She inspected it with interest and handed it back. He explained again who he was and why he was here, then asked, “Have you lived here long, Ms. Jordan?”
“If you have any urge at all to call me Farah, I’d be more than happy if you gave in to it. I’ve been here since May.”
Half a year, he thought. Then it clicked. She had inherited the house from an older male relative, a father or grandfather. One she had not been too fond of, if the first thing she did was to take down his favourite pictures. Her face was kind, so the male relative was probably unkind. She poured tea as if they had all the time in the world. He couldn’t decide whether her overly relaxed manner was suspicious or nice. Probably it had something to do with the roach in the ashtray. “You had something to tell me?”
“Did I?” she said.
“I thought you did.”
She poured tea into a second cup and smiled at him brightly. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just you looked so cold out there. All I wanted to do was bring you inside, warm you up.” Her teeth were white against her dark skin, and her blue-grey eyes were hypnotic. Suddenly he wasn’t sure who was doing the luring.
“Here’s sugar, if you like,” she said, and he said no, thank you, worrying that this was more of a tea party than an interview. He had told Randall that he was speaking to a witness who had info to offer. He imagined Randall’s inevitable question, What was Ms. Jordan’s intel? and his inevitable answer, Actually, she just wanted to warm me up.
Must work at building a better foundation for this visit. “I’m wondering,” he said, “do you know anything about the house across the road — who owns it, who lived there, anything like that?”
“No, I’m sorry, it’s been vacant as long as I can remember. But will you tell me what happened there? Was it an accident?”
He told her he couldn’t say anything more than that a body had been found, sorry.
“I understand,” she said, but apparently didn’t, as she added without pause, “Man or woman? Not a child, I hope. Children seem to like getting into places.”
“Well, like I say.”
“Sorry, yes,” she exclaimed. “You just finished telling me you can’t divulge anything, and then I go and ask for more details.” She sipped her tea and looked wistful. “About how long would you say it’s been there, though? Not long, I’m sure. I just started noticing this kind of bad smell last week, but I thought it was somebody’s garbage. Oh rats, I’ve done it again, and you’re starting to look exasperated. I’ll just have to wait for the news, I guess.”
Something banged. Dion looked around to see that a cat had just slipped through the cat flap in the back door. It walked into the room and studied Dion. It was slim, dusky grey, with bright-green eyes. It looked a bit like its owner.
Its owner seemed delighted to see the animal and enticed it over with a ksk-ksk noise so she could stroke it from ears to tail. “They’re such snobs,” she told Dion. “But you have to love them. And every time she comes home, I’m so grateful, as there are coyotes out there. They’ll go for cats. Do you have any pets?”
When he had lived with Kate, she had a tabby. A fat cat that ate, slept, complained, and damaged furniture. He had never seen the point of it, himself. “No, I don’t. I’d like to have a dog.”
He blinked in surprise at his own words. He hadn’t meant to say anything so personal.
“Me, too,” Ms. Jordan said. “Not so big, not so small. A rescue mutt!”
And now they were talking about dogs. Dion described sitting in the park this fall and watching dogs and dog owners at play. It seemed like a good, safe, amiable relationship. He told her about the coal-black pup he’d seen at the SPCA the other day, in the course of his duties, how tempted he’d been to sign the adoption papers and bring it home. He had imagined the pup following along on his heels and curling up by his feet at night.
But having a pet wasn’t practical, and neither was sitting here talking about it with a witness. He asked, “Do you recall what day you first noticed it, the bad odour you thought was garbage?”
“I couldn’t give you a date. It came and went.”
“That’s fine.” The other question that had cropped up meanwhile had somehow gotten away from him. He wondered if she could smell death on him. The tea scent pluming up from the cup in front of him was doing a good job of overriding the crime scene stench that lingered in his nostrils, but it didn’t quite do it, and still the idea of eating or drinking made him queasy.
“It’s nice, isn’t it, the bergamot?” she asked.
“Bergamot?” he said.
“These weird hours,” she said. “Do you always work this late?”
The solidity of the question brought him back to earth, and he picked up the cup and gulped the tea she had gone out of her way to make for him. It was nice, warm, comforting. “I’m on nights,” he said. “Seven to seven.”
“How awful.”
“Not really. It’s usually quiet in the shop. A good time to catch up.”
Randall’s voice came over the radio, saying she was done and at the car — did he need assistance? He replied no, he’d be out in a minute. He apologized to Ms. Jordan. “It’s really late, and you must be wanting to get to bed. Thanks for thawing me out.”
“It’s okay. I work quite late myself. I’m used to the hours. I work at the Greek Taverna, down on Lonsdale.”
“Really?” He was happy for an excuse to carry on the conversation. He didn’t want to leave, go back to Jackie Randall and reality. “I’ve had dinner there. Quite a few times.” Though not lately, and not in this life. “Great food. You’re a waitress?”
“Head chef, actually,” she said.
He watched her smile and wanted more. The low-grade lust he felt was nothing new. He was single, hungry, and easily infatuated. But of course nothing would happen. It was time to go, and he put his final question to her. “I know it’s none of my business. But this house, is it an inheritance?”
“Yes, exactly. My mom died when I was little, and my dad’s been here for the last fifteen years. He got ill in May, so I gave up my Lonsdale apartment and moved in to take care of him. Now it’s just me. He passed away last month.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dion said, and mentally kicked himself. What a completely unnecessary, insensitive question. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. And thank you. Yes, it’s strange to hear him shuffling about upstairs, looking for something. We’ll all end up like that to some degree, I guess. Looking for something.”
An odd statement, and an odd woman. He had the feeling Ms. Jordan was a little mad. The wind wailed, the ducts roared, the house creaked, and out in the car, Constable Randall would be growling. As they walked to the front door, he told Jordan to call if she could pin down the dates any further of when she had first noticed the smell across the road. It could be helpful.
“Yes, I will,”
