The Suspect (2 page)

There is only one major road, a two-lane highway that follows the coastline for eighty miles and then ends.
 
In the summer the area is clogged with tourists, even though it is not a quickly accessible place. Getting there depends upon ferry schedules, and once you've arrived, traversing the coastline takes time because the narrow highway is winding and hilly.

The tempo of life on the Sunshine Coast is markedly slower than that of Vancouver, and its people, for the most part strung out along the shoreline, have a more direct and personal interest in the sea.

The coastal forests are tall and thick with undergrowth, but they come gently down to the water and are sometimes met there by wide, curving beaches. The land cleared for gardens is fertile, and the things growing there tempt wild creatures from the woods. In the sea there are salmon, and oysters, and clams; there are also otters, and thousands of gulls, and cormorants. There are Indian legends, and tales of smugglers, and the stories of the pioneers.

The resident police force is the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, with detachments in Gibsons and Sechelt. There are traffic accidents to deal with, and occasional vandalism, and petty theft, and some drunkenness now and then.

There is very seldom a murder.
 

CHAPTER 3

George waited for his tea to steep, and as he waited he struggled with an image which thrust itself at him again and again: Carlyle's corpse, rotting, little by little, while somewhere nearby a raucous green bird slowly starved to death in its cage.

It was ridiculous, he knew that. Nobody could rot, undisturbed, in his own house; not in Sechelt. People paid too much attention to one another, in Sechelt.

But what if, just this once, they didn't? He couldn't dislodge this possibility from his mind.

George contemplated his situation with profound reluctance. It was early June, and the Sunshine Coast was dry and warm. It didn't seem unreasonable to wait until the sky clouded over before going off to jail. This was probably the last dry sunny spell he'd know as a free man. He had no delusions on that score. He knew they'd catch up with him sooner or later. He had begun to hope, though, that he might first enjoy another season in his garden.

He poured his tea and lowered himself into his leather chair and addressed himself to the problem of Carlyle's pet. He had seen very little of Carlyle in the last while and as little as possible before that. But Sechelt was a small place and he hadn't been able to avoid him entirely. Therefore he knew all about the bird. Its name was Tom, and Carlyle had doted on it. Since it had made no sound, neither word nor squawk, during George's time inside the house, its cage must have been covered; this, he had been told, was the only way to shut the bird up. And since George hadn't noticed a cloth-covered cage while he was there, Carlyle must have had the creature stashed away in another room. But the damn bird would be there somewhere, all right, and although George disliked parrots, that seemed a poor reason for letting it die for lack of food. It wouldn't die, he told himself firmly, sipping his tea. Someone was bound to find Carlyle soon. Maybe he had an appointment with somebody that very afternoon. When he didn't show up, he'd be checked on, all right. Somebody was always checking on you, once you got into your eighties. And you often couldn't tell from their voices or their faces whether they were relieved or disappointed to find you still alive. He knew this from his visits to the old folks in the hospital.

How long could a parrot live without having its food and water replenished? he wondered. Carlyle might have filled up its dishes the minute before George arrived. Or he might not. It might be time for its next meal right now. Surely it wasn't stupid enough to remain silent through hunger and thirst, just because a cloth blocked its view of the world outside its cage.

George stared out the window toward his garden and the sea and concentrated. He'd have to go back there, unless he was willing to let the damn parrot die. He'd have to remove the cover from the cage and sneak away, hoping the bird's shrill cries would penetrate the walls of the house, and the laurel hedge, and catch the ears of the couple who lived closest to Carlyle.

Even if he added water and food to the cage himself, assuming he could find whatever it was the damned bird ate, he'd still have to rely eventually on the parrot's making its condition known to the neighbors. And if it didn't, then when the Mounties finally showed up they'd find one dead man and one dead bird.

After a while he got up and phoned Carlyle's house, hoping to find that the police were already there, but nobody answered. For a moment he almost expected Carlyle, dead, to pick up the phone, and laugh at him, or wheeze curses into his ear. The phone rang and rang and he imagined Carlyle's open eyes focusing, his battered head lifting, his limp white hands flexing, pushing his body to its knees; George could almost hear his breathing begin again, and the grunting sounds he would make as he dragged himself off the rug onto the bare wood floor and crawled toward the kitchen, heading for the telephone to complete their interrupted conversation.

He hung up abruptly. Eighteen rings, and no answer.

There was, of course, another alternative. He could go back to Carlyle's house and pretend to find the body. This would involve lying to the police, which he hadn't intended to do, but it was stupid to balk at lying when he'd just done murder. He didn't think his eventual punishment would be any more severe if he concealed as long as possible the fact that he'd committed the crime.

Finding the body seemed the most sensible way out of his dilemma.

He would have to put off his nap for an hour or so.

All for the sake of a smelly, mangy, pop-eyed parrot he was going back there.

George went into the bedroom and stuffed his blood-marked sweater and his handkerchief, which he had left lying on the floor, into a green plastic garbage bag, dumped his kitchen garbage on top of it, and closed the bag with a twist tie. He went into the bathroom to scrub is hands and comb his hair. He put on another V-necked cardigan, a gray one, and rubbed a brush over his shoes, which had gotten dusty on the walk to and from Carlyle's house. He washed out his teapot and his cup and saucer and dried them and put them away. Then he looked at his big, round gold wristwatch.

"Two o'clock," he said aloud. "I think I'll wander down to the library, maybe stop in on old Carlyle on the way.” This rang false, but he persevered. He picked up two books that were lying on the footstool in the kitchen, pushed the garbage bag out onto the front porch, left the house, and locked the door behind him. He put the garbage bag out in front of his gate, ready for collection, and set off down the road, along the gravel shoulder, making an effort to lift his weary legs so as not to shuffle. The sun was warm on his sweatered back, and his hand was soon sweaty on the library books he carried. He liked the sun very much.

As he went along he kept an eye on the traffic but saw no car he recognized. There were already a lot of out-of-province license plates, tourists looking hard for God knew what. George tried to keep his shoulders back and his knees high. He walked into Sechelt whenever he could, a mile there and a mile back, because the exercise was good for him. He took his car only when the weather was bad. It was in the garage this week anyway, getting its clutch repaired.

He came to the laurel hedge, and then the gate, and went through and down the gravel path to Carlyle's front door. He was full of admiration for himself as he rapped on the door and stood back, attempting a wavery whistle as he waited for Carlyle. Passed up a hell of a career on the stage, I did, he thought, glancing casually through the kitchen window as if to spot Carlyle in there.

He simulated annoyance as he waited, and still nobody came to the door. He was lapsing naturally into his role as crotchety old man, a role he found came in handy, now and then.
 
George stopped whistling and banged again on the door, harder this time. No response. He hesitated on the broad front steps, between the geraniums. He started back up the path toward the gate in the hedge, stopped, turned around, retraced his steps, and followed the path around to the back of the house, where he peered into the small yard there, and onto the rocky beach, but saw nobody. He went back to the front steps, and knocked again, and then tried the door, which was unlocked.

"Carlyle," he called out irritably, but there was no reply, and he didn't hear anything from the parrot, either.

He went down the shadowed hall, calling, and emerged into the brilliance of the sun-flooded living room. It looks just the same, he thought, as when I was last here, and he blinked rapidly against the sunlight, and then he saw Carlyle's body sprawled on the braided rug next to the rocking chair. George cried out and flung up his hands. The library books flew to the floor. His heart made a commotion in his chest.

He couldn't move. "Carlyle!" he said. "Carlyle, what the hell's the matter with you?" But Carlyle didn't stir.

(He told himself he was carrying this much too far. Did he think there were Mounties hidden behind the door, for Christ's sake? But he wasn't acting at all, any more.)

"Carlyle," he said again, angry. "What are you doing down there? Get up, man, for God's sake." He shuffled toward him and got close enough to see the open empty eyes and the dark red puddle on the rug in which Carlyle's head was resting.

"Oh, Christ, he's dead; the man's dead, all right," said George. There was some relief in this. At least he wouldn't be called upon to try to administer first aid, about which he knew virtually nothing.

(He was appalled at himself; on whom was he practicing these inane deceptions?)

He stumbled backward into the hall, turned, and blundered toward the kitchen, his hands trying to grip the wall. He grabbed the telephone and attempted to dial, but he couldn't get his fingers to work. He put down the receiver and clung to the sink, looking out the kitchen window at the lawn that swept gently up to the laurel hedge. He took several deep breaths, then dialed again. He couldn't remember the emergency number so he dialed the operator. She didn't seem to mind and connected him quickly with the police.

"My name is George Wilcox," he said. "I live about a mile south of Sechelt. I came here to see—he's eighty-five—he's dead. On 'his floor, dead.”

"Who's dead, Mr. Wilcox?"

"Carlyle. He lives halfway along the road between my house and the village. Burke, his name is. Was. Behind a laurel hedge." His teeth were chattering. He had to get outside and stand in the sun.

"Are you sure he's dead, Mr. Wilcox? Do you want an ambulance?”

"What? What? His head's bashed in, man, am I sure he's dead? This is no natural causes you've got here, somebody's bashed the man's head in!"

They took some information and asked him to wait there, and he did. But he couldn't go back into the living room and sit around near the body. He went outside, but the front yard was partly in shade now and his teeth were still clattering in his mouth.

When the police arrived about ten minutes later, two of them, they found him in Carlyle's small back yard, hunched over on a bench, his hands between his knees, looking out at the sea.

"It was too cold in there," he said when he saw them. One of them sat down next to him. "We're going to have a few questions, Mr. Wilcox," he said, quite gently. "If you don't mind.”

"Don't mind at all," said George. "Not a bit."
 

CHAPTER 4

Karl Alberg was attacking his back yard with a pair of hedge clippers. All pretensions to cultivation, to horticulture, had been abandoned. It had come down to simple assault, of the armed variety.

He hadn't intended this. He had bought a book, just the day before, determined to do it right. He had rejected several he'd seen in the Sechelt bookstore; they had titles like
The Art of Pruning and Pruning for Bigger and Better Blooms
. Then, on a rack in a Gibsons grocery store, he saw exactly what he needed. It had lots of photographs and explanatory drawings, it was written in simple language, and it was bracketed by
All About Meatloaf
and
How to Knit
. Alberg took heart from this. He himself made an excellent meatloaf and had been taught how to knit when he was eight, by his taciturn grandfather, an Ontario farmer. So he bought the book, which was called
All About Pruning
. Last night he'd sat in his living room with his feet up, a glass of scotch at his elbow, and studied. He went to bed confident that by the end of the next day, which he had off this week, his yard would be tamed.

He should have known better. It was amazing how naive a forty-four-year-old man could be.

Poking among the rose canes in search of "outward-facing nodes," he managed only to get his hands and face and arms seared with scratches.

Peering into the massive hydrangea bushes looking for the "main branches," he only succeeded in making the bees angry. Climbing clumsily, saw in hand, up into the cherry tree was all to no avail because once in the middle of the tree he could no longer see the skyward-shooting "water sprouts" he was up there to eliminate.

He decided to hire somebody to look after the trees. But he was damned if he was going to let the rest of the yard defeat him. So from a pile of rusty tools in the unused garage at the bottom of the yard he hauled out a pair of hedge clippers, oiled them, and attempted to sharpen them, and then, weapon in hand, he charged the foliage which he was convinced endangered the structural stability of his small house.

He had begun this Tuesday in a state of calm. It was one of his good days. He knew right away that he wasn't going to spend any of it brooding over his mistakes or considering his loneliness.

Clad in cutoffs, a short-sleeved T-shirt and sneakers, he had stood before his bedroom mirror and not been displeased with what he saw. He was tall and broad enough, he decided, that the extra ten pounds didn't really show. Nor did the gray in his blond hair. He pulled in his stomach and turned sideways to the full-length mirror; not bad. He let himself sag and looked again. Not good. He tightened his muscles and pounded his diaphragm with a fist. Hard as a rock, he told himself. But there was no doubt about it, he was definitely getting thick and somewhat flabby around the waist. He would have to start working out again.