more class than Spit’s hearse could ever hope for, and I knew that it was the dead-mobile. Suddenly, I really wanted to go home.
“Are we done?” I said.
“What? The little lady doesn’t want to help us drag up the nice, juicy body she found?” the fat guy said, poking his head out of the cruiser window, a greasy smile on his face.
“The little lady,” I said, “is in shock.” And I was, because suddenly everything went black.
Three
She’s got her good dress on
and she’s waiting like a bracelet
for his arm.
—Shepherd’s Pie
George drove me home after I woke up. I had never fainted before and I was mortified.
“Must have been because I didn’t have any breakfast,” I said, more to myself than to George, as the old truck bounced along the Dunbar sideroad. He was driving more slowly than usual, which I appreciated, but it didn’t make much difference. The Dunbar road hasn’t seen a municipal grader since the Great Depression.
“It is a good thing you didn’t eat, actually,” George said. “Bodies are best discovered on an empty stomach, I think.”
“You have a point. Oh, shit.”
George stepped on the brakes. “Are you going to throw up?”
“No, no. I just remembered that I was supposed to go with Becker to tell Francy about John. I don’t want her to be alone when they tell her.”
“The policeman Becker already thought of that. He said you should take it easy. He’ll finish up at the dump and then come to pick you up. You should have seen him when you fainted. He caught you before you hit the ground, like one of those figure-skater fellows. I thought he would twirl you around a couple of times before he put you down.”
“I really don’t know why I chose that moment to black out,” I said, disturbed by the thought of Becker’s arms around me. Wish I’d been awake.
“It was good timing,” George said. “It got us away from there. No more questions.”
“True. Actually, I did it on purpose.”
“Of course you did. What talent!”
“I feel like shit, George.”
“Then I will make you some of that blood-cleansing tea you have been trying to make me drink. Set you right in no time. The policeman said he would call from the dump hut before coming out here.”
George Hoito had lived alone in his old brick farmhouse for more than twenty years. He had emigrated to Thunder Bay in his thirties and found a safe home in the Finnish community up there. He’d married a Finnish woman, and stayed immersed in a culture that never changed. Then, when his wife died, he’d moved south. South, that is, as far as Kuskawa.
He had two cats and a tame raven called Poe, who strutted around belligerently on leathery black legs, just daring the cats to come within reach of his wicked beak. They very sensibly left him alone.
Poe’s wingspan was too wide for indoors. He preferred a kind of flapping hop to raise himself up to his favourite perch—a bookshelf near George’s woodstove. He was enormous and took some getting used to. I suppose it’s instinct that makes a bird so watchful, so oppressively aware of everything. Aunt Susan had a budgerigar called Snubby which always stared at strangers, but being stared at by a budgie was not as off-putting as being watched by Poe. If a dog or cat looks at you, you can usually figure out what they’re thinking. Fuzzy animals use body language and wear facial expressions. Birds just look judgmental, and Poe made me feel like carrion. He perched on George’s shoulder sometimes, but he had never perched on mine.
Perhaps Poe resented the attention I paid the cats, whom George ignored completely, considering them working animals only, hired to keep the mice in line.
When I was comfortably settled in the guest chair at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of alfalfa tea before me, George’s cats appeared out of nowhere like smoke and wrapped themselves around my legs, purring loudly. I lifted them both into my lap where they made a nice, comforting pillow of fur, and Poe, watching as always from his bookshelf, made a rude croaking sound and shook his feathers at me.
“Feeling better?” George asked. He had not made any tea for himself and was preparing to drive the truck out to the back field, where he would dig a deep hole for Dweezil.
“Much better, thanks. But I’m worried. Somebody shot John Travers in the chest and conked Spit Morton over the head. Why?”
“It was probably one of Travers’s gambling friends,” George said. “He was always getting into fights, you know that. Perhaps he refused to honour a debt. Or perhaps it was a husband. I have heard stories about John Travers and the ladies.”
“Yes, but to leave his body at the dump? It’s so ugly. So mob-like.”
“Maybe it was Rico Amato. I always thought he had mob connections.”
“Rico? Hardly.” Rico ran a small antique store near the highway. He was a fastidious man, exceedingly well groomed and a well known supporter of local arts organizations. He played the violin, not very well, and gave fabulous parties.
“I don’t think Rico has ever been to the dump in his life, George. And I don’t think he’s ever met John Travers. They don’t travel in the same circles.”
George looked at me oddly. “I was joking, child. Leave it to the police. They probably already know who did it, or Francy will be able to tell them. This is Cedar Falls, remember, not Toronto. We do not get mysterious killers hereabouts.”
“But we did just find a body at the dump, George.”
“And I guarantee that the police will arrest somebody by tomorrow morning. Now drink your tea. I’ll be back soon.” He headed for the door.
“I’ll be gone before you get back,” I said. “Becker, remember? He’s coming to take me away in his cruiser. Maybe they’ll arrest me, just to get the thing cleared up fast.”
George smiled. “If they do, don’t expect me to bail you out. I am just a poor old man.”
“Poor, maybe. Old, never. Happy digging.”
He left. At the last moment, just before the door closed, Poe swooped down from his shelf and settled on George’s shoulder, going along for the ride. I imagined the tall, shaggyhaired figure seen from a distance, digging a hole, a raven perched on his shoulder and the lumpy sack containing Dweezil propped nearby. Gothic, very. I hoped nobody would be watching. That’s how rumours get started.
It wasn’t Becker who telephoned an hour later, it was the big guy. He identified himself as Constable Morrison and I recognized his voice—sort of greasy and self-satisfied. The last time I had heard him speak he had called me “little lady” and I had fainted, plop, right into Detective Becker’s arms. Maybe Morrison thought I had fainted with shock at his tone, because he
