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.
He laughed. He was carrying a flashlight of his own—a police-issue, beautiful black Maglight which can double as a club in a pinch, but he hadn’t turned it on. The sky was magenta, the kind of colour which, if you saw it in a painting, would make you think that the artist had been doing some serious psychedelic drugs. Drugs. Oh God. This was my worst nightmare coming true. A police officer was coming to search my cabin. What if he smelled it? What if he had the nose of a German Shepherd and went straight for the little sweetgrass basket on the bookshelf? What, oh God, what if I’d left my alabaster pipe sitting on my desk? I tensed up and tried to think of a way to get in there first, leaving him outside, to give the place a quick once-over.
I had left the oil lamp lit on the kitchen table, turned way down. I hated doing it, being a fanatic safety nut when it comes to fire (I own three fire extinguishers), but I didn’t want Francy to wake up in total darkness. She wouldn’t have been scared, I knew that. She had been on her own in the country enough for that to be a non-issue, but still, when there’s no hydro, there’s no comforting light at the end of a switch and fumbling around for a match in a strange place is no fun.
When we got to the door, I paused, thinking fast.
“Ummm, I’d better go in first,” I said. He looked at me like I was crazy. Duh. Why wouldn’t I go in first? It was my house.
“I mean, like, Francy sleeps in the nude, eh? And the cabin’s open-concept. I’ll just slip in and make sure she’s dressed, okay?” I was glad it was dark. My face was burning.
“You won’t slip out the back door and disappear into the woods, will you?” he said. He was kidding, I think.
“Not possible,” I said. “There is no back door.”
“Okay, then. Just don’t coach her, please. I won’t wait for long.”
“You got it, officer,” I said and walked in.
The lamp had gone out. I flashed the beam of George’s flashlight around nonchalantly, hoping Becker wasn’t peering in the window. Pretty stupid, really, coming in first and then pointing the light directly at my own mildly illegal activities, but there you have it. Cops. Paranoia. Dope smokers suffer from it and listen to it, or they get nabbed.
Luckily,
