Seaweed Under Water (2 page)

Sister Mildred smiled. “Pay no attention to Daphne. She has peculiar obsessions.”

“You're telling me,” I replied, “How's Terry doing?”

“Terry gets these queer turns from time to time. I've given her a sedative,” she said, her smile fading. “I'm sorry you have been put to this trouble, Sergeant.”

“An hour ago, Terry fainted in my office after telling me that she'd lost her mother.”

“That's a woman called Jane Colby. It is to be regretted, but I feel it my duty to tell you that, as a parent, Mrs. Colby is not quite what she ought to be. She drinks too much, and her parenting skills are limited. She neglected her daughter dreadfully. As a result, Terry started getting into trouble; that's why she's here, under my supervision.”

“What kinds of trouble was Terry getting into, exactly?”

Sister Mildred's mouth twitched. “The usual kinds. What do you expect? Terry is a sexually mature adult with the mental age of an eight-year-old.”

“An eight-year-old who managed to navigate herself downtown. Somebody capable of expressing feelings and wants.”

“God must have guided Terry's footsteps to you, instead of to Rock Bay, or somewhere even worse. One can hardly blame Terry for trying, though. She misses her mother, at least some of the time. When Jane isn't drinking, she is delightful. We seldom see her like that, unfortunately, although Jane and I did have a lucid telephone conversation a few days ago.”

Daphne's fluting laugh echoed down the corridor.

Jane Colby
! When Sister Mildred mentioned the heavy drinking, it dawned on me where I'd heard that name. A couple
of weeks earlier, Constable Denise Halvorsen had mentioned that she'd been dispatched to check out a bar fight, but by the time Denise arrived, everyone had dispersed, except for an injured man lying on the floor and a certain Jane Colby, who was too drunk to walk. Was she Terry's mother? The hairs on the back of my neck were tingling again.

Sister Mildred was staring at me expectantly. “Do you remember when, precisely, you last spoke to Terry's mother?” I asked.

“Monday, I spoke to her last Monday, or perhaps it was Tuesday. In this house, one day is pretty much like another. I lose track of the calendar sometimes. Our conversation was certainly less than a week back.”

Sister Mildred pushed buttons on a keypad beside the door. “I don't wish to seem inhospitable, but we are rather busy at present. I think you can rest easy, officer. We'll take good care of Terry now.” The automatic door opened and a blast of warm outside air entered, rustling her long skirts. “What a lovely day the Lord has made for us,” she said. “It certainly is warm today.”

“How do I get in touch with Jane Colby?”

“She lives on Welling Terrace. I don't recall the house number offhand.”

“I want to nail something down precisely, sorry to ask again: When do you think Terry last spoke to her mother?”

“It was either Monday or Tuesday.”

“You told me that was the last time
you'd
talked to her. Did Terry speak to her mother on that occasion?”

“Yes. That is, no,” she said hesitantly. “Probably Monday, though I'm not quite sure any longer.”

“This is a large house. Are you the only person on duty?”

She laughed outright. “It feels like that sometimes. We're supposed to have half a dozen people on staff during the day. At present we have to make do with four.”

“How long has Terry been with you?”

“Years, off and on. Sometimes she stays with her maternal grandfather for short periods. Terry wears out her welcome, eventually, and the old gentleman needs a respite. She always comes back to us.”

A buzzer sounded throughout the house; footsteps began to clack on wooden floors, and girlish laughter echoed along the hallways. Sister Mildred uttered a word seldom encountered in nunneries.

I pasted a grin on my face, thanked Sister Mildred and went out.

I was half-tempted to return to my office and file a Missing Person's report . . . except that there was no real evidence that Jane Colby was actually missing, or that anything dire had happened to her. I felt foolish. Then I thought, “What the hell? It's a slow day anyway.” And I
had
promised Terry I'd find her mother.

CHAPTER TWO

Welling Terrace was a short cul-de-sac on the Fairfield Slope. Faint sea breezes wafted along the tree-lined streets, and dry withered leaves lay like brown confetti underfoot. Half a mile away, downhill beyond the rooftops, sparkling surf whitened Victoria's beaches. Twenty miles farther away, half-visible in the heat haze, the snow-clad Olympics towered majestically on the U.S. side of Juan de Fuca Strait.

Jane Colby's residence turned out to be a modest '30s bungalow with a realtor's For Sale sign stuck in its front lawn. As I walked to the door, an Airedale dog appeared and snapped at me. I showed it the back of my hand. The dog and I were getting nicely acquainted when a wizened old man sporting a white linen suit and a blue silk shirt opened the front door. He lacked vigour but was still vain. Strands of dyed yellow hair dangled lankly below his Panama hat. His mouth was a thin red gash in a chalk-white face. Blinking watery blue eyes, he threw a tennis ball out onto the street. The Airedale chased it downhill.

“Sorry about the dog. The poor fellow's bored. Not enough exercise, I'm afraid,” he said breathlessly. “If you're inquiring about the house, you'd better contact my realtor directly.”

“I'm here to see Mrs. Jane Colby,” I said, showing him my badge. “Is she home?”

“Is this about Terry?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Fred Colby, Terry's grandfather,” he said, his watery eyes narrowing. “Terry's all right, I hope?”

“She ran away from her care home this morning. Terry's worried about her mother, and I promised Terry I'd look into it.”

“Where's Terry now?”

“I took her back to Crowe Street.”

He appeared to forget me for a moment. Shaking his head unhappily, he backed into a vestibule and said, “I'm a little worried about Jane myself. You'd better come in.”

We went into a wide living room that extended the full depth of the bungalow. It smelled of furniture polish and cigarettes. Curtains were closed to keep the sun out. Fred switched on a pedestal lamp; light fell on a sofa, easy chairs and an old-fashioned console TV. Flowers fresh from Mr. Colby's garden stood in a vase on a gleaming dining table. The room's predominant feature was a shiny black grand piano covered with photographs in silver frames. I glanced at the photographs briefly before he invited me to sit on the sofa.

He said, “Sorry. Every time I hear about Terry I expect the worst and forget my manners.”

I wondered what he was apologizing for.

Moving carefully on arthritic legs, Mr. Colby lowered himself into an easy chair and asked, “Well, officer, how can I help you?”

“It would be best if I spoke to Terry's mother first.”

He smiled thinly. “That might be difficult. My daughter has her own agenda. She comes and goes as she pleases. At the moment, I don't know where she is.”

Mr. Colby might have been worried about his daughter, but he seemed slightly aggrieved, as well. I said, “I was given to understand that she lived here.”

“She does, occasionally. Some time back, Jane moved in with Jack Owens. When that relationship ended, Jane didn't come back here. This place is really too big for one person, so I put it on the market.” His gaze faltering, he added dolefully, “When it sells I shall move into an apartment, if I can find one that allows dogs. I won't need the piano—Jane's the only one who ever played it. She plays beautifully; it's her one real talent.”

There was an element of insincerity in his words and manner. I asked, “Can you suggest where Jane might be now?”

“She might be anywhere,” he replied in the same hollow tone. “It's a sad commentary on modern life, when a fellow has to confess he's lost track of his own child.”

“When did you see her last?”

“A week, maybe 10 days ago. She popped around and I remember asking her for some mo—”

He was about to say money, but caught himself in time.

“Did your granddaughter telephone you today, or call around to the house?”

“Either is possible, I was out shopping for groceries earlier. That Thrifty store on Fairfield Road. I was gone for an hour, and I don't have an answering machine. Terry might have phoned me, or dropped by during my absence.”

“Does she have a door key?”

“Goodness no. Poor Terry. She's not responsible, you see. I don't mean she's a bad girl, not at all, she's a sweetheart really.”

“And she didn't leave you a note, obviously.”

“Didn't, and couldn't. Terry can neither read nor write—not even her own name, poor thing.”

“Do you have a picture of Jane? I'll see it's returned to you.”

He nodded. Sitting on the chair had stiffened Mr. Colby's joints and it was a struggle for him to get to his feet and straighten out. He moved slowly across to the piano, pointed at a picture and said, “That's Jane. With Terry in Mexico when Terry was little.”

He went out of the room.

The picture in question had been photographed on a tropical beach fringed with palm trees. Terry's mother was a slim handsome Caucasian woman wearing a flattering bikini. She had her father's pale colouring and yellow hair. Terry—a black-haired, copper-skinned child with a shy vulnerable face—stood beside her mother, one slender arm hooked around her leg.

I was brooding about the picture and what it signified, when Mr. Colby returned.

“I hope this photograph will do. It was taken about 10 years ago. Jane's changed somewhat, since then,” he said, handing me a six-by-eight glossy. This one showed Jane posed on the deck of a large motor yacht, looking elegant in a blue blazer and white pleated skirt.

Mr. Colby cleared his throat and said, “I've been thinking. If you want to find Jane quickly, your best bet is to check at the Rainbow Motel. Failing that, you might call Jack Owens. I suppose you know Jack.”

I shook my head.

“He's that chartered accountant fellow. I ought to warn you that Jack and Jane are—” Mr. Colby searched for an appropriate word “—
estranged
, at present. Jack Owens isn't the easiest fellow to get along with, in my opinion. I think she's well rid of him, frankly.”

“Terry's part Native, so who was her father?”

My abrupt question unsettled him. His cheeks went red and he said huffily, “Terry's father was Neville Rollins, an aboriginal logger from Mowaht Bay. Neville was a peculiar character, a most unpleasant, sadistic individual. I must admit I wasn't too happy when, all those long years ago, Jane came home and announced their engagement.” Frowning, he added, “You'll think me racist, but with all due respect, officer, there's more to it than that. I believed them unsuited. As it turned out, I was right.”

That final platitude annoyed me, but I forced a grin and he went on, “Jane and Neville got married 20-odd years ago. In the Anglican church at Duncan,” Mr. Colby said, speaking with his head cocked slightly to one side and frowning as if reliving unpleasant memories. “Jane used to come here covered in bruises. She'd make excuses. It was a while before I realized that Neville was battering her. Thank God, Neville suddenly disappeared when Terry was a year old. Some people think that he drowned, and it's possible, I suppose. Anyway, Jane's life's been difficult since, although she carried on as best she could, working at all sorts of things.”

“What's this about a possible drowning?”

“As I believe I mentioned, Neville was in the logging business—in partnership with his brother, Harley.”

Fred Colby stopped talking and gazed at me expectantly. If he had expected his words to provoke a strong reaction, he was not disappointed.

Born blind, Harley Rollins had lived in an almost catatonic state for the first six years of his life, cut off from the outside world and rarely speaking (or being spoken to). At the age of seven, Harley was taken to Vancouver where an ophthalmologist operated successfully upon his eyes. Since then, Harley Rollins had become a severe embarrassment to the Coast Salish Nation. Now a millionaire businessman referred to as Boss Rollins, he was widely suspected of being a witch.

A century and a half ago, Natives accused of witchcraft were shunned, even murdered, by relatives of people they allegedly harmed. Even today, for the most part, witches go about their affairs in secret. Just the same, many reports of witchcraft had come out of Mowaht Bay in recent years, some of which had been taken seriously. Boss Rollins and I hadn't met; I'd never in my life visited the Mowaht Bay reserve. Nevertheless, since I was one of the few Native policemen in these parts, Boss Rollins probably knew as much about my reputation as I knew about his.

Fred Colby was smiling. I said, “Tell me more.”

“The Rollins brothers combined the letters of their first names, HA-rley and NE-ville, and called themselves HANE Logging. The day he went missing, Neville had been working one of those floating log rafts. It's been suggested that Neville fell into the water. Nobody else was there at the time so we'll never know. The thing is, he was never seen again. After seven years, the courts declared Neville legally dead.”

“Jane never remarried?”

“No. Didn't choose to, though she had plenty of offers. With Neville gone, she stopped using the name Rollins and reverted to her maiden name. Things haven't been easy for Jane, especially since Terry turned out to be mentally challenged.”

“What's wrong with Terry?”

“It's not genetic, if that's what you're thinking,” Mr. Colby said defensively. “Terry was born normal. Shortly after her first birthday, Terry received brain injuries when the car in which she was a passenger hit a tree. My daughter was driving and it is possible that she had been drinking. Jane wasn't charged. All things considered, I suppose the authorities felt she had suffered enough. Neville hadn't been missing long. With all his faults, Jane loved her husband and she was upset, naturally.”