Seaweed Under Water (3 page)

All things considered, Fred Colby didn't know much and what he did know, or say, hadn't helped me much. Sudden moisture showed in his eyes. He cleared his throat, took a short stubby pipe from a side table and began to stuff it with tobacco from a humidor. I felt sorry for him and disappointed for myself.

I said, “You'll be hearing from the police again, if it turns out that Jane is actually missing. I'd have to notify Missing Persons. You'll be asked to make a formal statement, fill in forms etcetera. Is that all right with you?”

His voice trembling a little, Mr. Colby said, “Fine, Mr. Seaweed, I'll go along with whatever you think best. Let's just hope you find her instead.”

I murmured some comforting platitude, shook hands with Mr. Colby and left him alone with his memories. The Airedale was waiting for me outside. Wagging his tail and panting, he dropped his ball at my feet. I threw it across the lawn into a clump of rhododendrons and looked at my wristwatch. It was eleven o'clock. The dog was still sniffing his ball out when I left.

CHAPTER THREE

Victoria's Rainbow Motel was located on the Inner Harbour's last remaining chunk of underdeveloped waterfront. It sat on a woodsy acre—originally a hunting lodge built in the days when most Vancouver Island residents were furry, four-legged and unaccustomed to the sound of firearms. Fred Colby hadn't mentioned it, but among the Coast Salish people, it was common knowledge that Boss Rollins owned the place. The motel's front door, made of iron-bound oak planks, was shut. I pushed it open and walked clear through the building without seeing anyone.

Ten yards of pebbled beach separated the back of the motel from tidewater. A small wooden boat shack stood on the west side of the property, along with a dozen upturned aluminum rental boats. A blue heron knee deep in water was keeping an eye on a mangy-looking dog loping toward it along the shore. When the dog got too close, the heron raised its wings, bent its spindly legs and heaved itself into the sky. The squawking bird's flight carried it over the
Mayan Girl
, a large motor yacht moored at the lodge's private jetty. In my mind's eye, I pictured a glamorous Jane Colby, posed on the yacht's wide deck.

A hundred yards or so to my left, a wilderness of tall masts rose above Fisherman's Wharf. Kayakers and small ferries crisscrossed the harbour between B.C.'s legislative buildings and the Ocean Pointe Resort. A floating crane was lifting driftwood and other floating debris from the water and dumping it on a barge near the seaplane terminal.

I went back inside the motel. Once a destination for well-heeled sportsmen, it now possessed the sad ambience of shady inns catering to lonely misfits and drunks. To the left of the reception counter, glass-paneled doors opened onto a dining room. Similar doors led to a lounge. A hand-lettered cardboard sign informed me that the dining room was closed. The door opening onto a lounge/bar was closed, but it opened at my touch, and I entered.

The lounge was uncomfortably warm. Flames, leaping in a fireplace, threw flickering yellow patterns onto varnished walls and a cross-beamed ceiling. Somebody had been burning papers in there—half-burnt ash lay thickly on the hearth. Leather armchairs exuded the breath of ancient cigars. Apart from a stuffed cougar snarling up at the mounted head of an elk, the lounge was unoccupied.

I heard sirens and looked outside. Three prowlies appeared along Belleville Street, turned up Menzies Street and raced toward Dallas Road on what may or may not have been urgent police business. Some guys just like to put earmuffs on and make lots of noise. I felt cranky and didn't know why—James Bay affects me that way sometimes.

I was behind the reception counter, searching for the motel's guest register and fighting a vague feeling of irritation, when a tanned, handsome young body-builder showed up. Wide as a refrigerator, with halitosis and dirty fingernails, he was wearing a shirt that fitted him like a second skin, showing off mighty biceps and triceps. His torso had more bumps than an egg carton. The plastic nametag pinned to his shirt told me that he was Karl Berger, the manager. He might have been carved from wood, except for moist rubbery lips and moist blue eyes. He leaned across the reception counter until our noses almost touched and said, “There's a sign on the door saying the motel's closed, mister. What do you think you're doing here?”

“Making routine inquiries, sir,” I answered politely. “I'm Sergeant Seaweed, Victoria PD.”

Karl's eyes narrowed. “Seaweed? We got Siwash cops now?”

My irritation increased. “I'm not a Siwash. I'm Coast Salish.”

Karl was one of those self-assured young people with little patience for those they assume to be lower down the intelligence ladder. He sneered. “Salish, smalish. I guess you're here about our missing speedboat.”

“What missing boat is that?”

“Our
speedboat
,” he repeated derisively. “The one got stolen a few days back. The one you're supposed to be looking for.”

“I'm sure an active investigation is proceeding. I assume it's one of your rental boats.”

“No, I just told you. It's a
speedboat
. Them rentals out there are just piddle-ass sport-fishing boats.”

“So the motel is closed?”

“Don't you read?” he asked impatiently. “I told you, there's a sign on the front door.”

“No there isn't.”

Karl stormed across the front door, looked in vain for a sign that wasn't there and came slowly back.

“I understand that Jane Colby stays here. Which is her room?”

“Don't you listen? The place is closed. If it's closed it means nobody's staying here.”

“May I see your guest registers?”

“There is no register.”

“Operating a motel without guest registers is a criminal offence. If convicted you can be sentenced to three years in prison,” I told him untruthfully.

His irritating sneer faded a trifle. I said, “I demand to see the register. If you don't produce it immediately, you'll be charged with obstructing justice.”

“Big deal,” Karl snapped. “How come you're not chasing robbers?”

I produced a cell phone from my pocket and pointed to a button. “Listen, Karl,” I said. “If I push this, you'll be inside a paddy wagon before you can pop another steroid.”

After a moment of indecision, Karl grabbed a key from its hook behind the counter. Muttering to himself, he marched along a corridor and slammed the back door open. Pebbles crunched underfoot as we crossed the beach. Karl went into the boat shack and flipped a light switch, to no avail.

“Goddam fuse has blown again,” Karl muttered angrily.

Fishhooks, lures and flashers lay half-visible inside a glass-topped display case. A poster advertising last year's King Coho Salmon Derby was tacked to a wall, along with Canada Fisheries Regulations and outdated
Sports Illustrated
calendars. Groping in semi-darkness, Karl brought out a pair of red, morocco-bound registers. One was for boat rentals. The other was the motel's guest register, according to which Jane Colby had booked into room 101 about a month previously. This didn't exactly square with the information I'd received from Fred Colby.

Karl took a package of du Maurier from his pants pocket, put a squashed cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a chromium-plated lighter.

I went outside. When Karl emerged from the boat shack I said, “Tell me about Jane.”

Karl did not reply immediately. Gazing at the motor yacht, he said, “What's to know? Janey's a party girl, friend of the boss.”

“A party girl?”

Karl's permanent sneer increased, but he didn't elaborate. I said, “Why do you keep those registers in a boat shack?”

“There any reason I shouldn't?” he shouted angrily. “There's laws saying where we gotta
store
books as well?”

Strongly tempted to strike Karl's head with a blunt instrument, I said at length, “Temper, temper! Let's have a look in room 101. You can lead the way.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Room 101 had a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from its doorknob. Karl used a master key, stepped aside and said, “Your move.”

Room 101 was actually a hot and airless two-room suite scented with Airwick. I opened the blinds and a window. The suite's kitchen area was an ugly chaotic pigsty. Unwashed utensils lay on countertops, or soaked in a sink of cold greasy water. A three-burner hotplate, coated with baked-on grease, had last been used to heat a nameless substance that had boiled over and left black stains on the stove's white enamel surfaces. Empty wine bottles stood on coffee tables and a dresser. A Canadian Wildlife calendar pinned to the wall hadn't been changed since January. Women's clothing lay scattered on the floor and across an unmade bed.

Karl, standing in the doorway behind me, cleared his throat.

I turned to look at him. He wouldn't meet my eyes; his manner had changed.

I said, “Don't tell me that you didn't know about this mess.”

“I mean, sometimes Janey was kind of noisy, but I never came in here,” he said, without his usual swagger. “Janey has kind of a special deal with the boss. She just comes and goes. Don't pay no rent, so she don't get no service.”

Karl went to the window and flicked his half-smoked cigarette onto the beach.

A hand-knitted sweater was draped across the back of a chair. Tacked to a wall, directly above the same chair, was a copy of the photograph I'd first seen at the house on Welling Terrace—the one of a smiling yellow-haired mother, standing on a tropical beach with a little copper-skinned daughter. I went over for a closer look.

Karl said, “That's Janey, and I guess her kid. Only Janey don't look that way now. See her in the morning before her makeup's on, she's like death warmed over.”

I heard footsteps moving around upstairs. “You told me the hotel was empty.”

“It is, except for you and me.”

“There's somebody downstairs.”

Karl shrugged.

“This is a missing-person inquiry,” I said. “Until I tell you differently, this room is off limits to everyone. That includes you, Karl.”

“Janey is missing?”

“She may be.” I looked Karl in the eye. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Karl shrugged. “She comes and goes.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“The last time I definitely saw her was about three weeks ago. But there's no telling how many times she's been in or out since. I don't pay no attention to her.”

“Fine, but remember. This room is off limits.”

“That's okay with me.”

Twin diesel engines revved up outside. We looked out of the window—the
Mayan Girl
was leaving the wharf. I asked, “That's not Harley Rollins' boat?”

Karl laughed. “No, it belongs to the boss's sister, Tess Rollins.” He watched the yacht pull away and said wistfully, “I wish I had the money she paid for that tub.”

“If wishes were horses.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

To provoke him into telling me something he might prefer I didn't know, I said brusquely, “That yacht's worth millions and you make what? Thirty grand a year, plus tips?”

“Screw you,” Karl growled, jutting his chin. “Managing this motel is just a sideline.”

“From what—delivering pizzas?”

Relaxing with a visible effort, Karl shrugged and said, “That's a dirty crack.”

“No, I'm interested. Just what do you have going for you, apart from muscles?”

Karl was a piece of work, all right. He clenched his fists and for a second it looked as if he might swing at me, but he controlled himself and gazed stupidly out of the window. I opened the room's small refrigerator. It was empty, except for a carton of milk and a pound of cheddar cheese. Karl moved his weight from foot to foot, opened his mouth as if to speak, thought better of it and started to leave the room.

“Hold it,” I said sharply.

Karl stood in the open doorway, his eyes narrowed.

“You told me initially that nobody was staying here. Why?”

“Nobody is staying here
regular
, that's why.”

“You're a liar. If you want to save yourself unnecessary trouble, start telling me the truth.” I pointed to the fridge. “There's fresh milk in there. Cheese. If Jane Colby didn't leave it, who did?”

“I told you already,” he snarled. “She comes and goes, has her own key. How can I keep track of people who have their own keys?”

Karl was at the tipping point of exasperation. I gazed at him calmly and inclined my head toward the door. He went out, slamming it behind him.

The milk smelled fresh and the cheese had no mould. That was a hopeful sign. Jane might have been here three, four
days ago. Perhaps there was no cause for alarm, after all. I spent a few minutes checking closets, drawers, cupboards, boxes and pockets without finding anything interesting, except for evidence that Jane was living a squalid drunken life. I closed the blinds and the window, left the room and went down to the lounge. The fire in the hearth had burned itself out. I poked among the ashes without finding any legible scrap of paper.

After that, my nostrils needed an airing. I left the motel, found a conveniently placed Japanese cherry tree across the street and waited beneath it. It was hot, for Victoria, even in deep shade. It was hot like Tucson in August. Five minutes passed, 10, before a shadow moved inside the Rainbow Motel's front door, and it opened. A 60-year-old man hobbled outside, moving slowly and painfully with the aid of two walking sticks. He was tall and overweight, wearing a blue suit with an unbuttoned jacket that revealed his large belly. He had heavy fur-lined moccasins on his feet. Walking toward the motel parking lot, his face showed an agonized expression.

He was Henry Ferman, a private detective with an office on Fort Street.