“I guess. But what I can’t understand is how Francy let herself be hanged.”
“She was probably drugged first, Polly. They’ll find out when they do an autopsy.”
“If they do an autopsy. And George, Becker said that the note was written on the same notepaper the squirrel note was on. If that’s true, then whoever did the squirrel thing also killed Francy. Freddy. It’s Freddy.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“What we also don’t even have a clue about is why John was killed in the first place. The truth of it is that when he turned up dead, nobody cared very much. It must have something to do with the money. Oh God. The money.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the kibble-cash.
“Where did that come from?” George said. I explained where I’d found it, and that I would have given it back to Francy if she’d been alive when I got there.
“So that was the treasure you were talking about before. I thought it was harha-aistimus—a vision, a hallucination. Did you tell Detective Becker?”
“No. I forgot.”
“You were too busy trying to punch off his head, you mean.”
“Something like that. Now what do I do with it? I’m not supposed to butt in anymore, right? Or Becker will lock me up and throw away the key.”
“You could talk to Morrison.”
“But as soon as I call the station, they’re going to know that I’m still butting in, aren’t they? I’m scared, now, George. Becker was serious about arresting me. If only out of spite. I don’t want to give him the excuse.”
“You could call and ask about the funeral arrangements. I didn’t hear anything about a funeral for John. Did you? But there must be someone who will want to give Francy a goodbye. I would not want to miss it.”
“The funeral. Of course. The police will know all about that, won’t they?”
“The logical people to ask, I would say.”
When I got the receptionist, I asked very specifically for Morrison. We had been working on our sleuth-list for long enough that Becker was probably back at HQ by now, and I didn’t want to take any chances.
Morrison came on the line just as John Denver began telling me that life on the farm was kinda laid back. I was grateful for the interruption.
“You have Muzak,” I said, accusingly.
“Yes, we do. It’s supposed to keep our callers calm. But from what I hear, Muzak won’t work on you, eh?”
“Is Becker there?”
“You want to speak to him?”
“NO! No. I want to speak to you, Constable Morrison. I need some information.”
“After what you did to my partner, I don’t owe you shit,” he said. “He’s mad as all get out, and although I don’t know the details, I know damn well you’re responsible. You know how hard he is to work with when he’s like that?”
“I can imagine. Sorry.”
“I’ll just bet you are.”
“Listen, I know you don’t owe me anything. But there’s something I really need to know.”
“What makes you think I care?”
“You cared enough about Lug-nut to ask me to take him in.”
“So?”
“So, don’t tell me you don’t care. I know I’m supposed to mind my own business from now on, but I’m wondering about the funeral arrangements. I never heard anything about a funeral for John. Have you released the body yet?”
“Yesterday. The day after we questioned Mrs. Travers. She had it sent to North Bay, to his parents.”
“Really? Why?” There was a pause, as if he was making up his mind about something. Then his voice got quiet and he spoke rapidly.
“She told us she didn’t want to play the grieving widow. Said his folks wouldn’t want her at the funeral anyway.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yup. Backs up what was in the note, Becker says. She knew her in-laws wouldn’t want John’s killer to be present.” In the background, I heard a door opening and a murmuring question. Morrison covered the receiver with his hand and said something which sounded like “funeral home”. Then he was back on.
“That’s crap, Constable. She didn’t kill him.”
“I know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We don’t have that information yet, ma’am,” he said, loudly.
“Are you telling me that you think that note’s a fake?”
“Yup.”
“Should you be saying that?”
“Nope.”
“Is Becker listening?”
“Yup.”
“Can you meet me for coffee at the Tim Horton’s in Laingford at nine? I have some new information and I can’t give it to Becker.”
“Yup. Okay, ma’am. I hope that clears things up. We’ll let you know about the arrangements for Mrs. Travers.”
He hung up, and I was left staring at the phone. I turned to George, who had been listening openly, a grin on his face.
“Morrison is onto it, yes?” he said.
“I think so. I’m going to meet him later. I’ll tell him about the money then. And find out about Francy’s funeral.”
“He was a fine wrestler, was Earlie Morrison.”
“Pardon?”
“Morrison. The policeman you were just talking to. He used to wrestle in his high school, won all the local championships. He wrestled as a professional for some time after he graduated, then he decided to become a police officer. Moved back to Laingford when he got a job on the force here. Now he coaches the high-school wrestling team. He is a good man, Earlie.”
“I’ll bet nobody calls him Earlie to his face,” I said.
“Everybody does,” George said, fixing me with a look. “Everybody except your Becker.”
Twenty-Four
I’m so happy, so happy said he,
bought me a coffee at a quarter to three,
meanwhile his happiness waited at home,
in an unhappy bed near a silent phone.
—Shepherd’s Pie
The Tim Horton's in Laingford is no different from any Tim Horton’s you’ve ever been in. First thing that hits you is the smell of hot fat, followed by a big wall of whitenoise—coolers, Coke machines, fluorescent lights—the inexorable buzz of fast food places everywhere. It never used to bother me until I stepped out of the mainstream and crawled off to live in a cabin in the woods. At home, I can hear a mouse chewing its fingernails, and anything electronic is instantly recognizable and horribly annoying.
One thing about Tim’s, though, the coffee is always good, and if you like donuts, they’ve got ’em.
Morrison was sitting at a formica table by the window, a black coffee in front of him, no donuts. He’d probably already had three while he was waiting. He