied him, she admitted to herself that their weekend romance had been coloured by a sepia filter. The feelings that made her heart pound were partially based on the excitement of their youth. She loved Gabe, but they were so different. She lived by the rules that he only recognized if they served his vision of rightfulness. The truth was she didn't really know him.

E
PILOGUE

J
OAN COULDN'T REMEMBER MADDEN EVER COMING
close to the autumn colour and light on display this afternoon in Vancouver. The sidewalks looked as though a painter had splashed brilliant splotches as far as the eye could see. As she rolled into her underground driveway on this misty Friday, the sun was edging down toward the horizon forming a palette of gentle pinks and mauves beneath the slate-coloured clouds above. She'd made a commitment to herself to be home before dark, although when the clocks turned back at the beginning of next month, she'd have to adjust her schedule to the time change. Her promise had meant passing on a high-profile gig as lead designer on an intriguing project to enhance flavours in frozen seafood. And she knew deep down that this resolution to work shorter hours wouldn't last forever. But she also knew that she'd never completely go back to her old ways.

She unpacked the groceries onto the kitchen counter, excited to be cooking for her entire family. Tonight was an event none of them ever thought they'd see: her mother's engagement party. Vi's betrothal to Ed Fowler had sent a shock through the family, but the tsunami that followed was a wave of joy and approval. When she heard the front door, she quickly finished chopping the onions and wiped her hands. She was ready for the embrace when Mort folded his arms around her.

A step behind him was Hilda, his stunning German date. They'd met online and Joan hoped it would last this time.

“Hey, you didn't wait for me!” Mort announced as he looked down at the onions. “And those need to be diced a little finer.”

She grinned at him and picked up the knife. “I'm holding a weapon,” she threatened, but he took it as an invitation. Removing the knife from her hand, he shoved a handful of envelopes toward her.

“Here's your mail.” As he chopped and shared the highlights of his week, she sifted through the envelopes and stopped at one bearing the familiar blue-and-gold crest of the University of British Columbia. The return address was “Alumni Association”. Without a moment's hesitation, she tossed it unopened into the recycling bin, before Mort could see.

“Let me pour you both a glass of wine; then I'll make the salad.” She placed the remaining mail on the sideboard. It could wait. Gabe would be hungry after his long drive from Madden. When he arrived the party would really start. Every time he came to visit they got to know each other a little bit better. Somehow, they would make this long-distance relationship work.

Glynis Whiting has been writing professionally for over thirty years. For the past twenty years her focus has been writing, directing, and producing documentary films, such as the award-winning
Weight of the World
and
Worst
Case Scenerio
. Recently she has turned her pen to prose and, based on an early manuscript of her first novel,
A Nose for Death
, she received the Vancouver Mayor's Award for Emerging Literary Artist. She is now working on the second of the Nosey Parker Murder Mysteries. Glynis Whiting currently lives in Port Moody, British Columbia.