Death of a Sunday Writer (18 page)

Mary seemed to have stopped, and Lucy nudged her deliberately in the wrong direction to get some information. “So Johnny and Dennis are partners?”

“No bloody way. Dennis works for Johnny. He's Johnny's employee. And in case you're wondering, I
don't
work here. I teach school in Uxbridge. Today, and on other days like this, I just make myself agreeable.”

“To all of Johnny's women?”

“Ah, yes, well, you heard that, did you? Sorry. But some of the people Johnny brings up mistake me for the housekeeper. I'm not. No, no, let me finish. This is
Johnny's house, which means he's the proprietor, but it's our house to live in, and this is my kitchen. It goes with Dennis's job. But Johnny likes to come here to spend time, a couple of days, usually, so he built his living room on and fixed up another little kitchen and a second bathroom so he wouldn't be squeezing us when he came. He did most of it himself. We use his sitting room sometimes when he's not here, but we're pretty comfortable without it. I'm nearly finished. We don't share. When they come back from seeing that horse, I expect Johnny will take you into Uxbridge for dinner. There's a little freezer in your kitchen with some frozen dinners in it if you want, and I've put some bread and milk and eggs and bacon in the fridge so you can cook breakfast. If you want to make a salad, you can take what you want from the garden out back. There's dressing in the fridge. I think that's everything. Now I have to run. We've got company for dinner.”

Lucy sat looking at the manicured landscape, thinking, Johnny's latest, that's what I am. I ought to be a lot thinner than this, surely. With blonde streaks. He probably likes a change, though. That's me. Johnny's latest. Latest what? Girl-friend? (The second in three years?) Piece of strudel? (The third this month?) Tart, then? No. Somewhere in-between? Probably. Lucy tried out all the variables and came up with one that suited her. I'm Johnny's latest attempt to find the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with. How about that? And what was he to her? Her latest? It wasn't even grammatical, if he was only the second. But, he
was
her latest — latest in the sense of the most recent attempt by her to discover what the world had to offer.

She heard a car door slam, voices, steps, and Johnny padded into the room in his socks. “Me boots are dirty,” he said. “Pour me a large scotch with an equal amount of tap-water and I'll put some dry shoes on and take you out to dinner.”

After dinner, they came home and played Scrabble until she felt the inside of her head tip over and he laughed at her and sent her up to bed while he finished reading something. She tried to stay awake in case he wanted her at the end of the chapter, but she never heard him come up. The next morning, when she opened her eyes, he was already awake with his hands behind his head. He kissed her interrogatively and she responded affirmatively.

Afterwards, she thought, I can't cook, I'm no house-and-gardens person, I can't play the piano, or sing, and I don't know anything about horses. What does he see in me? She said, “Where do I stand? I need to know.”

He didn't pretend to be puzzled, to take time to understand her question. “I brought you up here to ask you the same thing,” he said.

But the initiative was hers, and she hung on to it. “I'm your latest,” she said. “I know that. Latest what, though?”

“Who said that?”

“Latest what?” she repeated, sitting up.

He sat up beside her. “Not the latest. The last, I hope.”

“What does that mean? No soft soap, now.”

“I'd like to keep you. For good.”

“Me move in with you, you mean?”

“That's it.”

“Why?” It was nearly a cry.

“Christ. Where shall I start? Okay, I like the feel of you.”

“You mean like, just now?”

“That's it. But now, too.” He ran his hand across the bottom of her back. “And I like the look of you, too.”

“Ah, come on.”

He lay down again. “All of you is in your face. Most people walk around with a mask on, but you don't. There's more going on in your face than I've seen on anyone for years. And you make me laugh. So, there it is. Seeing you makes me smile, and hearing you makes me laugh. How's that? Will you stay? If so, I'll make some breakfast. Whenever you're ready.”

He scrambled some eggs for them both and then told her to amuse herself for an hour while he went for a ride. She went up to the bedroom to watch him through the window as he and Mary cantered around the field behind the house, while Dennis watched and shouted remarks. For lunch he proposed they drive to Stouffville, where he knew of a pub, but she offered to fix them some grilled cheese sandwiches, which he said were his favourites, so that afterwards she could ask him to teach her to ride, unless he thought she was too old, or too fat. She did like horses, and wasn't afraid of them.

Johnny said, “Well, that's a start. What size are your feet?” When she told him he disappeared into the back of the house and returned with a pair of ankle boots and a hard hat. “Who owned these? Your last-but-one? Or do you keep a supply, like spare toothbrushes,” she still wanted to say, but she kept quiet for long enough for him to tell her they belonged to Mary, and they went out to the barn where Dennis helped him saddle a pair of horses.

She was glad the one intended for her looked old and sleepy, if rather big. Dennis showed her how to mount, and she wobbled forth, knees clenched, the rest of her swaying, trying to find a point of balance. Mary came running from her kitchen and busied herself tightening buckles and adjusting stirrups, and the two riders walked their horses around the field.

Johnny kept them out for an hour, talking at her all the time, and, at the end, she could make her horse start and stop and trot. When they came in, Dennis showed her how to dismount and caught her when she found her legs were paralysed. When she was steady, she started to walk to the door and Johnny called out, “Where are you going?”

“Leave her now,” Mary called from the door of the barn.

“I'll do it.”

“She should do it herself,” Johnny said.

“I'll do it,” Lucy said. “If I can. What is it?”

Then Mary showed her how to unsaddle the horse, and remove the bridle, how to brush it down, to clean its feet and put it in the loose box. All of which left Lucy exhausted, aching, stinking of horse, and very pleased with herself. She could do this. The feeling persisted. Even after a shower and a drink, she still could not remember feeling more pleased with herself.

Tse poked his head round the door. “Busy, Lucy?”

Lucy picked up a sheet of paper, headed
Case
# 2 —
The Johnborough missing person.
“Lots of work,” she said. “Some more, anyway.” Turned back. “Thanks, Peter.”

Tse took the hint and left. Lucy looked around the room for something to do and decided to have another go at retrieving Trimble's diary.

She remembered Tse saying, “I fink he would've written it down, like he would his bank machine number.” Where? When? When he bought the computer, when he would've read the handbook and found out the way to keep a file secret.

She moved awkwardly to the file cabinet, her thighs still aching, drew out Trimble's folder of income tax receipts, and emptied it on to her desk. There it was. The receipt. May tenth. So, on May tenth, eleventh, or twelfth, or somewhere in the next few days, he wrote down the code word. Where? What would he have been
looking at when he set it up? The manual. But did he set it up himself?

She walked over to Tse's office and asked the landlord. He tried to think. “He worked at it all day when it came. Then, wait a minute, he got someone to come in and show him. Why?”

“Just wondered.” She returned to her office and now found it almost immediately. A sheet of computer paper, taped to the wall above the machine on which were the elementary instructions for switching on the software. She had looked at it a dozen times a day without reading beyond the first line, being familiar with the instructions.

“Switch on both,” it began.

The screen and drive, Lucy thought.

“Wait for dee-dee-dee-. Type ‘cd\wp50' and ‘Enter.'”

“Now type ‘wp,' then ‘Enter.'”

“Wait for it, then press ‘F5' twice. Roll down the light to the file. Press ‘1.'”

“Don't forget to save.”

Then in pencil, was written, “for Diary use Bank machine access #.”

“That's it,” Lucy shouted. She pulled open the desk drawer and found the wallet, tore it apart to get the slip of paper in the secret compartment. Then, she turned to the machine and ran through the ponderous instructions, arriving at the highlighted 'Diary,' then typed ‘6205' and ‘Enter.'

The screen sprang to life.

“Old smarty-pants,” Lucy said.

“You or Dave?” Tse, who had appeared behind her, said.

“Both.”

“What's it say?”

The diary began,
Nina's had her hair dyed. Suits her. I love watching her put on lipstick. I don't think she uses any other make-up. What scent does she use? Is there such a thing as cucumber scent? Cool and green? There should be for her.

There were several pages of this, all about Nina, all of it adoring, without being distasteful. It ended,
She's away today. I called her office when she didn't appear. She might be sick.
Then,

She's back. Looks a little tired but still...
The text broke off and something else started.

Fearful of how her cousin's fantasies might develop, Lucy switched off the machine.

“What are you doing?” Tse demanded, furious at having his reading interrupted.

“It's a diary. Private.”

“But you're going to read it!”

“I'm his cousin. In the family. Now leave me alone.”

“That's not fair!”

“I know. But that's the way it is. Off you go now.”

When Tse had gone, Lucy locked the door and switched the machine back on, finding her way to the diary, and settled down for a good read. But, three pages later, the story of Nina ended, still adoring but still without raising a blush.

The diary material was followed by a cryptic entry:

June 1: MacGovern said today Sly Peek should be good for the seventh. Nolan says he can get the drugs.

June 2: Comstock says Desk Lamp will run. Find out who's on Sly Peek. Get him to strangle it until Desk Lamp appears. Pay him odds to 500 on Desk Lamp.

June 3: No good. MacGovern worried. Getting Billy Woodhouse up on Sly Peek. Have to use Mac himself. Tell the boys he's betting against himself on Desk Lamp. When Cowan hears that he won't lay off.

June 4: Comstock says we can't risk bringing Mac in. He talks. Pay him off after.

June 5: Got the drugs. Green for fast, red for slow. Nolan wants to be sure, so he'll do the injections himself. Beautiful. Already switched the labels. Mac worried. Could lose license. But Nolan guarantees drugs undetectable. They're from Hong Kong.

June 7: We're on. 5000 on Sly Peek at track odds. Comstock supplied the money. Cowan took it because there was plenty of time to lay it off. His information was that Mac was betting on Desk Lamp.

(Later, same day) Cowan knows he's been had, but he'll pay up. He's got his reputation to consider. Bookies shouldn't gamble. Nolan is suspicious, but by the time he figures it out, I'll be gone. Told Mac the whole story and promised him 25Gs.

June 8. Cowan paid up. He's making enquiries, thouqh. Stewards were unhappy, it says. Comstock says he can handle the enquiry. 500 bills makes a nice little bundle.

Now the entries stopped and a new fantasy about Nina developed.

The significance of what she was reading sank in before she understood the whole story. Once more, literature had prepared her to recognise the pattern. All those stories hinging on the discovery of the real man behind the respectable mask — ranging from, at worst, the realisation that your dentist is the serial killer much sought after by the police, through incest, to the less horrible but more interesting discovery that you are only one of your husband's several wives, raising only some of his children.

This discovery belonged at the more alarming end of the spectrum. At the very least, Johnny was a swindler. Lucy tried to rationalise it away by telling herself that in his world swindling was the norm, but she stuck at the point of all the honest people who had bet on Desk Lamp that day.

Worse, akin to the discovery of the rotting corpse in the basement, was the possibility that he was a thief, involved in robbing her cousin after Trimble had collected from the bookmaker. She also forced herself to consider that Comstock was an actor in Trimble's death, and decided it made no sense at all. She knew there was no violence in Comstock, never mind the rest. If Trimble's death was not natural, it was much more likely that an injured party was involved. There was no reason for Johnny to attack her cousin, and if he was a thief, it was only because Trimble had died.

Swindler and thief were enough, though. Now what? She was in love with a no-good. It was possible that Johnny could explain, but the presence of all the names — Johnny's, Cowan's, McGovern's, Nolan's — gave the account a terrifying authenticity. And if he was a swindler and a thief, he was also an accomplished liar. Before she confronted him, if she ever did, she would need to make herself an expert on the case.

The obvious person to consult was Peter Tse, but some delicate desire to protect her dead cousin's name, at this stage, anyway, made her want to keep the problem to herself, to try and make sense of it on her own.

It was easy enough to make a start. Every item in the entry was dated, leading up to the day that the bet was placed, the day of the race. It took her an hour to drive to Metro Library, borrow the
Toronto Star
for June 8th, photocopy the results of the day's races at Woodbine and return to her office and lock the door.