Bodies and Sole (12 page)

Jamieson grabbed Whacky from Hy's shoulder, her claws still anchored there, and hugged her close, murmuring and purring into her tiny ear.

“Glad you showed up.” Hy was inspecting the pool of blood seeping through her t-shirt.

“You never should have gone up there.”

“It was to save your cat.”

Jamieson was still holding the creature close. It was licking her face. Grooming her.

“It's not my cat. It's…”

“Never mind that. I just saw the craziest thing inside that house. You've got to get a search warrant.”

Whacky had clawed its way down Jamieson's body, leaving a trail of long white hair down the front of her black uniform. It was circling her feet and weaving through her legs, leaving fur all around the bottom of her trousers.

“And just why should I get a search warrant?”

A car pulled into the driveway. Vera. She got out of the vehicle and marched straight at Hy and Jamieson. She pointed to the ruts in the lawn.

“What's the reason for this?”

She looked over at the ladder. She pointed at it.

“And that?”

Hy didn't say a word.

Nor did Jamieson. She scooped up Whacky as if she needed to protect her from Vera.

She might, thought Hy.

“Animal rescue,” Hy choked out. Jamieson nodded, mute.

“Well, see that you clean it up. If it's not done satisfactorily, or causes me any expense, you will be hearing from my lawyers.”

She turned, marched back to the car, yanked out some grocery bags, and went into the house.

“Bodies,” Hy's voice was a whisper in Jamieson's ear, just rising above the cat's purr.

“That's what I saw in there. Bodies.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The flyers came flying back to Marlene. Every villager had
filled one in. There were photocopies, too, filled out on behalf of children, infants and one boy still in the womb. His parents figured since he had a name already – Brian – he should be eligible.

The villagers were clamouring for a chance to win a John Deere riding mower. The chariot of the lawn-mowing gods. The Rolls of green arables. The Mercedes of mulch.

Billy Pride filled out an entry, with difficulty. Writing had never been his strong suit. But what he lacked in calligraphic ability, he made up for in heart. His tongue stuck out to help him form the letters as he answered the question: “Why do you want to win the EZTrak John Deere mower?”

He wrote that he wanted it so he could marry tiny Madeline Toombs, Moira's sister. His own machine was breaking down, and it was the source of his spring, summer and fall income, maintaining the grounds of the summer cottages. He used his mower as a car, too. Without it, he'd be stuck home, jobless, and penniless, with his constantly complaining mother.

Marlene was reconciled to having only one day mow-free. She realized the cut lawns would be tidier, prettier for the tourists.

You could have too much authenticity.

It was on the day of her triumph, the lawn-cutting agreement with the village, that it began to rain.

Every day.

All summer.

Some tried, but no one was able to keep a lawn mowed anywhere in The Shores.

Until the sun shone, finally, on celebration day, straining the promise of a day without mowers.

Hy kept harassing Jamieson about the bodies she claimed she'd seen in the Sullivan house. Jamieson thought the whole thing was ridiculous and continued to resist her.

“You have an overactive imagination.”

“Oh, sure. So I was imagining things when I tripped over Lance Lord on the beach?”

“No. Although it was a bit far-fetched.”

“Far-fetched, maybe, but true.”

“I'll grant you that.”

“And Fitz, knocking me into the creek.”

Jamieson said nothing.

“And Miss pudgy paws, flattened under a rock?”

Jamieson knew that if there were a body to be found, Hy would be the one to find it. She had stumbled over or onto a number of murder victims in The Shores in the past few years.

But what Hy had described was surely not possible. Was surely a product of her vivid imagination. Or a product of Vera Gloom's artistry. It was all over the village that she was an artist. Could this not be artistry? These bodies?

“They were so real, and unreal, at the same time.” Hy's expression lit up. “I know. Taxidermy. It might be taxidermy. She's had them stuffed.”

“That would be illegal.”

“Would it?”

“I believe so. If not, it should be.”

“A lot of things should be, but aren't.”

“That I can find out.”

“And then you can get a search warrant and go in and see.”

Jamieson bristled at Hy telling her what to do, but she was curious to see what Hy had seen. She just couldn't figure out any way to justify a search warrant.

“But grounds. I need grounds.” Why was she even arguing this? There was precedent. Here at The Shores, Jamieson had loosened up on what exactly was correct law enforcement and what was not. She'd bent the rules before, and no doubt would again. Hy had helped in every single investigation, but this wasn't an investigation, was it?

“What bodies could they be? No one here is missing.”

“Bodies from away, of course,” Hy said, with a grin. “Could Vera Gloom be a murderess who's imported her victims?”

Hy wouldn't let up. She swore she'd seen bodies – two of them. Jamieson couldn't say she was mistaken. Jamieson hadn't seen anything.

“They were real. Not art, I swear. There was a quality about them that said really dead.”

“What quality is that – really dead – and how do you sense it through a window? Have to do better than that, McAllister.”

“You know what I mean. You've seen really dead from a distance. You can just tell.”

Hy was right, but Jamieson wasn't going to admit it and weaken her very reasonable point of view. Hy had been overexcited. She was seeing things. Or reading into the things she'd seen.

Real, thought Hy. But in an unusual, inhuman way. Were there just two? How many more might there be in that big house?

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Teepee B&B

Heritage Home of The Shores' Oldest Family

A Fine Blend of the Three Cultures that made Red Island

Come experience it for yourself during this heritage year –

“200 Years and Counting”

“I told her it was wigwam, not teepee. Guess she likes the rhyme. And this – a fine blend of three cultures?”

Hy had pulled up Moira's website on Ian's Mac. “She makes it sound like coffee.”

Ian smirked.

“You have, as they say, created a monster.”

Hy groaned. “I know. But at least she's embraced her origins.”

The new website had not brought Moira any new business, so she was still slaving away cleaning the beachside rental cottages and the Sullivan house.

It was a house a family could rattle around in, and yet there were only two people there, thought Moira. One old lady who couldn't make much of a mess. And the other, a man half-dead.

Moira didn't know about the ex-husbands upstairs, but she was about to find out. Moira was a snoop, and could hardly keep to a few rooms on the bottom floor as she'd been instructed. She was determined to get a look at the whole place, including the upstairs, as soon as she got the chance.

But Vera was always in the house and in and out of the rooms Moira was cleaning.

Finally, she got lucky. The landscaping company that was taking care of “the grounds,” as Vera liked to refer to them, arrived with some shrubs and trees, and Vera went out to supervise.

Moira hurried up with her work, darting looks out the window, to see Vera now clothed in outdoor gardening regalia, complete with a pair of Lee Valley boots.

She'd be a while.

Moira dashed up the stairs, and threw open the first door.

She could see only the back of his head.

Pale. Very pale.

He appeared quite absorbed in his book. Moira tiptoed a little closer.

“What are you doing here?” Moira jumped back.

But the voice had come from behind her, and it was a woman's.

Vera.

“You are not meant to be upstairs.” Her voice was flat, but it contained a tone of warning, of menace.

Vera grabbed Moira by the elbow and marched her down the stairs and into the kitchen. She pushed her down on a chair, but kept standing herself, towering above Moira.

“What did you see?”

Moira wondered what she was meant to have seen or not seen.

“Nothing. I saw nothing.”

“Come. You saw something.”

“I did?” At the moment, Moira was staring up at Vera's jiggling jowls, hoping she'd never be that old and ugly. Vera leaned over and Moira could smell her stale breath, the decay under her dentures.

“I saw the back of the head of an elderly gentleman.”

“That's all?” Vera loomed over her.

“I thought he looked sickly pale.”

Vera straightened.

“Did he speak to you?”

Moira shook her head.

“Did you speak to him?”

Moira shook her head again. There hadn't been time, even if she wanted to.

“Let's discuss the terms of your continuing employment.”

Moira felt her throat closing. She was unable to speak.

“You will never go upstairs again.”

Moira nodded her head several times.

“You will never utter a word to anyone about this.”

Moira didn't shake her head or speak. She just stared wide-eyed at Vera.

Vera grabbed hold of Moira's arm and twisted the skin. Moira shook her head vigorously. She felt that if she tried to speak, she would choke.

“Not a word. Or what happened to them may happen to you.”

What had happened to them? Who were “they”?

“Happens to us all. We get old.” Vera let go of Moira's arm.

Old? That one had looked more than old. His skin. It was…
She couldn't describe it.

Vera smiled her version of a smile, laced with a threat.

“The boys don't like to be disturbed. It upsets them. It upsets me. And you wouldn't want that.”

Moira was quite sure she didn't want that.

“I don't want people talking about the boys. Make sure you don't.”

The boys, wondered Moira. Who were they? Had she seen one of them?

She was quite sure she didn't want to see him again. Not after this. She found it creepy, an antidote to her natural snoopiness. She would stay well away from upstairs. She wished she could stay away from the house altogether, but she needed money coming in.

Moira couldn't leave fast enough.

She kept darting glances behind her as if she were being pursued. She wasn't, but she was being watched.

Vera stood at the large windows of the front room, eyes burning into Moira's back. Once, looking back, Moira caught her eyes, and flinched as if they really were burning. She picked up her pace until she reached the road. Out of Vera's sight, she shot one more look back.

Hy had just come out of the police house, and caught the curious expression on Moira's face. She watched as Moira propelled down Shipwreck Hill, stumbling in her haste and nearly falling several times.

Hy stepped out into the road, and Moira screamed, tripped, and fell forward.

Hy grabbed her.

“Steady. What's up?”

Moira regained her balance and stared at Hy. Said nothing. Just stared. Mute. Fear, yes definitely fear, in her eyes.

“What's going on, Moira?” Had she seen something in the house? Something that would explain what Hy had seen?

Moira remained mute. She tried to push Hy back, but Hy restrained her.

“Did you see something in there?”

Moira shook her head.

“No?”

Moira shook her head again.

“Are you sure?”

Moira nodded her head.

Hy grabbed her by the shoulders. “Speak to me, Moira.”

Moira gulped. Nothing came out.

“Did you see bodies in there?”

Pause. Nothing.

“Did you see art?”

A shake of the head.

“No giant insects?”

Moira's eyes opened wide and she shook her head.

“Well, something's scared you, and I mean to find out what it is.”

Finally, Moira choked out a word.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Hy let go her grip on Moira.

Nothing, my foot, she thought as she watched Moira stumble down the hill.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Everyone in the village was soon talking about Vera's “boys,”
not knowing really what they were talking about. Moira couldn't keep the secret. Who could? She'd told Frank. Frank had told the UPS guy in Winterside, whose wife was April Dewey's cousin. The cousin told April who told her partner, Murdo. He told Jamieson, his one contribution to police work that summer. Jamieson discussed it with Ian, who told Hy, who wondered why Moira hadn't just told her directly in the first place.

“The boys,” the villagers concluded, were Vera Gloom's ex-husbands. Strange they'd all be living there together. And strange that they were never seen. Old and infirm probably. More dead than alive.

With the village buzzing with “the boys,” Hy hoped Jamieson might now be forced to make inquiries. Buzzing with rumours, thought Jamieson. Gossip. This was not a police investigation, unless, as Hy was now maintaining, the woman had had her former husbands stuffed.

Hy's FB Status: In the 1800s British sportsmen used to hunt and shoot pygmies in the Congo. Then they'd have them stuffed. A pawn shop in New York recently had one for sale.
Likes: 0
Comments: Double eeeeeew.

Cat.

He'd know.

Hy wasn't sure why, but she had a feeling about it. She headed for Big Bay.

She almost turned back on the way there. The incessant rain had started out as a spit, not enough to stop her from pedaling in comfort.

By the time she got to Big Bay, it was a downpour. She was drenched. The rain had soaked into her clothes, they were clinging to her skin and water was running off her clothing in rivulets and dripping off her face.

Big Bay was closed up. The boats were in for the day and construction workers on the new stores had gone home.

Cat lived above the store and she was certain he'd be home. She banged on the door – a few times, leaning up against it to get some shelter from the slim overhang of roof.

It felt like the door flew open, and she tumbled in. Cat reached out to steady her and then helped her across the stoop.

“Slippery as a salmon's back. Here…” He unhooked a throw from beside the door and wrapped it around her.

“I keep it here for just this reason.” He beckoned her to the back stairs. “Coffee or tea?”

She nodded, shivered and followed him up the stairs.

They were settled down with their coffees when Hy told him why she'd come.

“Do you know anything about taxidermy?”

“Well, yes. I was a taxidermist, time was.”

“Do you know any taxidermists who would stuff a human?”

His eyes opened wide.

“Not just at the moment. Odd question.”

“I have reasons. Don't really want to talk about them now.”

Cat raised his eyebrows.

“Anyone I know?”

Hy smiled, taking his meaning.

“No. I don't want anyone stuffed. I just want to know if it happens.”

“It does.”

“Have you?”

“No, no, not me. I've been asked. And I've known people who've done it.”

“Legally?”

“Yes and no. Meaning it's not legal, but if you want to fight it out in court you can. There's a company advertises on the Internet to preserve your loved ones. ‘Where legal,' it says. Where that is, I don't know. Funny thing is, the law is clear on stuffing animals, but not people. You can't sell stuffed wildlife in Canada under the Wildlife Protection Act.”

“What about humans?”

“For humans it's not so clear. The protection bodies have is only that they have the right to rest in peace. Otherwise, once the person leaves it, presuming that's what they do, they lose ownership – and their next of kin, usually the spouse, has control.”

“What kind of control?”

“Over disposal of the body, burial, preparation, possession, autopsy, damages for mutilation of the body. All within accepted social norms.”

“Taxidermy not being one of them.”

“I would say not.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Well, when I was asked to do it, I looked it up. I wanted to know what ground I stood on.”

“And that was not stuffing humans.”

“No. Nor animals either. I just use the skin. Fish skin only.” He smiled. “And the odd reptile.”

Hy's FB Status: Roy Rogers had his faithful mount…mounted. When he died, he's rumoured to have said he'd like to be skinned out and mounted on Trigger.
Likes: 15
Comments: You're getting deep.
Six feet deep! LOL.

Hy's visit with Cat had convinced her that people did stuff their loved ones, but she wanted proof, real proof, before she went badgering Jamieson anymore to inspect Vera's house.

A phone call to the taxidermy place Cat had mentioned would do it. She'd have to get her best friend Annabelle in on it. Annabelle would never forgive her if she didn't.

The rain had tapered off. Still wet, Hy cycled over to Annabelle's.

She pushed her way in as soon as Annabelle opened the door.

“Is Ben in?”

“No, do you need him for something?”

“Not at all. Will he be out for a while?”

“I expect so. He's mucking about with the
Annaben.
Engine trouble.” The
Annaben
, also known as the
Loveboat
, was the boat Ben and Annabelle used to fish lobster.

“I was just going to have a glass of wine. Chase this glum day away. Join me?”

“Sure. But only one. We need to be clearheaded for what I have in mind.”

“And just what do you have in mind?”

Hy explained her plan, and Annabelle, grinning a big grin, fell in with it, only insisting that she be the one to make the phone call.

The two women sat down to plot tactics – what they should say, what they should ask. They agreed they'd say it was to stuff the husband. They finished a glass of wine. Started another.

“So, go on. Phone.” Hy was thinking they should not have had that wine for courage. Annabelle had an attack of the giggles.

“I'll do it then.” Hy grabbed the phone.

“No. It's okay. I want to do it.”

Annabelle dialed the number on the piece of paper in front of her. They waited while it rang. Three times.

“I hope it's not voicemail.”

Another two rings.

“Real People Taxidermy.”

Not voicemail.

Annabelle cleared her throat.

“Yes, I was wondering…yes…how did you…oh, yes, of course.” Annabelle gave Hy the thumbs up.

“Well it wasn't myself…oh really…two for one? Oh well…could I give that…really?” Annabelle's eyes opened wide. “Really? And how much would that be?” Eyes wider. Big grin.

“I'll get back to you…soon as I speak to…yes…that's correct.”

She slammed down the phone and burst out laughing.

Hy grinned. “She did all the talking.”

Annabelle stifled her laughter.

“She knew right away that I was phoning for a husband. ‘Happens all the time,' she said.”

“And the two for one?”

“Both of us – me and Ben. And…” She drew out the word and paused dramatically, “they could stuff my boobs, as if they need it…”

“As if…”

“And…” Annabelle clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Ben could be stuffed with an erection.”

“With what?” Ben had just come in the back door. Hy hadn't seen him in time to warn Annabelle, who seemed not the least fazed.

“An erection, dear. You could get it stuffed, just like Tutankhamen.”

“You think it needs stuffing?”

“Certainly not.”

Ben sat down for a glass of wine and the two women explained what they'd been up to. He shook his head when they finished their story.

“Time was, this was just a quiet little fishing village. If I had my druthers it still would be.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Ben,” Hy warned, as she got up to leave. She slipped into her soaking rain jacket. “That Marlene woman's trying to turn it into just that.”

Time was, she thought as she left. She'd chosen a good name for the book.