Woman Chased by Crows (39 page)

The landscape had changed since their first drive to Omemee; the snow was gone, green was starting to show in fields and hedgerows, winter wheat waking up, grasses springing, branches budding. Adele wasn't soothed by the change. “Do those cows ever get washed?”

“They will. Next time it rains, I think.”

Adele shook her head at a mob of muddy Herefords. “Need a power-washer on some of them.” She was glum and edgy at the same time. “We might as well eat,” she said.

“Where? Lemongrass?”

“While we're there. Did you check out the menu last time?”

“I know they have tom yum soup.”

“Whateverthefuck that is.”

Reading the bill of fare didn't lighten Adele's mood. What she craved was something bad for her. A burger, or a medium pizza with too many toppings. The bartender was the same young man as last time and one of the servers had a familiar face. Stacy had them neatly gathered at the end of the bar under a flatscreen
TV
showing a glimpse of Florida and someone in a batting cage sending long flies toward a bright centerfield. Adele was trying to find something recognizable on the menu while listening with one ear to Stacy work her way through the preliminaries.

“. . . week ago,” Stacy said, “asking about the tall red-headed man.”

“The basketball player. The one who got killed.”

Adele turned a page. The menu totalled six pages and absolutely nothing decent to eat.

“You're Lara, right?” Stacy said. “You remember anyone else who was here or left around the same time?”

“I don't know. It got pretty busy.”

“How about you, sir? You said you were watching basketball. Was there anyone else at the bar watching the game at the same time?”

“Yeah, couple of guys.”

“Names?”

“The only one I know is Ed.”

“Last name?”

“Ed Kewell. He drives a cab. Sometimes he comes in after his shift. Or maybe during his shift. Only ever has one.”

Adele lifted her head to look at Stacy. “He's in the notes.”

“He is?”

“Yep. Dancer lady's cabbie. Drove her home. Went off to look after his dying mother . . .”

“Sick sister,” Stacy said.

“That's the guy.”

“He's a regular?”

“Not really. Drops in once in a while,” said the bartender.

“Doesn't eat,” Lara said.

“At these prices, I'm not surprised,” said Adele.

“Would you know where we could find him?” asked Stacy.

“Lives just up the road.”

Adele closed the menu. “Any chance we pass a McDonald's getting there?”

A phone call and the onboard computer gave them the necessary details. Edwin Kewell lived with his father, Lucian Simon Kewell, in a trailer park. The sign at the gate said “Rosteen's Haven ~ water, power, cable, gas, garbage, security.” The park manager directed them to pad 23 where two mismatched units faced each other across a concrete patio. A Kropf double-wide with awnings and a barren flower bed, stood opposite a distressed twenty-eight-foot Prowler Travel Trailer sitting on cinder blocks, but still wearing tires and a towing hitch. A gas barbecue, Muskoka chairs, planters and other necessities for summer living were parked under a roofed walkway that ran between the two units.

“You figure Edwin bunks in the guest house?” The Prowler had a rack of antlers hanging over the door. “See?” Adele pointed. “Now that's romantic.”

“Joe has a cowbell over his door.”

“He shoots cows?”

That got a laugh from Stacy. “Swap meet.” She knocked. “Mr. Kewell? Edwin?” She tried the latch and the door swung open. “It's Detective Crean, Dockerty
PD
.” She stuck her head inside. “Edwin? Dockerty
PD
. Like to talk to you for a minute.”

A small dog started yapping inside the double-wide followed by a man's voice. “Hugo! Shut it! He's not home.”

“Then could we talk to you for a moment, sir?”

The door opened and a man looked them over. He was in his sixties, dressed for an afternoon of nothing much. A Yorkshire terrier bristled between the man's feet, growling and yapping. “Hugo. Shut it. Shut it.” The dog refused to shut it and the man shoved him back into the room with his slippered foot and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The dog continued yapping, but with less enthusiasm.

“You looking for Ed?”

“We are,” said Adele. “He's your son?”

“He's working.” He leaned to one side to check on what Stacy was up to. “Should she be doing that? Going inside without a warrant?”

“Oh, it's okay. The door was open. She's just making sure he isn't dead or something.”

“He's not dead, his car's gone.”

“See? Someone could have harmed him and stolen his car. Any bodies in there, Detective Crean?”

“I'll just look in the bathroom.”

“Bathroom, right,” said the man. “That'll take about two seconds.” He frowned as Stacy disappeared inside. “He done something?”

“We have no reason to suspect him of anything. Do you?” She crossed the pad to stand in front of the man. “We wanted to ask him about a trip he took recently. To look after his sister. That would be your daughter?”

“Lorraine. Yeah. What happened to her?”

“I wouldn't know. We heard that Edwin left town to look after her for a while.”

“Woulda been a neat trick. She lives in El Paso.”

“You're saying Edwin wasn't visiting his sister last week?”

“Don't know what he did last week. We don't spend a lot of time together. Sure as heck wasn't flying to El Paso. Unless he's got a whack of frequent flier miles.”

“All right then, thank you for your time, sir. We'll try him at work. Dockerty Cab, right?”

“Visiting his sister. That's a hoot. They haven't spoken a civil word in ten years.” He opened his door and yapping Hugo reappeared immediately. “Shut it. Hugo. Shut the hell up.” He scuffed the little dog backward and the door closed.

Adele turned back to the trailer. “Anything interesting going on?”

“Might want to have a look,” Stacy said.

Adele stepped inside. The unit had the dark cramped feel of a fishboat below decks. “What's up?”

Stacy was standing at the table near the messy kitchen area. An unmade bed, partially hidden behind a sliding accordion door, occupied the other end. “What do you make of this?” she asked. Spread across the table were week-old newspapers,
Star
,
Sun, Globe
,
Lindsay Post
,
Dockerty Register
, all of them were open to articles dealing with Delisle's murder — “Metro Detective Shot in Motel Room,” “Cop's Love Nest Homicide” and variations on the theme. “One of these clippings is from last Thursday's
Globe
.”

“When he was supposed to be visiting his sick sister,” Adele riffled through the clippings, “in El Paso.”

“I thought she lived in Hamilton.”

“He sure was following the case.”

“Has a girlfriend.” Stacy picked a framed picture off the floor. The glass was shattered. “Or
had
a girlfriend.”

“Don't cut yourself. This place is probably crawling with cooties.”

“Wasn't an accident, this getting smashed. Bounced it off the wall.”

“Anything on the back?”

Stacy turned the picture over. The frame was falling apart, the photograph slipped out easily. “Just says ‘D.'”

Hugo started yapping again the instant Stacy knocked on the door. “Mr. Kewell? Could we ask you something?”

“What? Hugo, shut it, you barked at these people already.” The door opened halfway. “What?”

“Just wondering if you know who this is?”

“Doreen something.”

“She's his girlfriend?”

“I guess. She only came around once. I don't think she liked the
ambience
if you get my drift.”

“You know her last name?”

“Couldn't tell you. Lives up around your neck of the woods.”

“Thank you,” Stacy said. “Here's my card. If you see your son before we do, tell him to give me a call, okay?”

“Everything okay in there?”

“Cozy place.”

Adele hadn't found a fast food outlet to her liking on the way out of town and was making do with a bag of Cheetos Puffs. “These things are better when they get a bit stale,” she said. Her mouth was full.

“Stale.”

“Not
really
stale, just chewy. Leave them out for a day or two with the bag open. Makes all the difference.”

“Obviously I'm missing out on a whack of culinary adventures.”

“You're a health nut. This stuff would be poison to you. You need to build up an immune system before you can handle . . . ,” she lifted the bag to read from the list of ingredients, “hydrogenated vegetable oil, maltodextrin, artificial flavours, monosodium glutamate. Bag of these would probably kill you.”

Stacy reached over and helped herself to a cheese stick. She chewed for a moment. “And they're
better
when they get stale?”

“It's an acquired taste.”

They drove in silence; Adele munching, staring out the window at muddy cows passing, Stacy dealing with the maltodextrin on her lips and the orange colouring on her fingertips. “What do you think?” she asked after a while.

“Oh I think we've got
something
, partner. Oh yeah.”

“Those antlers over his door, you think he shot that deer himself?”

“Oh we've got
something
.” She munched a bit more. “Should've picked up a Coke when I had the chance,” she said.

The dispatcher pointed out Edwin Kewell vacuuming the back seat of his cab on the other side of the lot. “That's him over there. He needs to clean out his unit. I had a complaint, yesterday.”

“Is that a regular thing for him?” Stacy asked.

“No. Just lately. Since he got back.”