I slipped it into my pocket, deciding to ask Francy later if it had been John’s. I had seen him more than once with his shirt open to reveal gold, although I admit I’d never looked closely enough to check out his jewellery.
An image flashed into my mind—of Poe, circling above the ruined body of John Travers, lying there in the “wood only” pile at the dump. Poe swooping down, maybe aiming for the eyes, thinking “Hey, hey! Snacktime!” then snapping up the shiny necklace instead. It could have happened. I damned my imagination for the picture, which made my stomach hop a little. I straightened up and walked towards the house, sticking my tongue out at Poe on my way.
“Where the hell have you been?” Detective Mark Becker said as soon as I walked in. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen and the cats were twining around his ankles like fuzzy socks. George was sitting in his chair, calmly puffing on a pipe, his biggest one, the meerschaum that makes him look like Sherlock Holmes. He smiled and winked at me.
“Nice to see you too, Detective. Hello, George, darling. All well?” I breezed over to George and kissed him. I had decided, the moment I set eyes on Mr. Calm Policeman, that I wouldn’t volunteer any information. I would just bloody brazen it out, as Aunt Susan would say. Nobody asks where the hell I’ve been and gets away with it.
George reacted to my less-than-subtle demonstration of our “domestic partnership” with a little pat on my behind. Good old George, I thought. He’s playing right along with it. I stood behind him, using him as a shield and placing my hands possessively on his shoulders.
“What are you doing back here?” I said to Becker. “Worried that I stole some important evidence from the crime scene? A dog biscuit, maybe?”
“Cut the funny stuff, okay?” Becker said. “I know you don’t live here. Mr. Hoito has admitted that much. What I want to know is, where is Mrs. Travers? Have you got her hidden away up at your cabin?”
I snatched my hands from George’s shoulders and blushed heavily. I could feel George shaking with amusement. The pat on the behind had been gratuitous—a liberty, dammit. I would get him back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
Becker sighed.
“Look, Polly. We went to the Schreier’s place. I know Francy Travers was there. I know you were there. You were both gone before we arrived, and you didn’t exactly say goodbye to your hosts.” I opened my mouth to tell another lie, but he kept on talking.
“I’ve been driving up and down the back roads looking for you two, and I don’t appreciate being made to look foolish.”
“You didn’t leave your partner at the Schreier’s, did you?” I said. “More than one of those squares of Carla’s and he’ll be going into sugar-shock.”
Becker’s mouth twitched a little, but he was still mad. “If you don’t tell me where Mrs. Travers is, Ms. Deacon, I’ll have to take you in for questioning.”
“Do you guys actually do that?” I said. “I thought that was just a TV-thing.”
“We do. You want to find out?”
“Would I get three square meals a day and a phone call?”
“The phone call’s definitely a TV-thing,” he said. “And we only have one cell and a guy puked in it last night. I can’t guarantee that anyone’s cleaned it up yet.”
Now, there’s a lot I’d do for a friend, but staying in a locked room with stale puke is where I draw the line.
“You win,” I said and sat down. Becker tried to, but he tripped on the cats, which were trying to climb up his regulation trousers. He stumbled.
“You must have had one of Carla’s squares,” I said. He just looked at me and didn’t say anything. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Francy’s up at my place, asleep with the baby. She’s not going anywhere—she’s exhausted. The baby, in case you were wondering, is fine.”
I got him with the baby line. He made a weary face and collapsed into a chair.
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad about that. It’s going to be hard for both of them, but we have to talk to her. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. She just needed to get away from, you know, the tension. It’s not every day your husband gets killed.”
“She tell you what happened?”
“As much as she can remember.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She sort of blanked out after… I suppose Eddie told you his side of it.”
“We have his statement, yes.”
“Well, after Eddie hit John, Francy says she sort of went away in her mind. Doesn’t remember going to the Schreier’s place. Doesn’t remember anything till I showed up. She asked me to help her. How could I say no?”
“Easy. Like this: No.”
“I’ll remember that next time you need a favour.”
“Polly, your friend Francy is the spouse of a homicide victim. There’s questions we’ve got to ask. Details. She wants to know who killed him, doesn’t she?”
I remembered Francy’s face as she told me that she would like to shake the hand of the murderer, but I didn’t mention it.
“She’s afraid you’ll think she did it,” I said.
“We have to suspect everybody at the beginning,” Becker said patiently, as if he were speaking to a child. “It’s the rules. Of course we suspect her. We suspect you. We suspect Mr. Hoito, here as well.”
“George? You suspect George? Why the hell would he murder John Travers?”
“Polly—” George said, but I was building up a head of steam and kept on going.
“George Hoito is the gentlest, most loving man in the world. He rescues baby birds with broken wings, for God’s sake. You’re wasting your time suspecting him.”
George patted my hand. “Thank you, Polly. That is the nicest testimonial I have heard in a long time.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, glaring at Becker.
“All Mrs. Travers has to do is talk to us, give us a reason to believe she didn’t do it, and she’s fine,” Becker said.
“What? What about innocent until proven guilty? I know that’s not just a TV-thing. I think it’s even in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Are you familiar with that document, Detective?”
George raised his hand like a grade-school kid asking to go to the bathroom.
“Excuse me,” he said, gently. “I’m sorry to interrupt the debate, but Francy and her baby are up there in a cold, dark cabin, alone. Maybe she would appreciate some company about now.”
“Oh God. That’s right. Let’s go.” We said it together. Same words. Same tone. Weird.
“Follow me,” I said. “George, can I borrow your flashlight?”
Ten
We prepared this banquet
to be eaten with our fingers—
no need to be polite.
—Shepherd’s Pie
Halfway across the field, I asked Becker where Morrison was.
“Paperwork,” he said.
“The kind that wraps around a jelly donut?” I said.