Good Year For Murder (6 page)

Mac moved in as Tretheway suggested. For the first few days, there was almost a party atmosphere, but as Dominion Day approached, there was little anyone could do to change the nervous, expectant mood of the house.

On Saturday evening, the usual card game took place, but with a forced gaiety and banter. There was a second table made up of two young, off-duty policemen, a dour philosophy major and a visiting cheerleader from Toronto U. In the kitchen, two former students (now in RFYLI uniforms) and their dates popped corn. The radio played selections from “Your Hit Parade”. Everyone was louder than usual, but Tretheway had the feeling that the house had seen happier times.

Sunday, the last day of the month, began as a day as rare as a day in June. Cottonball clouds scudded across a brazen-blue sky pushed by a refreshing west wind that rustled the leaves of maples and oaks and blew the dust from evergreens. The humidity was low, the temperature was seventy-five and, if the Master Plan could be forgotten for a moment, the day sparkled ahead.

Tretheway, Jake and Fred walked the trails of Coote's Paradise every Sunday afternoon, rain, snow or shine. Fred was a black female Labrador borrowed from a neighbour by Tretheway for these walks. She had been mistakenly named Fred by the neighbour's young son when she was a puppy. The parents couldn't think of any way to change the dog's name to something more suitable, like Frieda or Mary, without hurting the boy's feelings, so Fred it remained. This didn't bother Tretheway since he considered all dogs male anyway and cats female. Today, O. Pitts and MacCulla rounded out the group.

“You know, Boss,” Jake said, “we could have a dog of our own.”

“You should,” Mac said.

“Why?” Tretheway didn't pause in his stride. They were walking in a loose group through the open University property that bordered Coote's Paradise. “Give me one bloody good reason.”

“Companionship, loyalty, protection,” Jake suggested.

“Always a friendly greeting when you get home,” MacCulla aided the cause. “Fun and enjoyment. Chase a ball or stick.”

“St. Francis said …” O. Pitts began.

“I have enough companions,” Tretheway interrupted. “Loyalty I get from the traffic division. I don't need protection. Everybody is reasonably friendly to me when I come home. I have fun and enjoyment playing cards and drinking beer. And, up until today, I haven't thought about chasing a stick or ball.”

They slid automatically into single file behind Tretheway at the start of the first trail, helpfully marked “Caleb's Walk” by the Royal Botanical Garden Society.

Tretheway wore an old pair of shiny, navy blue uniform pants and a very large, handsome sweatshirt. He had several of these sweatshirts—some presented to him, some ordered specially by Tretheway himself—in various colours, each with a different crest or motif on the front. This particular one was grey with a small official crest and the words “BUFFALO POLICE GAMES, 1928” emblazoned across the chest. Tretheway crashed aggressively through overhanging trees and stagnant puddles while carefully side-stepping wild flowers and skunk cabbage. Jake followed nervously, arms outstretched to protect himself against the constant backlash of branches from Tretheway's passage. MacCulla strolled, as though in downtown Fort York, in his three-piece business suit. His only concession to nature was a pair of rubbers over his polished brogues. And finally, O. Pitts, very tall, very thin, bobbed up and down and glided over the path in a manner he considered suitably dignified for a potential Baptist minister.

The trail widened and the file regrouped as a disorderly bunch again. They spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying the woods. Mac pointed out various species of trees and bushes, demonstrating unexpected knowledge, and gave an impromptu discourse on the properties of local mushrooms. Jake talked knowingly about Baltimore orioles, tanagers, wild canaries and, at one point,
actually spotted, through the overhead lacework of branches, a peregrine falcon high in the sky, slowly circling, soaring gracefully, waiting for a blue jay or water fowl to attract its attention. And Tretheway, to no one's surprise, identified over fifty flowers, ferns, and vines flourishing in the ravine. His success with flowers, including transplanted wild ones, was evidenced every year by the changing display of colour in his own garden. O. Pitts said he saw a deer but nobody believed him.

At different times, they made high, whistling noises with broad leaves on their tongues, chewed on long blades of grass, sniffed the heady, pungent odour that comes from a crumpled sassafrass leaf and threw sticks for the dog, which Fred chased tirelessly even into the marshy waters of Coote's Paradise. The small group made an easy full circle to the end of Princess Point. They walked up the grooved toboggan slides, over the lush green playing fields, back to the residential section and eventually, the Tretheway house. The day was still fresh for late afternoon. They prolonged their pleasure by sitting on the back porch overlooking part of the ravine. Even Fred stayed.

“Isn't tomorrow Dominion Day?” O. Pitts asked. No one answered. “I think it is. Isn't tomorrow the first? Shouldn't Fred go home?”

For over two hours nobody had thought of murder.

That night, only Controller MacCulla got a good night's sleep. Tretheway commented on this later, at about three in the morning. Everyone had gone to bed around midnight, the official start of Dominion Day, except Tretheway and Jake. They stayed up to check locks on doors and windows and make a final outside inspection. Tretheway checked the garage while Jake walked around the house.

“Everything okay, Jake?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I thought I heard voices.”

“That could've been me.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Fred.”

“What?”

“She's round the back. Sleeps out next door.”

“We're out here in the dark looking for a killer and you're talking to a dog?”

“I'm sorry.”

Tretheway shook his head.

The night matched the rarity of the June day. Crickets and the occasional owl could be heard above the nocturnal rustling of the leaves. The moon darted in and around the same clouds that had played tag with the sun during the day. Heavy dew carpeted the grass.

Tretheway crunched along the gravel driveway to the front of the house. Jake followed. Once inside, Tretheway divulged the plans for the night. “We'll take turns watching. I'll go first.”

“I can go first,” Jake said. “I'm not sleepy.”

“No, no. It's about twelve now. I'll wake you at three.”

“Right.” Jake trundled off to bed.

At three in the morning, the two of them stood, in the glow of the upstairs hall night light, peering into MacCulla's bedroom.

“You'd think,” Tretheway said, “he could at least toss and turn a bit.”

“He looks awful peaceful.” Jake rubbed the sleep from his eye. “Is he okay?”

“Can't you hear him?”

The two listened to the deep, contented snoring of the Controller.

“I'm glad someone can sleep,” Jake said.

“A policeman's lot, Jake.” Tretheway bent over and picked up three empty beer bottles. “Keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“See you at six.” Tretheway went to his quarters.

From six to eight, they both alternately dozed and watched over the slumbering Controller. At eight-thirty, Mac awoke, bright and wide-eyed, eager to face the social activities and events of the holiday.

“Let's go, men,” he beamed. “Lots to do today.”

They breakfasted well, especially MacCulla. Thick porridge cooked by Addie winter and summer, coddled eggs with chives and mushrooms, back bacon and sausages, racks of toast and soft butter or marmalade and strong tea made up the usual menu. Wartime food rationing was in the future.

They discussed procedure in the driveway while they stood beside Jake's car. Tretheway and Jake were in clean dress uniforms; MacCulla sported a natty black pinstripe suit with matching vest.

“Dammit, Jake,” Tretheway said, “you should've brought the cruiser home.”

“I never thought.”

“Why can't I sit in the back?” MacCulla asked.

“Too exposed.” Tretheway wrenched open the rumble seat of the ‘33 Pontiac. “Help me up.”

They guided Tretheway up the rear fender steps as well as they could. He stepped into the well, stood poised for a moment on the springy cushion of the seat, then slid helplessly over the worn leather into the small aperture until his girth was wedged against the front and back. His feet almost reached the floor.

“Okay, Boss?”

“Take the back streets.”

Jake and Mac climbed into the front seat of the convertible and
unbuttoned the rear window. All they could see was Tretheway's middle.

“Comfortable?” Mac asked.

“Get going.”

Jake managed to bypass the main parade route by taking the back streets but he couldn't avoid some early spectators. They stared and the bolder ones shouted unkind remarks at the red-faced Inspector jammed halfway into the rumble seat.

At the police garage, Jake discovered that on the bumpy ride from the west end to downtown, Tretheway had become wedged even more firmly into the opening. It was only with the aid of two muscular mechanics that Tretheway regained his freedom. They squatted, one on each rear fender, and hooked their forearms under Tretheway's armpits.

“Sir, this might hurt a little.”

“Pull!”

The mechanics pushed themselves slowly upright with the strong muscles of their legs. Tretheway, inhaling drastically, groaned as he slid gradually, rather than popped as everyone expected, out from under the skin of the Pontiac like some bothersome sliver.

“Jake.” Tretheway straightened his uniform. “I don't want this to happen again.”

“Yes, Sir.”

On the way over to City Hall, Tretheway sat in his regular police car seat beside Jake. MacCulla sat in the back.

In observance of the 73rd milestone in Canada's Confederation, picnics were popular, the Dominion Handicap was run at the Fort York Jockey Club, and golf courses were open, but the main event was a parade. It was military in character.

The Royal Fort York Light Infantry Bugle Band, the RFYLI Brass Band, the RFY Artillary Band, the HMCS (stationary) Drum Corp., the STELFY Pipe Band, an Air Force Trumpet Band, various Boy Scout and Sea Cadet Bands and the RFY Ladies' Auxiliary Fifes livened the procession with the overlapping cacophony that makes up a parade.

Jake parked the cruiser beside a hydrant and the three of them walked the short distance to the City Hall. All the politicians insisted on taking the salute. This meant a crowded reviewing stand. Originally, their bodyguards were to be with them, but when it was discovered that the crew who had designed and built
the temporary stand over the steep City Hall concrete steps was the same crew responsible for the disastrous Council chamber platform, the police were stationed instead in a protective ring around the structure.

The parade lasted almost two hours. There were two high spots for City Council—at least for MacCulla and Bartholomew Gum. Both their Scout troops were in the parade. Gum's came first; the 42nd Westdale Scout Troop with the older boys marching smartly in unison, Scout hats all at the same rakish angle, the younger ones out of step, trying not to smile at their leader on the podium. It was much the same in Mac's 2nd Fort York Sea Scout Troop, right behind Gum's. The first two pairs marched precisely, older boys again, chins in, chest out, bell-bottoms snapping in the breeze, white lanyards made whiter by the background of navy blue turtle-necks, while the younger Scouts who followed tried unsuccessfully to imitate them.

“Look at those two,” Tretheway said, staring up at the reviewing stand.

Jake swiveled his head to watch both Mac and Gum, hands over hearts, eyes sparkling, their puffed pride for a moment overshadowing their rivalry.

“Like mother ducks,” Jake said.

“Or peacocks,” Tretheway said.

Near the end of the parade, even F. McKnight Wakeley was tired of saluting the endless line of colour parties. The police remained vigilant throughout and the politicians, huddled together on the high stand, were apprehensive at first, but gained confidence with each passing platoon when nothing happened. And nothing did.

After a quick lunch of cold coffee and sandwiches inside the hall, the complete entourage boarded a large bus (policemen standing) and, bracketed by two lorries filled with unarmed militia, drove to the Fort York Civic Stadium for a martial demonstration of calisthenics, close-order drill, mock battles (with eye-stinging smoke screen), marching songs, motorcycle stunts and Highland dancing. After three hours of such entertainment all the bands that were in the parade joined en masse in a deafening, but by this time blessed, finale. The bus then took the company to the Fort York Armory, where a stand-up cocktail hour that stretched into more like two, preceded a stand-up buffet.

The cavernous, high-ceilinged interior of the armory echoed with the conversation of the politicians and their invited guests, a smattering of civil servants, some federal and provincial MPs, Fort York's leading businessmen, newsmen, and, of course, the ubiquitous policemen—hats under their arms and their hands free of drinks. On the balcony that circled three sides of the enclosure, the soldiers from the two lorries stood, evenly spaced, in the at-ease position. The RFYLI Brass Band played Sousa marches in three-quarter time, but few people danced.

Conversation swelled with the cocktails, dropped slightly during the meal and speeches, picked up again with the after-dinner liqueurs and built steadily through the evening with the general opening of the bars and the kegs of draught beer. A few more couples danced, but most just visited. None of the politicians left. However, some stood out more than others.