Striking Out (13 page)

Sunday was quiet. I left a message for the private eye first thing in the morning, but he didn’t call back. Sally and I convinced T.C. and his friends to leave the sleuthing to the police. Andy and I went for a walk in the afternoon, but stayed out of laneways.

“You’re just asking for trouble,” he said, when I suggested we go look at the crime scene, which was no longer off-limits. “For yourself, and, may I remind you, for me.”

“Let’s go where Maggie was, then. You can look at the blood. The guy got stabbed. Maybe it is his after all.”

“Walt Stimac is in charge,” he said. “Can’t you just enjoy a beautiful afternoon?”

I gave in, in the end. We went and had a coffee under the awning of the sidewalk patio of one of the Greek restaurants and watched the parade go by: stern-faced mothers in their Sunday finery keeping their eyes on their teenaged daughters; young men leaning on muscle cars, talking sports and eyeing the same daughters; old men arguing in Greek, no doubt fighting ancient political battles; rollerbladers weaving in and out through the crowds; middle-aged yuppie dads with babies in chest-packs, wives in Birkenstocks, and dogs wearing bandannas. The Danforth on a summer Sunday afternoon is as far from the old Toronto the Good and Boring as it is possible to get without an airline ticket.

“Isn’t this better than playing detective?” Andy asked. I had to admit he was right.

“I can’t remember the last time we’ve been able to hang out on a summer weekend,” I said. “No ballgames, no road trips. I could get used to this.”

“You’d go nuts,” he said. “I give your mellow mood about another week.”

“You’re probably right. Anyway, if the strike doesn’t get resolved soon, they’ll send me off somewhere. I might as well enjoy this while I can.”

We stayed out for a couple of hours, until Andy got tired. The walk home was slow, and as soon as we got there, he downed a couple of Tylenol 3s. The pain put him in a bad mood again, so I retreated to my study.

The phone rang at about seven, when I was thinking of starting dinner. It was Janet Sachs.

“I just got a call from Maggie,” she said.

“Did she tell you where she is?”

“She wouldn’t say. I told her the police wanted to talk to her and she just hung up.”

“Well, at least we know she’s alive.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“You should probably call the police.”

“But I’ve got nothing to tell them.”

“They’ll want to know she’s still around.”

“But I don’t want to betray her. You don’t think she did it, do you?”

“I don’t know. You know her better than I do.”

“Not really. I just gave her a roof to sleep under.”

“It’s up to you.”

“They might put a tap on my line or something, and trace her if she calls again.”

“They might.”

“Listen, forget we had this conversation, all right?”

“What conversation?”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know if I hear anything more.”

I hung up and went downstairs to check on Andy. He was sound asleep in bed, with Elwy curled up in the crook of his knees. I closed the door, then went back to my study. I was sitting there staring at the wall half an hour later when Andy called up the stairs to me.

“What’s a guy got to do to get fed around here?”

“Cook,” I muttered under my breath and got up from my desk.

“What do you feel like?” I asked. “Keeping in mind my culinary limitations.”

“It’s kind of hot. One of your loaded salads would be nice.”

“I can handle that.”

“I’ll open some wine. White or red?”

“I think rosé. Set the table in the garden, and I’ll see what we’ve got in the fridge.”

I’m good at salads. That’s one of the few things I do better than Andy. It took just a few minutes to throw together several different kinds of leaves, with fresh basil and nasturtiums from the garden, some crisp bacon, old cheddar, Greek olives, onions, cucumber, cherry tomatoes, and a nice mustardy vinaigrette. I also put a loaf of French bread in the oven to crisp up. Andy, in the meantime, had set the table.

The smell of honeysuckle hung in the heavy, oppressive heat. We sat opposite one another at the round table, sweating.

“We could go inside and turn on the AC,” Andy said.

“No, I like this. I feel like poor white trash on the bayou. It’s kind of exotic.”

“Erotic?”

“God, no, too sweaty. Skin on skin is a revolting thought right now.”

“Just as well,” he said, wistfully. Pathetically.

I was trying to think of something reassuring to say without being condescending, when I was saved by the sound of a basketball being dribbled up the walkway beside the house. T.C. appeared with a wet bandanna tied around his head and his limbs slick with sweat.

“Yo,” he said.

“Hey, T.C., what’ve you been up to?”

“Just shooting some hoops with the guys. Over at the park.”

He leaned over and turned on the hose, then drank water from it. Elwy jumped down from his chair and waddled over to lap at the puddle on the ground.

“Anything new on the guy in the lane?” T.C. asked.

“Not a thing,” I said. “How are Tamara and Stacey? Have they got over the shock?”

“I guess so,” he said. “Stacey’s mum is a little freaked out. Wants to take her to a shrink. But Stacey’s cool.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Andy said. “It might be a good idea to talk to someone.”

T.C. shrugged.

“It’s not like we don’t see worse things every day on TV.”

The screen door to Sally’s apartment squeaked open.

“You are full of it, T.C. Parkes. What about the nightmares you had last night?”

“Aw, Mum. Don’t be telling everybody.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Andy said. “I’ve been having some myself.”

“Yeah?”

“Every night lately. It’s how your mind helps you deal with stuff when you won’t let it think about it when you’re awake.”

“See, my macho young son? Maybe you’ll listen to Andy if you won’t listen to me.”

I pulled the wine bottle out of the ice bucket and held it up to Sally.

“Join us?”

“Well, I didn’t want to disturb your romantic supper for two, but seeing as how my son has done it for me, sure. Let me just get a glass.”

“Can you bring me something cool, too?” T.C. called after her, flopping down into a chair. He began playing with the basketball, trying to spin it on his index finger, with little success.

“Are you going to be ready to shoot some soon?” he asked Andy.

“I think I’d have some trouble with the slam-dunk, but I’ll let you know when I’m in shape.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“I didn’t know you played.”

“A lot goes on that you don’t know about when you’re on the road,” he said. “I used to play in high school. I was a star. A short star, mind you, but a star nonetheless.”

“And now you’re playing with these big boys behind my back. How does he do, T.C.?”

“Not too shabby.”

“Old age and treachery still manage to overcome youth and skill,” Andy said. “How about pouring some more of that wine?”

The heat broke with a spectacular thunderstorm which woke us in the middle of the night, sent Elwy cowering under the bed, and inspired Andy and me to some fireworks of our own on top of it. We fell asleep happy and relieved at about three, which meant that I was still in my bathrobe, making breakfast, when Stimac and Flanagan showed up at the door at ten. I offered them bacon and eggs, but they settled for coffee.

“I’m sorry.” Stimac said. “I assumed you’d be up by now.”

Feeling the reproach, I shrugged the apology off.

“I usually would be.” I said. “Things are a little irregular around here right now. Sit down, please.”

I filled two mugs and brought them to the table. Stimac wasted no time getting to the point.

“We have some information about the dead man found in your lane on Friday.” he said. “We hope that you can tell us something about him or his connection to the woman you know as Maggie.”

Andy came into the kitchen from the back hall, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, with his feet bare.

“Morning, Walt, Bob,” he said.

The two men stood up quickly, almost embarrassed, to shake his hand.

“Good to see you up and around,” Stimac said. “Sorry to be bothering you.”

“No bother,” he said. “Do you want to talk to Kate alone?”

“No, not at all,” Stimac said, “I’d like your input.”

Andy joined them at the table while I drained the bacon, scrambled the eggs, and put slices of rye bread in the toaster.

“Go ahead,” I said. “I can listen while I’m doing this.”

Stimac took out his notebook.

“The victim’s name was John Edgar Carlson of Milwaukee, Wisconsin,” he read. “He was president of Carlson Consolidated Fittings. Age fifty-eight. Does it mean anything to you?”

I brought the plates and put them down at our places, then went to the cupboard for jam and Andy’s hot sauce.

“How did you identify him?” I asked, fiddling with salt and pepper, stalling.

“We were informed that his son was concerned about his whereabouts and called him in Milwaukee. He told us he hadn’t heard from his father for several days. This was unusual, evidently. We then checked Carlson’s room at the King Edward Hotel, and found his belongings undisturbed. The housekeeping staff has seen no sign of his having been there since Tuesday.”

“The son flew up yesterday afternoon and identified him,” Flanagan added. “He brought dental records with him.”

I kept on eating, listening. Then I realized that the three of them were looking at me.

“Well, Kate?” Andy said. “Does anything here ring a bell.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maggie used to live in Milwaukee.”

“The wealthy part of town, I understand,” Stimac said.

“I think her husband was rich. What kind of business was this guy in?”

“Plumbing fixtures.”

“I can’t remember if she ever said what he did, but I know he was in some kind of boring business. It fits. If he was nosing around, it’s no wonder she took off.”

While Bob Flanagan took notes, I told them about Maggie. I talked about her fear of her husband and about what little I knew about her life in Toronto. As we talked, I felt as if I were tightening a noose around Maggie’s neck.

When we were done, Flanagan closed his notebook and the two detectives stood up to thank us.

“Now it’s just a matter of finding the wife,” Stimac said.

“Where will you look? She could be anywhere by now.”

“Especially with the head start you gave her by not telling me all this when I talked to you two days ago,” Flanagan carped.

“Two days ago I didn’t know the body had anything to do with her, Detective Sergeant Flanagan,” I said. “Give me a break. It’s not my fault if you guys can’t do your job.”

Andy looked sharply at me. I ignored him.

“Where will you look?” I asked Stimac, again.

“We’ve got the contacts on the street. If she’s still in the city, we’ll find her.”

They were heading towards the door.

“In the meantime, if you see or hear from her, let us know. You have my number.”

“Good luck,” Andy said.

“Goodbye,” I said.

When they left, I went back to the kitchen. Andy followed.

“You’re allowed to be wrong occasionally,” he said gently. “It’s nothing to get bent out of shape about.”

“I was so sure she was innocent,” I said.

“Doesn’t look too likely right now.”

“Innocent until proven guilty, isn’t that how it goes?”

“Yes, Kate, that’s how it goes. I’m not forgetting that. But you have to admit she’s a good suspect.”

“Maybe you’re right. I just hate to think she could have done that.”

He crossed the room and put his arms around me.

“Or you hate to admit she conned you.”

“No, she didn’t,” I said. “She just told me her story truthfully. I filled in all the gaps with illusion. I conned myself. Want some more toast?”

“No, I’m done. I’m just going to read the paper in the living room.”

“Don’t start the puzzle without me,” I said. “I have to make a couple of phone calls.”

“Did you answer that ad, by the way?” he asked. “You didn’t tell Walt about it. How come?”

“I forgot,” I said. “I left a message, but no one called me. For obvious reasons, I guess. It’s irrelevant now, anyway. I’ll call and tell him later.”

But my first call was to Tanya.

“News flash. The mystery corpse is Maggie’s husband.”

“Wow.”

“The police are currently looking very hard for her.”

“Shit. Do you think she did it?”

“I don’t know any more. But anyway, there’s no point in finding out any more about the ad. We know who placed it.”

“What about who answered it? You still want that?”

“You’ve got it?”

“It wasn’t hard to get the guy to tell me. He’s one of those pocket-protector people who cares more about his DOS than his dick. All I had to do was ask a couple of innocent questions about how the system works. Now I could put out the paper by myself, damn near. Anyway, I cracked the vault and got your messages. There are three, aside from you.

I grabbed a notebook and pad and wrote down the names and phone numbers: Jackie Thomas, Spiro Karagiannis, and someone called Hoss. The latter two were neighbourhood exchanges.

I thanked Tanya and called the first number. Jackie Thomas turned out to be a rather spacey woman who was pretty sure she knew where Mary Alice was, but, like, could I tell her what she looks like? A dead end.

At the second number, a woman who spoke very little English shouted that Spiro was at work. After a few confusing minutes, I determined that he worked at something called Argos. Not the football team. She gave me a number. A woman’s voice answered.

“Argosy Restaurant.”

I asked for Spiro, and she said he wasn’t in yet. I realized while talking to her that the Argosy was the greasy spoon I’d been in on Friday. Spiro, then, was the bad-tempered cook. I didn’t leave a message.

The mysterious Hoss remained just that. When I dialled the number, the gruff-sounding man that answered identified himself as AA Adult Video and said Hoss hadn’t been around in a while.

“But he left this number on a message. He might have some information worth a good deal of money,” I tried.

“Didn’t tell me nothing about it,” the guy said. “Call back tomorrow.”

Then he hung up. I phoned him again and left my name and number, not optimistic it would ever get to this Hoss guy.

On the way downstairs to shower, I remembered that Moira Bell, at SisterLink, had mentioned a man with a video store who helped the homeless. I decided to pay the man on the telephone a visit.