The Dead Letter (27 page)

71.

Linda Moore was finishing her evening shift at the Kings County Hospital. She was an RN, a transplant from Toronto, and had lived for the last two years with her husband in Savage Harbour. She had never had the inclination to move to PEI, but her husband, a computer technology specialist, had been offered a job in Charlottetown and a salary he couldn't refuse.

You go where the work is
, she rationalized.

She missed many things about Toronto. Big city life was exciting, diverse, and cosmopolitan. It bustled with opportunity, and the nightlife was compelling.

Other things were less missed—the assembly line of weekend stabbings and beatings at the hospital where she had worked; the unbearable traffic; the cost of a decent apartment; and there was detachment there, too, a loneliness, which she could never quite define.

PEI was different from Upper Canada, and Savage Harbour was no Toronto. Moving to Savage Harbour…as Linda's old friends phrased it…
was like a Londoner being posted to Nairobi
. Savage Harbour conjured images of 1930s films of small-town America or prewar English villages in Agatha Christie tales, where everyone knows everyone…and personal business is popular gossip.

No doubt, the place was culture shock for Linda. She had grown up in a Toronto where few residents could name more than a couple of their neighbours. A passing hello or nod of recognition was as close as she had ever got to neighbourliness. So, if renegade Mayor Rob Ford and cult-leader Charles Manson had been smoking crack two apartments away, she would never have known. And
not knowing is not dreading
, one friend had said.

But, as Linda eventually learned, the imposition of village life wasn't always a bad thing. She learned that the day her water pump broke.

It happened on a Tuesday, her day off. Husband Frank had gone to work. Baby Michael was cranky and teething. She turned the kitchen faucet and…nothing. A limp dribble. Her heart sank. She was helpless around mechanical devices, and she didn't know a plumber. So, in desperation, she knocked on the door of neighbour, Mary Murphy. Mary had dropped off a kettle of chowder and fresh biscuits the same day Linda's family moved in. Linda had received the food graciously but with a spoonful of suspicion.

Come in, dear. Bring in the child. Never mind yer shoes,
said Mary.

Linda apologized, told her about the broken water pump, and inquired about plumbers.

Sit down, and we'll sort things out,
said Mary.

Mary waved Linda toward the kitchen and showed her to a seat. Then she opened the back door, and hollered:
Colin, come in for a minute, would ya? There's need of yer plummin' services.

An hour later, after a second cup of tea, a home remedy for teething, and a summary of local gossip, Colin reappeared at the door, a box of tools under his arm.

All done,
he says
. Not the water pump, neither
.
The pressure tank was waterlogged. Nothin' to it. And if that's you, thinkin' of reachin' fer yer purse, I'll chuck this whole lift of tools right at ya.

Linda smiled whenever she remembered that day.

Linda headed for her truck in the hospital's staff parking lot behind the power plant. It was one a.m. She waved at the embers of two cigarettes glowing in the shed, now the only refuge for the smokers on staff. There was a chill in the air and a misty rain, too, and Linda pulled her sweater more tightly around her shoulders.

Her Toronto Suburban had been traded for a Dodge Ram. The truck roared to life. The wipers swept the windshield but left streaks. It was hard to see. Linda pulled away regardless. She missed her husband. She missed her son. She hadn't seen either today, and perhaps both wouldn't be asleep when she got home.

The road to Savage Harbour cut cross-country, secondary roads the whole way. It was a sleepy, empty road most of the time, but especially so at night, and tonight she poked along even more slowly than usual. She was worn out for one thing. For another, the road was still hard to see. A film of dirt still clung to the glass. A veil of blurry mist materialized almost as soon as the previous one had been wiped. Linda pushed the washer button, and cleaner fluid spurted across the windshield. She increased the wiper speed and pumped the washer button a few times.

The wipers swept most of the streaks away. The glass was clean, clean enough now for Linda to see a woman standing in the middle of her lane waving arms for her to stop.

Linda had no time to brake. She swerved the wheel hard left, skidded around the woman, then swung the wheel right, and steadied up in her own lane. Linda's heart was pounding as she looked in the rear-view mirror at the receding image. The woman was still standing, so she knew she hadn't struck her. Linda said a quick
Thank god for that
and continued down the road.

Linda didn't pick up hitchhikers. She never had, nor had her parents since their hippie days. Times have changed since those carefree days, they had warned her. And Linda had acquired her own experiences to back up that advice. In Toronto she'd nursed a woman who'd been brutally beaten after stopping for a hiker who robbed her and jacked her car. And in news reports and through co-workers, Linda had heard of similar experiences and frightening close calls.

Why tempt fate?
Linda asked herself.

Still it was a wretched night for a young woman to be on a deserted road by herself. And where was her car? How did she get there? A small mystery to consider during her drive home. Did she run it into a ditch? Had some bastard of a boyfriend kicked her out of his car? Maybe a drunken husband beat her up, and she was on the run from him. Or was she just good bait for some simple-minded driver like her to stop? What if someone was waiting in the shadows?

The wind kicked up out of the northeast. The mist increased to a light rain, a cold rain, and leaves shook themselves loose from the poplars and scattered over the roadway. Linda wished she were home in bed. She drove another mile toward home thinking of little else than the face of the mysterious woman in the middle of the road.

When the first niggling tugs of guilt arose, and Linda felt their presence, they were not welcome. In fact, Linda felt that such knee-jerk sentimentality flew in the face of common sense. Clearly nothing could justify the intrusion. Nothing rational anyway. Yet in spite of rationality and past experiences, a disquieting degree of culpability and shame continued to weigh upon her.

In one sense, Linda believed she was betraying herself. In another, she felt that she had no choice. But the reasoning that drove her to that decision kept rattling around in her head like a mantra:
This isn't Toronto…it's different here.
Linda wasn't convinced any of that made sense, but she couldn't help herself. She stopped, turned around, and headed back.

The woman hadn't walked much further from the spot where Linda had first seen her. The woman seemed dazed or exhausted. Her clothing was soaked through. She smelled of wood smoke, and she shivered uncontrollably. Linda retrieved an emergency kit she always kept in the truck. She wrapped a wool blanket around her, led her to the cab, and helped her onto the running board and inside. Linda turned up the heat. A blast of warm air flooded the cab.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

The woman nodded, a movement almost indistinguishable from her cold tremors.

“I'm taking you to the hospital in Charlottetown. It's closer. What happened? Can you tell me?”

The woman's mouth moved, and sounds came out, much of it inaudible, but the words,
fire
and
dead
, were clear enough, and Linda made a call to emergency services on her cell phone. “You're going to be okay. I'm getting help. Try to rest.”

The woman said nothing, and Linda glanced over. Her head rocked gently against the side door window. Her eyes had closed. She had fallen fast asleep.

72.

At ten past two Ben's phone rang. He reached blindly toward the
night table beside his bed. The phone rang twice before he answered.

“What.”

His tone was more bark and complaint than inquiry and interest. He listened. Then he sat up and swung his legs onto the floor.

“Who was that…at this hour?” said Sarah, groaning from the other side of the bed. “What time is it, anyway?”

Ben's attention remained fixed on the phone call.

“I'll be right there.” He hung up the phone.

“What was that all about?”

“A fire and a fatality,” he said and got up. He had dumped his clothes in an orderly heap on top of a nearby chair. Now he sorted through them and began to dress.

“What's that got to do with you? Isn't that the Fire Marshal's job?” asked Sarah, half-sitting up now.

“Yeah, but this is different,” he said and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I've got to take a look.”

“Why?”

“I'll tell you all about it when I get back,” he said, already half out the bedroom door and reaching for the railing on the staircase.

Ben pulled up at the scene. The press had already arrived. A minivan with a CBC logo and a cheap coupe that belonged to
Guardian
reporter Tommy Townshend were parked just outside the police barricades up the street, but the fire was less chaotic, less dramatic, than the press had hoped. There would be a story, of course. The victim was prominent enough, but no spectacular picture would showcase it.

Ordinarily that street would have been rather quiet and dark. Now an array of flashing lights broke the darkness for half a block. A pumper truck from the town's fire hall had pulled up in front of the damaged building. An emergency response vehicle had parked behind it. Each was ablaze with lights. The fire had been doused, but smoke hung in the air. Several firefighters milled around their vehicles. A few others searched for hot spots inside the building.

Behind the fire trucks was a Stratford police car. Rapid blue and white flashes burst from its roof. The officers on duty had set up the traffic barricades. Now they were waiting for firefighters to release the scene to them. Ben recognized both of them. Both threw puzzled looks in his direction and mumbled to themselves.

Ben broke out his cell phone, made a quick call, and packed it away.

Melvin Dickieson, Chief of the volunteer fire department for the Stratford region, stepped from the house, saw Ben, and walked over. He removed his helmet, stuck it under his arm, and ran fingers through his short black hair. It glistened with perspiration. A strong odour of grease and smoke wafted from his gear.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” said Ben and glanced around surreptitiously.

“Not a big fan of the guy, but not happy to see anyone end up like this.”

“It's him?” asked Ben. Melvin nodded.

“He's dead?” Melvin nodded again.

“Paramedics confirmed it. They responded as soon as the call came in.”

“Who phoned it in?”

“Neighbour across the street,” said Melvin pointing. “Maude Quinn. She couldn't sleep, got up, and saw a lot of smoke.”

“Any ideas?”

“Looks accidental. We found him slumped over in an armchair in the living room. The fire originated in the kitchen. A pan of potato slices were deep-frying on the stove. Looks like he dozed off, the oil caught, and he was overcome by smoke.”

Sergeant Ryan Schaeffer of the Stratford Police suddenly appeared next to Ben and Melvin. It seemed as if he had stepped out of nowhere.

“Ben. Melvin,” he said, nodding to both men. Then he turned to Melvin. “You fellas finished?”

“Won't be long.”

“Let me know. My officers will secure the site.”

“That won't be necessary,” said Ben. “I've already arranged for the RCMP to handle the investigation into MacFarlane's death.”

“Look Ben, you may throw your weight around Charlottetown and with the provincial bureaucrats, but not around here. This is ours.” His arm scribed a vast arc, and his countenance shifted to an angry grimace. His reaction was swift enough to suggest unresolved animosities. “This is our town. It's our jurisdiction, and it's our investigation.”

Ben faced Schaeffer, glowered, and was about to square off verbally with him when he heard a voice a few feet behind him.

“I agree.”

The voice was familiar. It belonged to Fenton Peale, MLA for Stratford-Kinlock and PEI's Minister of Justice.

“Mr. Peale,” said Ben assuming a formal, public posture. Ben stared silently and waited stoically for the minister's clarification.

“I see no reason for you to get involved. I don't have to remind you that this is my legislative riding. I know Sergeant Schaeffer well. He's competent and experienced, and he has my complete confidence.”

“I have nothing against Schaeffer, Fenton, but this incident is complicated. In the first place, the investigation of Chief MacFarlane's death by Schaeffer may be a conflict of interest. An independent investigation has to prevail here.”

“I disagree. There's no evidence of foul play and, from what the firefighters told me, it's obviously accidental. There's not even the hint of a conflict of interest. I say there's no problem here.”

“Mr. Peale, pardon me for reminding you…sir…but cause of death hasn't been determined. You're not a peace officer, and you don't have the authority or experience to make that call. You don't have official standing here, sir.”

Peale bristled at Ben's insolence and obstinacy, and Ben watched Peale's eyes harden and narrow with mounting, suppressed rage.

“I want you to stand down…or else I'll have you detained by the Stratford police.”

“That would be a mistake,” said Ben flatly.

“Schaeffer,” said Peale. Schaeffer looked baffled and hesitant.

“What do
you
think, Tommy?” Ben had directed his words at Tommy Townshend. Tommy had been standing eight or ten feet behind Peale, close enough to hear the heated exchange. Peale's head snapped around, and he saw Townshend, his notebook open.

Peale felt a bolt of alarm. For a moment, every thought and image and political wile in his head dissolved into an iridescent blank emptiness.

Townshend had been recording details of the conversation with keen interest but, at the sound of his own name, Townshend started. He looked up with a bemused grin toward the quarrelling group. Schaeffer had already ventured one cautious step toward Ben, but Peale held him back with a firm arm.

“Who…me?” said Townshend in reply. “I don't have opinions, Ben. I'm just a journalist,” he said and returned to the notes he had been compiling.

Peale recovered quickly. If Townshend were to publish this squabble, Peale knew that he would find himself juggling a political hot potato that could kill his chances in the upcoming election.

Peale put his hand on Ben's shoulder and leaned in toward his ear.

“Ben, let's take this somewhere private.” Then he took Ben by the arm and led him toward a solitary darker corner of MacFarlane's front yard.

“Maybe I was a bit too brash…”

“Maybe…?” said Ben.

“All right…all right… I shouldn't have come on that strongly, but it is my riding. My responsibility is looking after the interests of my constituents. MacFarlane's, the police department's, the community's. How do you think it will look if I turn the accidental death of a prominent citizen over to another jurisdiction? What will voters read into that? People will think that I've lost confidence in my own people, or they'll think there's some kind of cover-up. I'm just trying to save face here, Ben. You know how it is.”

“I'm not sure if I do…not in this case…not in these circumstances.”

“Okay, then I'll tell you, but it's confidential. Just you and me. Right?”

Ben said nothing, and he levelled a long, inconclusive, grim stare at Peale.

“It's this way,” said Peale. “Years ago, when I was town councillor, I pushed for MacFarlane to be appointed Chief. It was a backroom deal. Quigley had retired by then. MacFarlane was a golden boy at the time. I had planned to run for provincial legislature and figured his appointment would give me an edge when I threw my hat into the ring. And it did. MacFarlane reciprocated. He got the votes out for me during two elections but, as I got to know him better, I didn't like what I saw.”

“Did he pressure you?”

“Some, but lately he's been coming on strong, suggesting that he's been accumulating some dirt on me. It might get leaked to the press, and I'd be done.”

“What kind of dirt?”

“Some money may have been diverted to my campaign from a questionable source.”

“Where did the money come from?”

“He wouldn't say, but it was none of my doing, I swear. Could've been an overzealous campaign worker. Could've been MacFarlane himself. I don't know. Still, if the smell of corruption hits the air at election time, it'll stick to me.”

“What have you done for him in the meantime?”

“Nothing. Nothing, really. I swear. So far I've been able to stall him.”

“So what was all this nonsense about tonight?”

Peale hesitated. His eyes shifted uneasily as if he were searching for an answer or contemplating whether he should tell the truth. Then he looked Ben straight in the eye.

“If it's a local investigation, I could probably convince Schaeffer to let me recover whatever documents MacFarlane had that could hurt me, but if the RCMP get involved, no telling what might happen to them. Now, I know that things between us haven't been running smoothly, but maybe we could start again, and we could trust each other. I need you to believe me, Ben. Do you think it'd be fair to have my name unfairly dragged through the gutter? Do you? I've got a family to think about. I know it's asking a big favour, but it's something I'd never forget either. Give me the opportunity to look. Please.”

Peale smiled apprehensively, sadly, and hopefully at the end of his solicitation.

Ben had had some history with Peale, and the man had made a few cogent points, but Ben had a great deal more history with policing and criminal behaviour. Perhaps Peale was being honest with him, perhaps not. Perhaps he was reacting just like every other cornered and desperate politician. That business can get as dirty as any larceny or sleazy con but, as possible as all that was, Ben admitted to himself that he'd regret seeing anyone, even Peale, take the blame for one of MacFarlane's intrigues.

Ben weighed his options. There appeared to be two. If he let Peale run with his plan, and it turned out badly, he'd get burnt. And if he got burnt,
he'd
lose
his
job, not Peale. Politicians were like cats. They always landed on their feet somewhere happy. On the other hand, if he did things strictly by the book, and it turned out badly, he'd still lose his job. Political appointees, and Ben fit into that category, were like barn mice. Eventually, they land on some cat's dinner plate.

After what seemed like an extraordinarily long reflection, Ben looked up at Peale. Peale licked his lips nervously. Ben's face softened.

“Here's what I
can
do. The RCMP will take over the investigation as I said they would. I'll supervise their operation myself. If anything turns up that may be politically damaging but doesn't tie you to illegal activity, I'll see that it never becomes public.”

“Thanks, Ben, but you may not recognize what MacFarlane might have. You may overlook it without knowing. I should be there. I'm really the only one who could know the political fallout of a document.”

“Sorry, Fenton. You can't be there.”

“Ben, that's not enough. If you want to help, let me look. I have to do it myself. I can't take the risk that something significant may be discounted.”

“Best I can do, Fenton.”

“Dammit, Ben, you're being unreasonable.” Peale's conciliatory posture was falling apart, anger very near the surface.

Ben looked over Peale's shoulder. Two RCMP constables waited at a distance. He brushed by Peale and headed toward them.

Peale shouted after him: “Ben, what about the press? Townshend?” Fear and desperation had returned.

“
He's
not an unreasonable man. I'll have a reasonable word with him,” he said without looking back.