Catherine nodded. ‘That’s it.’
‘It was a shame the place stayed empty for so long.’ Mrs Beneteau shook her head. ‘But some people are so superstitious.’
‘Superstitious? About what?’ Catherine’s hackles rose. ‘What’s wrong with the house?’
Before the vice-principal could answer, Mr Enright and Morgan returned. Morgan was smiling in a way Catherine hadn’t seen in a long time and her eyes had lost the haunted, guarded expression they always held among company. Catherine let the subject of the house drop. ‘So, Morgan, do you like the school?’ she asked instead.
The girl nodded. ‘If everyone is as kind as Mr Enright has been …’
Mrs Beneteau came forward. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy all your classes, Morgan. We have an excellent teaching staff and very good facilities.’
‘Thanks very much,’ Catherine said, rising to shake hands with the vice-principal and the art teacher. ‘Morgan will be here bright and early Tuesday morning.’
Mrs Beneteau waited until she heard the outer door bang shut before turning to her colleague. ‘They’ve rented the Tomachuk house.’
Peter Enright let out a low whistle. ‘That girl, Morgan, seems like the nervous type to me. Hope she’s not too spooked when she finds out about the house.’
‘Her mother’s uptight, too.’ Mrs Beneteau’s lips thinned. ‘She’s hiding something … didn’t want to talk about her husband.’
Enright shrugged. ‘Messy break-up, probably. Happens all the time.’
‘Maybe …’
‘That wasn’t so bad was it?’ Catherine commented as they climbed into the car. ‘Now we’ll see what’s downtown.’ But as she pulled away from the kerb the car sputtered and died. ‘Damn.’ She turned the key again and again while stomping on the accelerator. Her only reward was a mechanical sigh.
Suppressing the very colourful language which sprang to her lips, she sat back and calmed herself. One more try, then she’d admit defeat. She rubbed her sweaty palms on the worn seat, sat straight and slowly turned the key. The engine caught easily, as if it had never balked. ‘Eureka,’ she breathed in relief.
‘We’ve got to get a new car,’ Morgan complained. ‘I can’t be seen in this crate.’
‘Nonsense, it just needs a tune-up,’ Catherine replied, gunning the motor.
They pulled up to the stop sign at the main street. ‘At least there’s a garage in town,’ Morgan commented, pointing to the far corner. As they waited for a car to pass, they watched a tall, blond man hose down the windows of the garage.
‘It was all boarded up when I was here house hunting,’ Catherine said. ‘Looks like Royce’s Garage is opening again.’
The car belched and shuddered. ‘Maybe you should drive in there right now.’
‘I need the car to get to work this afternoon, but while you check out the stores I’ll make an appointment at the garage.’ Catherine parked in front of the Bank of Montreal. ‘I’ve got to go to the bank and the post office as well. Shall we meet back here in an hour?’
‘OK,’ Morgan agreed reluctantly. The girl scanned the stores without enthusiasm. ‘An hour will be plenty of time.’ She got out of the car and Catherine watched her saunter down the hot sidewalk.
Ed Royce coiled up the hose and stowed it at the side of the empty service bay. A year ago, the garage was never empty – it had buzzed twelve hours a day with the noise of machines as he and his two assistants repaired the cars of Atawan. He had made a name as an honest mechanic and people drove from all over the county to seek his services.
Ed frowned as his footsteps echoed in the garage. How long would it take to rebuild his business – if he could do it at all? He went over to the sink to wash his hands. As the warm water poured over his fingers, he studied his nails. They were clean. Gaol had done that for him. Close to a year without touching oil and grease, dirty engines and well-used tools had accomplished what no amount of soap and water could do. For the first time since he’d begun monkeying around with his old jalopy at age sixteen, his hands were clean. He longed for the feel of grease under his nails.
He tucked in his shirt, then ran his hand over his hair. After glancing critically at his work boots, he stooped to wipe away a streak of dirt. ‘You’re procrastinating,’ he told himself as he straightened. ‘It’s coffee time.’
Squinting, he stepped into the sunshine and stood on the kerb waiting for a break in the traffic. Wiping his damp palms on his jeans, he crossed the road and ducked into the shade cast by the awning of the café. He hesitated and his pulse beat faster. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and opened the door.
The restaurant looked the same as it had the last time he’d been there, ten months before. Cardboard fishing boats on a plastic ocean and nets made from kitchen twine evoked a tawdry nautical flavour. He glanced at the table in the corner, the one under the plastic lobster, and suppressed a shudder. He’d been sitting at that very table eating a hot turkey sandwich when the police came for him. The fork was still in his hand when the handcuffs closed on his wrists with the snap of doom. Now Ed resisted the urge to rub his wrists and sauntered over to the counter where Mavis Bigelow was wiping the formica surface with a grey dishcloth. Even this scrap of towelling looked the same, as did the pink skirt and blouse which hugged her generously proportioned body. But when Mavis looked up, Ed was jolted back to the present. Instead of the friendly smile he remembered, an expression of fear twisted her painted, forty-year-old features.
‘Hello, Mavis.’ Even to Ed’s own ears his voice had a strained edge.
‘You!’ Mavis backed away, her hand at her throat. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Getting coffee.’ Ed pointed to his watch. ‘Ten o’clock – my usual time.’
‘Not any more, it isn’t,’ snarled a voice from behind him.
Ed whirled around. ‘Barry … I didn’t see you there.’
Barry advanced like a storm front, his meaty fists held like a boxer’s before him, his bow legs splayed apart at every step. ‘You stay away from my sister.’
‘But –’
‘We don’t serve murderers in here.’
‘I’m no murderer and I’ve proven it in a court of law.’ Ed’s voice cracked as it slid up the scale. ‘I didn’t kill Tracy.’
‘We know different. Those legal folk don’t know nothin’.’
Ed retreated before Barry’s threatening right, unable to take his eyes off the dancing paw.
‘It was your blond, pretty-boy looks that got you off. That and your lady lawyer making eyes at the judge. I know, I was there at court a couple of days. I seen you.’
Ed had never been called a pretty boy before – only an ugly bull of a man like Barry would have considered him one. The restaurant owner used to remind Ed of a teddy bear but now the image of a grizzly flashed in his mind.
‘Come on, Barry.’ He’d backed up until the edge of the counter dug into his spine. ‘It’s me, Ed. The guy you played poker with, the one who’s bought coffee and doughnuts from you every day for four years.’ He held his hands out, palms up, offering peace. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mavis wide-eyed at the far end of the counter.
‘Let me get him his coffee, Barry, then he’ll go away,’ she squeaked.
Neither