The Cardinal Divide (39 page)

Anne Stanton was twenty-two years old, a recent graduate with a degree in political science, and a poster child for the modern urban environmentalist. She wore her brown hair long and tied back in a pony tail, and wore black calf-length lululemon yoga pants and a matching shirt. She smiled when she greeted Cole and Peggy and welcomed them into the apartment. “I could have met you downtown,” she said, “and saved you the trip to the 'burbs.”

“We don't mind, Anne,” said Peggy. “We're trying to stop in on everybody that was at last week's strategy session.”

“Nice place,” Cole said, looking at a print on the wall of a bull elk in rut.

“Thanks. I'm just subletting it for the summer,” said Anne, looking at the print.

“Are you staying in Oracle after that?” asked Cole.

“We'll see about work,” she said. “I might also head back to Edmonton to continue my Master's degree.”

Cole moved around the apartment. It was sparsely furnished, with a couch and two overstuffed chairs in the living room facing the fireplace. There was no
TV
. Wildlife prints hung on the wall, most by local or amateur artists, Cole guessed. There was a
cabinet of china in the dining room, along with some trophies for sporting events: curling, hockey, and skeet shooting.

“Who are you subletting the place from?” Cole called to Anne, who was in the kitchen making tea.

“Oh, a friend of mine from school. His family owns this place. They come out at Christmas. Otherwise it's mostly empty.”

Funny place to have a Christmas retreat, through Cole. No skiing. No accounting for taste, though.

“So Anne, you know why we're here. We're trying to plot our course forward.”

They talked for half an hour and when Cole and Peggy left, waterlogged with too much herbal tea, they stood by their vehicles and talked.

“Now what?” asked Peggy.

“We wait. See what happens.”

“What did you think of Anne?”

“Idealistic,” said Cole. “Too much school, not enough world.”

Peggy smiled her agreement.

They parted ways. Peggy headed back to the farm and Cole drove downtown to find lunch and a bathroom to empty his bladder of herbal tea and think over the morning's conversations. There was something bothering him. Something that wasn't right. He couldn't put his finger on it. But it was there, in his brain. He needed more coffee to shake loose whatever it was that was needling him.

It was early afternoon when Cole parked the Toyota across the street from the Henderson residence. Next on his to-do list was to figure out if Hank Henderson had had the opportunity to kill Mike Barnes.

He sat in his truck for twenty minutes, working up the story he planned to give to Mrs. Henderson, if in fact she was home. He spent another ten minutes calculating how he would deal with Hank Henderson should he come home from work early. It was unlikely, but Cole wanted to have an escape plan etched clearly in his mind.

Cole grabbed his notebook, straightened himself as best he could, and examined his face in the Toyota's mirror. The cut on his chin was still covered with a bandage that Cole had forgotten to change that morning, and a little spot of blood showed through it. The wound on his cheek, now a week old, was healing, but the dark sutures still bristled, and had now begun to dig into the skin that they held fast. His eye was no longer discoloured from the beating in the bar, but both eyes were red and puffy from his night of drinking, and from his slumber on the barn floor. His hair was a curly mess. Really, he looked like someone who had just been released from prison, and he was not confident that anyone who answered the door at the Henderson residence would speak to him.

“What the hey,” he said. Cole stepped out of the truck and heard his joints pop and protest as he called his body into action. He walked across the road and up the steps to the neat 1950s side-split that the telephone book said was the residence of H. Henderson, the only Henderson in the book.

He rang the bell and forced a pleasant smile onto his grisly face.

The door opened and a diminutive woman looked out through the screen door. “Yes?” she said.

“Mrs. Henderson?”

“Yes, I'm Emma Henderson.”

“Ma'am, my name is Carey Blackstone. I'm with
Report on Business
magazine. I'm to meet Mr. Henderson here today.”

“Oh, he didn't say anything to me.”

“We were going to meet here and discuss a story I'm doing on
Oracle's economy, and the role that the mine plays in it. He didn't say anything to you?”

“No,” she said, and looked a little worried.

“May I come in to wait for him?”

“I should give him a call.”

“He's likely on his way home right now,” said Cole quickly.

“I'll try him on his cell.”

Cole held his breath. She closed the door and went to the kitchen to make the call. A minute later she came back.

“I couldn't reach him.”

“Well, maybe I'll just forget it,” said Cole calmly.

“Oh, no, Henry always keeps his word. He'll be here. Please, do come in.”

Cole stepped inside.

“Don't worry about your shoes, Mr. Blackstone. Here, come sit in the kitchen while we wait for Henry.”

“Thank you ma'am.”

They sat at the Formica-topped kitchen table. Emma Henderson offered Cole coffee or tea, neither of which he accepted. “Just water please,” he said.

She sat across from him.

“Have you lived here long?” he asked.

“Oh yes, both Henry and I were born in Oracle. And we've lived in this house all our married lives. Raised three children here, two boys and a girl.”

Cole looked around the room. It was the picture of a well-kept home. Counters bare and orderly. Floor scrubbed. The
CBC
played low from a radio in the corner.

On the wall across from the kitchen table was a portrait taken in the early 1970s. It was easy for Cole to tell the photo's age; no other time in history presented such easily distinguished fashion. The image looked to be a Sears Portrait Studio picture. It showed a younger Hank Henderson surrounded by his family. The two sons and the daughter, all pre-teens, smiling, the boys flanking a grinning Hank Henderson. The boys resting their hands on their father's shoulder. The girl with her hand on Emma Henderson's arm. A loving family. The image startled Cole. It was not the one he had of Hank Henderson in his mind.

“What did you say your story was about?” asked Emma Henderson.

“Well, with all the news about the Buffalo Anthracite Mine these days, we thought we might look past, well, the unfortunate events of the past couple weeks and try to understand what makes Oracle, and the mine, tick.”

Emma nodded.

“Your husband has been with the mine a long time?”

“Oh yes, he's been there for ...” She thought a moment. “For seventeen years now. He's been working his way up the ladder you know. He started on the shop floor at the mill here in town when he was just a young man, and now of course is the mine manager.”

“You must be very proud of him.”

“Oh my goodness, yes. He should have been manager long ago, but those fools in Toronto kept hiring men who didn't know the country, didn't know this town, and surely didn't know mining.”

“Mike Barnes included?”

She looked down. “I know it's not Christian to speak ill of the dead, and I feel terrible for his widow and their little children, but Mike Barnes was nothing but trouble. He played around, you know. Was having an affair with some blonde that he met at his hotel. Can you imagine?”

“It's hard to believe,” said Cole.

“It's shameful. My Henry is a family man. He runs the mine like it's his family. Those boys out there depend on him and he takes good care of them.”

“Was Mr. Henderson unhappy when Mr. Barnes got the manager position?”

“Oh, he was pretty disappointed. Like I said, he should have had that job five years ago. But he waited his turn, and when the last manager left a year ago, he was certain that the job would be his. When they hired that Barnes fellow, well, he was beside himself.” She looked away. Cole suspected that Hank Henderson had likely blown a gasket.

Well, he must be very happy now.”

“He never liked that man Barnes. Said that he was out to ruin the mine, ruin the town. It's sad what happened to him, but yes, I'd say that Henry is happy to be running things over there.”

“It's just temporary, isn't it?”

“We'll see,” said Emma.

“So his mood has been better since Mike Barnes was killed?”

“Oh my goodness, when you put it that way...” She drew in a quick breath.

“What I mean is, he's happy to be finally doing the job he wanted to?”

“Well, yes. He's happy to be helping the mine and the town.”

“Listen, Mrs. Henderson, I don't mean to pry, but is Mr. Henderson pretty dependable?”

“My Henry is the most dependable man you'll ever meet.”

“So he's usually on time for things.”

“Oh, yes. Should I try him on his cellphone again?”

“No, no. I'm just wondering what time he usually gets home from work. Maybe I got my wires crossed and he thinks that he isn't meeting me until then.”

“Henry comes home from work every night at six-thirty on the dot. You could set your clock by it.”

“No exceptions?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he doesn't go bowling on Tuesdays or play cards on Fridays?”

“My Henry is a family man, and even with the kids grown and gone, he still comes home to me every night at six-thirty.”

“Every night in the last two weeks?”

Emma Henderson looked at him closely. “What are you getting at, Mr. Blackstone?”

“Nothing at all. I'm thinking about profiling Mr. Henderson in my story and I'm just trying to learn more about his character.”

“Well, he's been home every night the last two weeks at sixthirty sharp,” she said. She sounded suspicious.

Cole stood up. “I think I must have mixed up the times. I'll call Mr. Henderson this evening after six-thirty and see about making arrangements to meet.”

“You could come for dinner if you wish. I'm sure Henry would love to chat. We're having pot roast tonight.”

“That's a lovely offer,” said Cole, imagining the look on Hank Henderson's face should he come home to find Cole seated at the dinner table. “But I think I'll leave you two to enjoy your dinner
and maybe catch up with him afterwards. Thank you for the chat, Mrs. Henderson. I enjoyed your company.”

“No trouble,” she said. She stood and wiped her hands on her apron, through they weren't wet. “I'll show you to the door.”

When he was back in his truck he let out a long, deep sigh of relief. Emma Henderson had painted Hank – Henry – Henderson as a model husband, father, community member, and businessman. But her own scorn for Mike Barnes was palpable, no doubt a pale reflection of her husband's contempt. And she had grown suspicious when he had queried her about Hank Henderson's arrival home each night over the last couple of weeks. If Henderson had been late on the night Barnes was killed, it seemed pretty unlikely Emma Henderson would give that information up.

Cole looked around the neat neighbourhood of post-World War II side-splits and back-splits. He was willing to bet that these folks kept an eye out for one another. He was willing to bet that they kept an eye
on
one another.

He knocked on six doors before he found someone home, and then the elderly man couldn't hear him when he spoke. The man fumbled with his hearing aid and yelled “What?” at the top of his lungs. Cole apologized and beat a hasty retreat. Maybe he wouldn't find anybody who knew the comings and goings of the neighbourhood after all.

But two houses down the street a woman in her fifties answered the door.

“Hello, ma'am. My name is Casey Blackstone. I work for Citadel Insurance. One of our clients had a fender bender and we're investigating the claim before we pay out. Could I ask you a couple of quick questions?”

The woman looked up and down the street. “I don't see why not.”

“Thank you. Do you know Henry and Emma Henderson?”

“Well, of course, they just live two doors up there.” She pointed a long finger toward the Henderson home.

“Well, it seems that Mr. Henderson's truck was rear-ended and suffered a little damage.”

“Oh, my goodness, I do hope Henry is
OK
. I didn't hear anything about this.”

“Oh, he's just fine. Not even a scratch. They build vehicles so
well these days,” said Cole. “But there was some damage to his bumper, and with these new plastic alloys they use nowadays, re-placing a bumper is very expensive. The accident was last Tuesday night, and I wonder if you remember Mr. Henderson's truck in the driveway that night, say after six-thirty or so?”

The woman thought about it for only a second and said, “You know, it's funny, but last Tuesday I noticed that Henry was late coming home. I mean, Mr. Henderson is always home for dinner. Emma is such a wonderful cook. But last Tuesday it was almost midnight before I saw the truck. I have such a terrible time falling asleep since my husband passed away, and so I was up watching a little television and was about to call Emma when I noticed the truck there.”

“Do you remember what time you noticed it?”

“Well, I checked at midnight just as
The Price is Right
was coming on. It was a rerun, but I hadn't seen it so I thought I'd watch. I love that Bob Barker fellow. I noticed that Henry wasn't there then. I checked again about half way through the episode. Someone had just won a brand new car, and it made me think to look again. And there he was. I felt relieved that he was home.”