The Suspect (14 page)

"I've got some of those, too," said Alberg. "I cut them back last week. Flowers and all, I'm afraid. They were about twelve feet high."

"Climbers are a bit tricky,” said George, inspecting the leaves. "See this?" Alberg leaned closer. "Aphids.” He wiped them off with a gnarled thumb, stooped to wipe his thumb on the grass. "Climbers are tricky. Some of them like to be pruned and some don't. If yours grow back and bloom again this summer, then they're the kind that like to be pruned. If they just show you a lot of leaves, then you did the wrong thing. You did it at the wrong time, anyway, that's for sure. It's too late in the year. You can't go hacking things down when the flowering season's under way. It's not natural."

"I'll remember that,” said Alberg.

"Instead of pruning them, you could have bent them down and tied them to the top of your fence." He had begun walking across the grass toward the stone fence; he stopped and threw Alberg a curious glance. "You ought to get some books out of the library," he said.

"I just got my card the other day," said Alberg.

The sun was low and saffron in the cloudless sky. The sea had darkened almost to violet, and the air was golden. It was as though the scene had been lit for a photograph, Alberg thought, looking at the bent old man leaning over his vegetables and Cassandra leaning next to him, holding back her chestnut hair. They were absorbed in the plants which grew in the shade of the low stone wall. Yes, thought Alberg, the scene looks lit, for a family photograph or a sentimental movie; there was an artful glow about it. The lawn beneath his feet was soft, springy, fragrant.

"I"ve got a couple more chairs around somewhere," said George. "Probably in the toolshed. Why don't you dig them out?" he said to Alberg. "I'll go get us some lemonade."

The toolshed was small and weatherbeaten, standing on the lawn between the stone wall and the beach, under a windtwisted arbutus tree. Inside, gardening supplies were arranged on shelves, gardening tools hung from large nails, a ladder leaned against the wall. There were also a small push lawnmower, a wheelbarrow, a large half-empty bag of lime, another of fertilizer, and a lot of odds and ends. Pushed into a dusty corner, Alberg found three canvas chairs like the one outside. He set up two of them in a semicircle with George's, out on the grass, and placed the small table handy to them all.

Cassandra had gone indoors to help George. Karl stood on the lawn looking at the garden. He wondered how difficult it was to keep flowers blooming serenely against the side of the house; he liked their vivid colors. Behind him the sea washed upon the beach with a rhythmic, whooshing sound.

George came out bearing, incongruously, an elegant crystal pitcher. Cassandra brought three ordinary glasses on a tray. George poured, a bit unsteadily, holding each glass over the grass so the spillage wouldn't get on the tabletop. He was careful to pour the same amount of lemonade into each glass. He put the pitcher down carefully and sat, gripping the wooden  arms of the canvas chair, and then rested his hands on his thighs.

He had told Cassandra in the kitchen that the crystal pitcher was forty-five years old, a wedding gift. She thought he looked weary and more stooped than usual, and wondered how long his strength could endure in the face of his loneliness. She wanted to touch his hand as it lay upon his thigh, but she didn't.

"My mother grew a lot of geraniums,” said George. "And sunflowers, and hollyhocks. She probably grew more than that, but that's all I can remember."

They listened to the sea and welcomed the cooling brought by evening.

"Was your father a gardener too?” said Alberg, stretching out his long legs, crossing his sneakered feet at the ankles. George looked at him for a moment. Alberg couldn't read his expression. Then he looked away, and for a while there was silence, and then George began to speak. He looked at the grass as he talked, or at the white-cord tepee upon which the peas were climbing, and sometimes he shaded his eyes with a hand and looked out at the sun, still glinting from behind the hazy mountains on the horizon.

"There's a lot of peace to be found in gardening. I didn't diseover that myself for years and years; just watched other people do it and wondered why they bothered. But I found out there's a lot of peace in it. That might be something you'd  appreciate, Mr. Alberg.”

Karl looked over at him thoughtfully.

"When you plant a seed," said George, "it almost always comes up, and turns into a plant, and gives you flowers or something to eat. When you accidentally put a bulb in upside down—a daffodil or a tulip, for instance—it comes up anyway, most times, making a half-circle under the earth, heading for the sun it can't see.

"Gardens are magical places. Marigolds all orange and gold bring exuberance and joy into your patch of earth, but if you plant them in with the vegetables, they also keep away the  carrot rust fly. Picking peas, eating them straight from the pods—nothing in the world tastes as good.”

There was very little expression in his voice. Cassandra felt that he was speaking by rote and yet had an urgent need to say these things. She glanced at Alberg, who was looking out to sea, his feet outstretched, hands linked behind his head.

"You've got roses in your garden, Mr. Alberg," said George.

"Look closely at them, sometimes. Touch the softness of them, and smell the perfume, and see the shades of color—you won't find that particular kind of beauty in anything but roses.

"Sometimes you get infestations of things; you're in for a real battle, then. You can buy chemical sprays that choke your throat when you use them. Don't use them, if you don't have to. Wash the aphids away with soap and water."

Cassandra, watching him intently, saw that he never looked directly at either of them. His white hair gleamed in the dying sunlight; she saw only his profile as he looked away from them, out toward his garden or the ocean.

"As you said, Mr. Alberg, you've got a responsibility for the plot of ground you occupy. You share it with lots of other living things. Your responsibility is to keep a balance out there, like nature does.

"Maintenance, that's the thing to remember. Ten, fifteen minutes a day, that's all it takes, once things are under control. More in the planting season, of course. And you've also got the spring and fall cleanups to do." His voice fell away for a moment; they waited, wondering if he was finished.

"I like that part of it, though,” said George, heavily. "I like digging in compost, raking up the leaves, ferreting out the stones. Because it's part of the tending of the earth."

There were bees in his garden and birds in his arbutus tree. For a few minutes, when he stopped speaking, Alberg heard them clearly, above the swishing cadence of the sea.

"It's hard to tell if your interest is genuine," said George, and now he was looking straight at Alberg. "It's hard to tell if you're the kind of man likely to become a gardener."

Karl cleared his throat and nodded.

George blinked out at the sea, and at the sun, which had almost disappeared. "It's going to be another hot one, tomorrow.”

Alberg put two of the canvas chairs back in the toolshed and closed the door firmly. It had no lock. He joined Cassandra and George in the kitchen, where George was carefully rinsing out the pitcher and Cassandra was putting the clean glasses away.

"What did you think of that lemonade, eh?" said George. It was delicious, they told him.

"Came out of a can. Frozen stuff. You add three cans of water and mix it up.”

He walked them through the house to the front door; it was getting too dark, he said, to stumble along the beach over all those rocks. They paused before they left to thank him and say goodbye.

Alberg turned to follow Cassandra out the door, then turned back. He looked around the living room, puzzled.

"What's the matter?” said George.

"You've changed something.”

George followed his glance. "Nope,” he said.

"There's something different," Alberg insisted.

"Nope," said George.

Still Alberg hesitated, looking around the room.

"You're imagining things,” said George quietly. "I ought to know. I'm the one who lives here.”

Alberg turned back to him. He grasped George's hand; it was gnarled and knotty, but his grip was firm and strong. "Your garden's very beautiful," said Alberg. "It seems no give you a lot of happiness."

"It used to,” said George hoarsely, and pulled his hand free. Alberg thought of his ex-wife, no longer his but at least alive. He thought of his daughters, no longer near but still his. He thought of the years he had to live before he would reach George Wilcox's age.

"Where's your daughter?" he said. "Carol; is that her name?”

"She's in Vancouver. Lives near Stanley Park.”

"Do you see her often?”

"Sometimes. She lives in an apartment. I'm not fond of apartments." He was clutching his hands tightly in front of  him. They seemed to be trembling.

Again Alberg hesitated. He wanted to say something comforting, but this wouldn't have been appropriate. It was an impulse with no genuine substance; he had known the old man for too short a time, under circumstances which had not been friendly, and suddenly realized now that he knew him not at all.

Finally he just thanked him for the lemonade and left, hurrying along the walk to catch up with Cassandra, who waited for him on the shoulder of the road.
 

CHAPTER 16

Alberg was feeling pretty good when he went to work the next day. He'd been hungry when they left George's house, so they went to a restaurant near Davis Bay. He had a meal and Cassandra had oysters on the half shell and they shared a bottle of wine and talked and found things to laugh about. By the time he took her home he knew he wanted to go to bed with her, but she didn't want to do any more than kiss him, sitting in the car. Her face was hot next to his, and he felt her tremble (although this morning he hadn't been totally certain about that). He was disappointed that she hadn't let it go any further, but it was going to happen eventually, he was convinced of it, and he had decided to try to be patient.

He liked her. That was the most important thing. It was another bright, cloudless day and he was filled with optimism.

When he came into the office the parrot was shrieking and squawking.

"I don't know what to do about him,” said Isabella, worried. "He isn't happy, poor thing."

Alberg got down on his haunches next to the cage. "Come on, bird," he said, "what the hell's the matter with you?" He spoke soothingly and stretched out his finger, thinking to stroke its feathers, show it some kindness.

The parrot lunged forward, snapped up a morsel of his flesh, and hopped back onto its perch, letting out a piercing scream.

Alberg in his astonishment sat down hard upon the floor, clutching his injured hand.

Isabella quickly threw the red-and-white checked cloth over the cage, and the bird's shrieks subsided to an ominous chatter. She whipped from her desk drawer a first-aid kit and knelt  beside Alberg.

"My, my, my, broke the skin and everything,” she said, dabbing iodine upon the wound, which was in the fleshy part of his hand. "Ignored the finger and went straight for the meaty stuff." She slathered on another layer of iodine.

'Jesus,” said Alberg, breathless, "haven't you ever heard of  Mercurochrome?"

"We'd better call a vet," said Isabella. "See if you can get rabies from a parrot." Deftly she unwrapped a Band-Aid and smoothed it over his hand.

"Rabies,” said Alberg, faintly.

Sid Sokolowski came through the door, ushering before him an elderly woman who, when she saw Alberg and Isabella upon the floor, shrank back against the sergeant and then attempted quickly to turn around. Sokolowski grabbed her by the shoulders, gently, and propelled her inside, but he was looking disapprovingly at Alberg, who scrambled clumsily to his feet.

"Thank you, Isabella, that's fine. I appreciate it."

Isabella gathered up her supplies, packed them back into the first-aid box, and replaced it in her desk drawer. Alberg had disappeared down the hall.

"That's his bird under there, isn't it?” said the elderly woman. "A thoroughly unpleasant beast, that. He likes a bit of cheese now and then. It seems to calm him.”

"Would you have a seat for a minute, Mrs. Harris?" said Sokolowski. He pointed to a long wooden bench under the window. It was padded with green cushions. At either end was an ashtray on a stand. "I'll be back in a minute."

He went to Alberg's office door. "What the hell was all that about, you and Isabella rolling around on the floor?"

"It's that goddamn bird," said Alberg, red-faced. "This is no place for a goddamn parrot. Force it on Wilcox. Give it to a zoo. Turn it loose. I don't care what you do with it, but do something. Get rid of it.”

"Bit you, did it?"

"Yeah, it bit me. Get rid of it.”

"What did you do, stick your finger in its cage? Okay," he said hastily. "Okay. Listen." He came into the office and sat down. "That woman out there; she was Burke's cleaning lady."

"Make her take the parrot."

"She gave the place a going-over once a week, on Wednesdays. Come last Wednesday, the guy's dead. When I interviewed her she said she couldn't believe it, such a fine man and all that, it must have been robbery.

"She called me up the next day to say it all again. I told her according to the victim's lawyer nothing's missing, and she said how could we be so sure, she knew the house and its contents better than anybody's lawyer, there were a lot of valuable things around the place. I said they're apparently all still there. Anyway, the long and the short of it—”

"The short of it, please."

"—is that I took her over there this morning. She kept calling, you know? Kept bugging me. So I drove her over there to take a look around." He hesitated. "She says she reads a lot of crime books.”

Alberg groaned.

"I figured what she really wanted was to have a gander at the scene of the crime, get a glimpse of the blood on the rug that sort of thing. Something to tell her cronies about. Still I said to myself, you never know."

"I don't want civilians at a crime scene," said Alberg furiously. "What is this, a circus? Jesus Christ, Sergeant."

"Would I bring her here if it wasn't important?” said Sokolowski, calmly. "We just got back from the house. I want you to hear what she's got to say.”

"Jesus Christ." Alberg sighed. "All right, bring her in."

He waited without moving, trying not to think, trying to concentrate on the pain in his hand; but it was almost gone. It would be too much to hope for, he thought, that she could have seen anything significant ....

"I thought I might be of some help,” said Mrs. Harris. She was about sixty-five, not much more than five feet tall, with curly gray hair. She wore glasses with extremely large, round lenses. The frames were studded with rhinestones. "He didn't have many visitors,” she said, "as far as I could tell. I told your man that last week. Poor Mr. Burke, such an awful way to die. It isn't natural, Inspector," she said, rather dramatically. "It just isn't natural. That's what bothers me.”

"Staff Sergeant, actually, Mrs. Harris,” said Alberg.

She scrutinized him disapprovingly and glanced around his small office. Clearly, she would like to have asked to see his superior.

"He's the boss here, like I told you, Mrs. Harris,” said Sokolowski. "Go on. Tell him about when you went into the house. Sit down, why don't you?”

She sat in the black chair. She was wearing brown shoes with laces, and brown polyester slacks, and a brightly embroidered white short-sleeved sweater. . "This gentleman accompanied me,” she said, indicating Sokolowski. "and a good thing, too. I'm not one of nervous spirit. But a man met death in there, death by misadventure. There's no way you could have persuaded me to enter that house alone, even though the sun was shining and it looked as peaceful as ever.”

She took a deep breath. "The parrot was gone. I noticed that. But then this gentleman informed me he'd been taken off to police headquarters? She settled herself more comfortably in the chair, adjusting her large handbag in her lap.

"Was anything missing, Mrs. Harris?" said Alberg.

"At first everything looked exactly the same, except for the rug." She shuddered.

"I walked through the whole house,” she said, "concentrating, concentrating. Before I went. into a room I'd stop outside the door and squeeze my eyes shut and picture it in my mind, all the furniture and the doodads and the drapes and what-have-you, then I'd march in there and have a look round and it all looked just the same as always.”

Alberg glanced at Sokolowski, who was standing next to Mrs. Harris, impassive.

"Finally," said Mrs. Harris, "I went back into the living room. Where the rug is. I just ignored it this time. Got firm with myself. Steeled myself, you might say. I shut my eyes and thought hard and opened them again—and there it was. An empty space where there didn't used to be one. It isn't important, though, I suppose. It wasn't anything valuable."

"Tell me about the empty space," said Alberg, studying his hands clasped on his desk.

"There used to be two things there, exactly the same. Souvenirs, he said they were, from the war. He must have meant World War Two. He couldn't have been in World War One. Well, I guess—he was eighty-five, born in 1899—I guess he could have got in on the last days of World War One. I would have thought he'd be too old for World War Two, starting as it did in 1939 and going on to 1945. That makes him forty when it started and forty·six when it ended. I would have thought that was too old. But anyway, they were souvenirs of the war, that's what he said."

"What were they?" said Alberg.

"I don't have any idea."

"What did they look like?" said Alberg, patiently.

"Oh, about this tall," she said, measuring the air with her hands. "They stood about so tall, a foot, maybe. Not too heavy, I remember. I had to lift them up to dust under them. They were hollow. "

"How big across, would you say?" said Alberg.

She measured again. "About like that. Maybe—what, three inches? About like that."

"Would you recognize them if you saw them again?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," she said. "They had a peculiar design on them: a big flower, something like that. Ugly things they were, that's my opinion. It's funny they're gone, isn't it?" She leaned forward. "Could they be valuable, do you think?"

"I doubt it, Mrs. Harris,” said Alberg. "They sound like shell casings. They were a dime a dozen around here, after the war. Lots of people have them."

"I've got a couple," said Sokolowski. "My father got them. Had them made into bookends.”

Mrs. Harris sat back, disappointed. "Oh. Still, it's odd they're gone, isn't it?"

"Maybe he got rid of them himself,” said Sokolowski. "Just got sick of looking at them and pitched them out. "

"Oh," said Mrs. Harris. "Well. Anyway, that's all that's missing, as far as I can tell, and who could tell better. And I went through that house so concentrated I was shaking when I came out."

Sokolowski saw her out and came back to Alberg's office. "I think there's some Greek blood in her someplace," he said. He sat down. "So what did I tell you. He used something he found in the house, right?"

"Yeah," said Alberg. "It looks like it.”

"He bashes him, then takes the weapon away with him.”

"And its mate, too," said Alberg. After a minute he said, "How are we doing on that guy?"

"We've found lots of people up and down the coast know him by sight, or his truck. People tell us he lives in the bush, all right—he's an old hippie, they think. Name of Derek something. You know these people, Karl. They hop from one thing to another. They're always selling something, everything from handmade pots to Okanagan apples to honey to fish. And they don't work according to any schedule. Just whenever they've got something to peddle. But we'll get him. No word from the mainland, so he's got to be around here somewhere.”

Isabella appeared in the doorway. "Have you called the vet?"

Alberg rubbed the Band-Aid on his right hand. "No, I have not called the vet. I am not going to call the vet."

"I'll call him," said Isabella, and retreated.

"Jesus," said Alberg. "I'm going out for lunch.”

* * *

He drove down the hill into the village, his arm out the open window, preoccupied. He was trying to imagine Carlyle Burke sitting in his rocking chair, looking out at the sea, while somebody sneaked up behind him to bonk him on the head with one of his own shell casings.

He tried to imagine the conversation that might have preceded the attack.

He tried to imagine the attacker, to put a face on him, to find his shape, his substance, and the nature of his fury.
 

CHAPTER 17

George Wilcox sat outside in his canvas chair until it got dark.

He sat quietly, with his hands in his lap, and watched the sun lower itself behind Vancouver Island. The sun was much larger than the inch-high mountains on the horizon. For a while it appeared that it was going to sit all night on the ground behind them, letting most of itself continue to light up the sky. But then it began to settle lower, and lower, and finally it was gone. George looked straight above him and saw faint stars. He continued to sit, wrapped in his gray cardigan, watching the western sky fade. The bees had gone back to their hives for the night and most of the birds, too, were still. Lights went on in the houses next to Georges. Quite early they went out, in the house of one of his neighbors, but continued to burn in the other house. George began to feel cool and went inside to put on his pea jacket; he was already wearing his gardening shoes, which had thick rubber soles and were old and comfortable.

Finally his other neighbors put their lights out, too. He hadn't gone to the hospital today, he realized. It was the first Monday in six months that he hadn't gone to the hospital. George got up from the canvas chair and went to his toolshed for a spade and two burlap bags. He spread one of them on the lawn next to his vegetable garden, carefully dug up the zucchini and moved it with its root ball of heavy moist earth onto the burlap. He dug deeper and unearthed the shell casings. He shook dirt from them and wiped more away with his hands. He wrapped them in the second burlap bag, making sure there was burlap between them so they wouldn't clank around. Next he scooped some earth into the hole in his garden, and carefully replanted the zucchini, brushing dirt from its leaves as he did so. The light from his kitchen window shone upon him as he worked. He shook the dirt from the first burlap bag into the garden, then put the burlap-wrapped shell casings inside it and pulled taut the strings. He went inside and filled a watering can and watered the zucchini. Then he washed his hands and turned off the kitchen light and went back outside, closed the door, and locked it.