Corkscrew (13 page)

"I don't know. I got a call from his wife; she was hysterical. Seems she'd been resting. He'd given her a pill of some kind, and she was lying down. Next thing she heard this great roar outside, and she went out the door just as the car went in."

"That doesn't add up," I said automatically. "A great roar means he must have been racing the engine. Then she has time to go outside and see him go over the rock. He'd have been in the lake before she could reach the door if he was gunning it."

The OPP man shrugged. "That's what she said. The sergeant's gone over there. He told me to call you and let you know. Then this gentleman called for help, so I had to call in a mobile patrol."

"Sergeant Kowalchuk asked for me to see him there?" I wanted reassurance. There would be enough of a crowd at the Spenser place without my cluttering up the scene. If he hadn't asked, I wouldn't go.

"For sure. He said to get you down there as fast as possible."

I turned to Freda. "Would you come with me, please? That woman must be going out of her mind. She needs somebody to take care of her."

"Surely." She set her wineglass down and turned to Carl. "Thank you for the drink. It was lovely to meet you."

He took her hand in both of his, impulsively. "Likewise. I hope Reid will bring you again, very soon. And Reid, thanks again."

I nodded and led Fred out to the car, bringing Sam with us from the stoop. "This won't be easy," I told her, "but I appreciate your coming along. This woman's taken the worst two pieces of news a person can get, in the space of eight hours. She needs somebody to hang on to, and a big hairy policeman isn't it."

"I know," she said in a tone that showed she really did. "She must be shattered. I'll do what I can."

"I knew you would," I said, and patted her hand.

One of the reasons I've always been fond of Freda, from the night I found her running naked over the ice, out of her mind with cold and fear, is her cheerfulness. That night she had started making jokes the moment she thawed out. Tonight she broke the mood immediately by changing the subject. "You're doing me a favor. If I'd stayed in town, I'd have been watching television by now, waiting for the phone to ring."

"A knockout like you? It should be ringing off the wall," I told her.

"Typical man," she said. "You think women have it all, that horny guys like you are pouring out of the woodwork to take us to dinner and work their wicked way with us."

"Well, it has to be easier for a good-looking woman than it is for a man." Only half my mind was on the conversation. I was wondering what the roar had been that Mrs. Spenser had heard. Had her husband wanted her to rush out and plead with him? A lot of suicides are tentative. This one sounded real enough, but that roar bothered me. I'd heard her car start up earlier in the day. It didn't roar unless you tramped on the gas, and if he'd done that, he would have been off the rock before she reached the door.

Fred was oblivious to my thoughts, carrying on with the conversation as if we were any two people on a date, friends who knew how to make one another laugh. "I get my quota of calls. A lot of them are from smoothies, guys who think they're cool as hell and don't know the world can see the word c-r-e-e-p tattooed across their foreheads. Then there's the sweethearts who want to tell their friends they laid the girl in the Caliente Tortillas commercial. And then there's the gays, who see a woman as a passport to the straight world where they can cruise for what they're really after in new company."

"It's a cruel world," I said, and took my hand off the wheel to pat her arm. "Here we divorced men are washing our own socks and warming up our own TV dinners, never knowing we're in short supply." The small part of my mind that isn't police equipment wondered how much of the truth she was telling me. Freda was beautiful. She was as close to a celebrity as a Canadian actress gets to be without a couple of Hollywood credits to her name. She must have had romances. But I didn't follow up with questions. Getting together with a woman in her thirties is like opening a book in the middle. You don't know what went before, and it's easier on your mind if you never find out.

She ignored my silence, laughing and squeezing my hand. "I can still remember how we met. I figure you rescue enough damsels in distress to manage just fine."

We'd reached town, and I glanced around as I drove slowly through it. There were fewer cars than usual for a Saturday night. Both the hotel and the beer-parlor parking lots were half empty. I guessed the crowd from Carl's house had gone home after the showdown. They couldn't sit and look at one another over glasses of draft, knowing they'd made themselves look foolish.

We drove over the bridge and up the road on the other side of the water to the Spenser place. Kowalchuk's cruiser was parked on the grass in front of it. He'd been smart enough to turn his flasher off, but already the neighbors were starting to cluster on the edge of the property, chattering and plucking up their courage to go and knock on the cottage door. They made way without a word for Fred or me—and Sam, who was shadowing us. If any of them knew I'd been suspended, they didn't say so.

I could see Kowalchuk in the kitchen, so I tapped on the door and entered. Mrs. Spenser was sitting at the table with a half glass of water in front of her. Her mouth was tight. She looked more angry than sad. "This place is evil," she whispered.

I said, "This is Freda Hollis, Mrs. Spenser."

Fred was perfect. She was transformed from the pretty kibitzer who had ridden with me. She was motherhood. She didn't say a word. She just went up to the woman and crouched and hugged her.

Mrs. Spenser sat motionless for a second or two, thawing out of her anger; then she softened and clung to Freda, dry-eyed and angry but holding very tight. I hooked my head at Kowalchuk, and he followed me outside.

"Thanks for coming over and bringing your girlfriend," he said. "This woman's had about all she can take."

"Fred's solid. She'll take care of her," I minimized. "What did you find out?"

He shook his head. "Not a hell of a lot. She was almost out of her mind. The neighbors tried to help, but she just broke away from them and ran back to her place. All I've got is she heard an engine roar, then she went out, just in time to see the car going over the rock into the water."

"Did she see for sure if he was in it? I've met the guy; he's a lush. Maybe he's pulled this stunt so he can take off and hide somewhere, play some kind of game on her."

"She says there were no lights on the car—she remembers that. For all she knew, the whole of the goddamn Rolling Stones were in the thing."

"I guess we'll know if he was in there as soon as the divers go down."

"I'll never get the divers until morning," Kowalchuk said. "The last I heard of them, they were diving for a tourist, some American who fell overboard at Tobermory. His widow's making a hell of a fuss, and they've been tied up all week looking for him."

"There's a scuba club in town," I said. "I've already had them out, but they'll turn out again if they have to. They're good people."

"Can you dig 'em up for me while I talk to the neighbors?" He was a good policeman, I decided, doing what I would have done in his place, fitting the pieces together and looking for those that were missing.

"Sure. The cottage next door has a phone. I saw the wires when I was out here earlier. I'll use it. Are your detectives on the way? We could use some more troops."

"They are, thank God," he said. "They've locked up the victim's wife in that Indian stabbing. They're on their way now. Should be here in another hour."

"Okay, let's see what we can put together for them." I left him and walked out to the cluster of people standing at the edge of the circle of light from the porch at the Spensers', like aboriginals respecting another man's camp fire.

Sam was with me, and when I approached, someone said, "What's happening, Chief?" I guess they'd have recognized Sam even if I'd been in disguise instead of plain clothes.

"There's been an accident, and I need to use a phone. Who lives in that cottage there?" I pointed to the one next door.

A man and woman stepped forward. They were fiftyish and dressed better than most of our weekenders. The man had white pants instead of blue jeans.

He spoke first. "We do. We're the Wilsons."

"How do you do, Mr. Wilson. Can I use your phone, please?"

"Of course." They fell in on each side of me and bustled me over to their door, talking in a torrent. "What's going on? We were sitting at dinner, and then we heard Mrs. Spenser scream, then a splash. Then we ran out, and she was standing on the rock, saying her husband had driven over," the husband told me.

The wife took over like a tag-team wrestler. "So we called the police station, and then this OPP man came down. I mean, we expected you. Are you off duty?"

"Kind of," I said. They wanted the whole story, but it wouldn't speed things up, so I just added, "Thank you for your cooperation. I need to call the diving club now."

They led me inside. I could tell by the way they eyed Sam that their home was not the kind of place to welcome dog hairs. I told him, "Sit," and he stayed on the porch. Their place was a transplanted city apartment except that the lights were propane instead of electric. It was filled with teak furniture and chairs upholstered in plastic that looked as if it would stick to the backs of your knees on a hot day. The phone was on the coffee table, next to a stack of Financial Posts and Wall Street Journals. I picked it up and called Wolfgang at home. His wife answered, excited to hear from me. Yes, he was there. He'd just got in from Indian Island. Wasn't it wonderful that they had found the engine for me?

She put him on, and he boomed at me. "Hello, Reid. No luck with the camera, I'm afraid. We dived for another fifteen minutes; then the light went. We could try again tomorrow if you like."

"Thanks for the offer, Wolf. I hate to ask you, but I've got another emergency on my hands, and you're the only guy who can help. Do you have a couple of fresh divers?"

The steam went out of him. Like most people, he thought police work was finished once they'd done their little dash. "Well, I guess I could dive, and Dave Henderson, he was out earlier. If I can get a hold of him. What's happening?"

I told him and waited while he spoke to his wife in rapid German. Then he told me his wife would get the lamps out and he would be over as soon as he could, on his own if he couldn't get Henderson.

I thanked him and hung up. The Wilsons were hovering, waiting to be paid for their assistance with more information. I fed them a few crumbs. "It looks as if Mr. Spenser went off the rock. We have to check the car to see if he was in fact in it."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Wilson said sourly. "The way that man drinks. He was at the gin from breakfast time on, it seemed to me."

His wife had the important question. "Do you think he murdered that little boy? It wasn't his real son, you know. It's a second marriage." Her face was frank and honest, but I wondered how she had managed to round up that much information in the few days the Spensers had been renting next door. A dyed-in-the-wool busybody, I guessed.

"Yes, I know that. It's all very confusing, especially now," I said. There, a lot implied and nothing said. Well done, Bennett.

Mrs. Wilson looked anxious to go on talking, so I asked her the other question, the one that had been bothering me. "Mrs. Spenser said she was wakened up by the sound of an engine roaring. Did you hear that?"

I saw the look that flashed between them before he spoke, clearing his throat first, a dead giveaway. "I told you what we heard, Chief. We heard Mrs. Spenser scream, then a splash."

"Look." I stared down his eyes, through the one-way glass that stockbrokers wear over their souls. "This isn't a game, Mr. Wilson. The little boy was murdered. I don't want this getting around, but he didn't drown accidentally. Now his father is dead, and it's up to everybody who can help to come forward with everything they've got. What did you hear?"

His wife muttered the word "murdered" to herself, but he shook his head grimly. "I told you what we heard. That was all of it."

"I'll be back," I said. "Thanks for the use of your phone."

I kept my tone cold. The hell with him. I needed information, and the fact that he might lose some money by coming back to an inquest when he could be selling mining stock was his own problem. Being part of society means earning your keep every now and then. This was his chance. I figured his wife would work on him better while I was away. But I was coming back here for sure before the night was out.

I called Sam off the porch with a hiss, and he followed me out to where Kowalchuk was talking to the neighbors, unproductively, I judged from his tone. He thanked the woman he was talking to and came to join me. "What's happening?"

"The divers are on their way, should be here soon. And the folks next door heard something they're not talking about. I've thrown a little frightening powder around and left the wife to talk to the husband for a while, but they know something."

"Should I go over there?" He was eager. Detective work appealed to him, as it appeals to most policemen. He spent his days untangling torn bodies from car wrecks and straightforward stories from the lies told by the lawyers retained by the other drivers. He could taste the excitement in this case, and he wanted it wrapped up before the car from Parry Sound pulled in with the detectives on board.

"It won't help just yet, but when we've seen to the divers, then they'll talk. I can feel it."

"This Spenser interests me," he said. "From what the neighbors say, he was a heavy drinker. He was down the liquor store every day, just bought one bottle at a time but put most of it away before opening time next day. I've spoken to three people, and they all said the same thing."

"I met him. He was a loudmouth drunk, no doubt about it, but that doesn't give us much to go on. We have to see what the divers find out."

"Okay," he said. "I'll wait, but I want to talk to those people myself. It'll be faster than telling the detectives." He was high on the glamour of the investigation. You could sense it in the air around him, like aftershave.