The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (11 page)

They had loved their place since the moment they'd first seen it, right on the riverfront, with great walks for the three of them on the doorstep, as well as a fantastic view of the “Mighty Fraser River,” as Monty Python once famously put it. And at night, you could see the lights of the city beyond. It provided Bud with a relatively short commute to Downtown Vancouver—where his new office was based. I knew that he'd accepted his new job as “Head Gangbuster” on the basis that it was likely to offer slightly more regular hours than his last position. When you head up a murder investigation team, you know that murder won't wait; it has to be dealt with whatever the hour. Longer term investigations into gang affiliations and drug routes can, apparently, be managed more within what the rest of the working world thinks of as “normal office hours.”

The phone rang for the fifth time before Jan's breathless voice answered.

“Yes—who is it?” she panted.

“Hi Jan, it's me, Cait. Sorry to bother you so early on a Saturday, but I guess Marty has you up and about already, eh?”

“Oh, you're not kidding! He's all over me right now to take him out. It should be Bud's turn, but he's off on some urgent call. My morning off has turned into an extra walk with Marty this week. Never mind. I'm meeting some friends down at Crescent Beach for coffee today, so I'll take Marty with me and he can have a long run on the sand. Then he can sleep while we girls catch up on all the gossip. I hope Bud took the car and left the truck for me. Marty prefers the truck—more space for him in the back seats than in the car.”

Jan always referred to herself as a “girl.” Her friends too. To be fair, she's only six years older than me, so she's not “old,” but I'd run into her and her “girlfriends” in Kitsilano once, and had been delighted to find that Jan was the baby of the group, at fifty-four, and the oldest “girl” was approaching seventy! Mind you, they were a fit bunch; they only sat and chatted for a “coffee and a gossip” after walking about three miles.

“So Bud's gone already?” I was disappointed. I could have called earlier, after all.

“Yes, long gone, but he's driving out to Chilliwack, so he'll be on the road for a while yet. You could call him on his cell. It's him you're after, I guess?”

I only knew Jan because she was Bud's wife, but I liked her a great deal. I'm a natural loner, so I shy away from any sorts of gatherings that I don't
absolutely
have to attend. To be honest, the idea of spending time with a bunch of women, the way Jan does, fills me with horror. So, even though Jan and I always got along really well, we hadn't really clicked. No reflection on her. Just me. We both knew it. The only time I ever called was to talk to Bud. I hadn't anything to talk to Jan
about
except Bud, his work, my work . . . oh, and Marty. He and I seemed to have struck up a friendship on first meeting, and it was tough to resist his unquestioning enthusiasm and affection. Especially since he didn't require me to engage in conversation!

“Yes, you're right—it's Bud I was looking for. I'll try his cell. Thanks, Jan—talk soon . . .”

“Well, aren't you coming next week?” she asked.

I wracked my brain. Next week? What was happening next week? I paused as I thought. She noticed and jumped in.

“Next Saturday—a week today—it's Bud's get together at the old office. Remember? They're doing it now because they couldn't do it when he left because of that big case on the Downtown Eastside, then MacMillan was off on leave for a month, then Bud was off on that big ‘fact-finding' thing . . . So it's next Saturday. Terminal City Club. Six-thirty for seven. You will be there, right? You said you would, and it'll be great to catch up . . . It's been an age since I saw you, Cait. You haven't forgotten, right?”

“No, Jan, I haven't forgotten, and I'll do my best to be there. It's just that, well, I'm a bit stuck at the moment . . .” I
had
forgotten. What to say? What not to say? “I'll do my best. But I can't leave Nice right now.”

“What? Did you say ‘Nice'?” Jan sounded puzzled. Not surprising.

“Well, that's what I want to talk to Bud about. You see, the university sent me to Nice to present a sick colleague's research paper at a criminology symposium, and I ran into an old boss of mine and ended up being at a birthday party he was giving, where he died. I think we were
all
poisoned, and now I'm a suspect in a murder case. Oh, and an ancient Druid necklace has been stolen . . . and there's this really gorgeous Italian professor who's the director of the Roman museum here who took me out to lunch, but then the museum was burgled . . .” It all sounded a bit far-fetched when I put it that way.

“Oh, Cait my dear, this could only happen to you, eh? That house party in Kelowna last year where you were snowed in with the dead body of that romance novelist? Now this! Only
you
could go to the south of France and get caught up in a murder. I can quite see that you'd want to talk to Bud—so you do that, and I'll take Marty out for a quick pee . . . he'll give me no peace until he's relieved himself and had his food, then we can get ourselves ready and set off for a good long beachy walk! Tell Bud I'll call him when I'm on my way back from Crescent Beach. Maybe by then he'll have some idea of how long he'll be out in the wilds of Chilli-wack-wack-wack.”

“Chilli-wack-wack-wack?” I was puzzled.

“Yeah—they call it that because of all the ‘whacking' that goes on out there—a lot of killings this past year, Bud says. More than usual. Seems it's working its way out into the Valley from Abbotsford and Mission. I don't know, Cait, the world is changing so fast. Now that Bud's working on this gang stuff . . . well . . . it
feels
different . . . I don't know how to explain it . . . It used to be he'd come home and talk about some terrible murders—but they weren't like the stuff he's working on now.”

“How d'you mean?”

“Well, it's real sad when someone is murdered, of course, but so often he would be dealing with a killing resulting from a fight that got out of hand, or a crime of passion, or something that happened in the heat of the moment. This gang stuff . . . It's all so businesslike . . . so planned. I know you guys haven't been working on it together, because I guess they don't need a victimologist when they know exactly who the victim was and why they were killed—they usually know exactly who's done it too. That's the other thing, Cait. I know the hours are better, and there's more opportunity for us to plan time for ourselves and be more of a couple, but he's getting so frustrated. Already! He's only been at it two minutes, but already he can't cope with how tough it is to pin anything on these guys. He just keeps pushing and pushing. In fact, I think that's where he's gone now: they've been watching some group out in the Valley that's up to its ears in marijuana grow-ops and guns, so it sounds like they might be about to swoop. But there, I'm the last to know. Typical that they'd decide to do it first thing on a Saturday morning!”

Lovely though it was to talk to Jan, I really wanted to get hold of Bud.

“Yeah, bummer, Jan. He'll probably be home soon so you guys can have a nice walk later on with Marty, then
G&T
s to watch the sun go down—”

“Sun? Sun? Oh, of course, you're not here! The weather here is pretty grim. It might be early May but you'd think it was November. Still, Marty and I can move at quite a pace, so we'll wrap up warm and march on. Go on now, call Bud. And take care of yourself. I know you're bright Cait, but you sure do know how to get yourself into some trouble! Oh—and watch out for that Italian. Yes, I heard what you said, and I'm guessing he's gorgeous . . . So watch that heart of yours, madam—take it right off your sleeve and pop it into an inside pocket, where it's safe. Make sure you're back for Bud's party. It wouldn't be the same without you. Bye . . . Marty's got his leash in his mouth—I am about to be taken for a walk!” And she was gone.

I looked around and could see that Beni was still closely engaged with the policeman. Jan and I had only spoken for a few moments, so I still had ample time to call Bud, which I did immediately.

“Hello Cait—how are you? And what are you doing up at this hour?” was his jovial reply. He was clearly using the speakerphone in his car.

“I'm not there. I'm in Nice. South of France. It's gone three in the afternoon here. How are you?” I thought I'd get the pleasantries done with before I blurted out my sorry tale.

“I'm good, thanks Cait. Did you speak to Jan?”

“Yep. She told me where you were. On your way to Chilliwack, I hear.”

“Yeah. I'm about half an hour away. So we can chat. Haven't seen you in a while, Cait. I miss working with you, you know.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“No. Seriously, I do. You can be fun to have around. Pleasant change from the usual lot. You see things so differently. Sadly, we know only too well what we're going to face in this gig. I'm afraid that all those ‘consultancy fees' are a thing of the past, my Deario.” I liked it when he called me his “Deario”: it made me sound like a small child, and him like my grandfather . . . though, like Jan, he was in fact only six years my senior. “If you're in France and you're calling
me
, I'm guessing you're in some sort of trouble that Uncle Bud might be able to help with—would that be right?”

I took a deep breath, then began to relate the events of the last couple of days. Briefly. But with all the necessary details. It took a little while, but it went quicker because Bud didn't interrupt. “So there you have it. The archive might have gone, the necklace might have gone, Alistair has
definitely
gone, and I am most definitely
not
going anywhere!”

“You know, I don't think we should let you out on your own,” were Bud's first words.

“Thanks, Bud. I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I replied sullenly.

“Okay, so there are a few things I might be able to help with,” he added. “I can certainly call the lead detective, Moreau, as one cop to another, and fill him in about you. They shouldn't be allowed to think of you as a real suspect, because it'll take their efforts away from finding the real perp. So that'll help them, and it'll help you . . .”

“Oh no, Bud—please don't do that . . .”

“Yes—I
will
do that, Cait, and, given that my French is a whole lot better than yours, I'll be able to do it directly on the phone with the guy himself—so when we're done, you call me back immediately and leave a message with his number, 'cause I can't write it down while I'm driving—right?”

I capitulated. He was right. “Yes, I will. Of course, you're right, Bud. Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Next, I can give you my opinion about what you've told me.”

“Great. Thanks, Bud. So what do you think?”

“It'll come as no surprise to you that I think that you
were
all poisoned at the party, and that
that
means whoever did it either gave Alistair an extra dose of the poison, or was sure that the same amount for all would affect Alistair more—so you need to find out if he was on any medications, what else he ate or drank that day, where and when, and if the stuff in his system was stronger than what was in your system. Hopefully, when I've spoken to him, the captain guy will take you into his confidence.”

“Well . . . he didn't seem to be a particularly
warm
character, Bud,” I added hesitantly.

“Look, Cait—and don't take this personally—I know how defensive you can get—”

“I do
not
get defensive, Bud!” As I heard myself whine, I knew I was proving his point for him. Bugger!

“Hmmmm . . . well,
whatever
you might bleat at me, my Deario, you must realize that the cop was looking at you as a possible murderer. He doesn't know you from a hole in the ground, and you're the only character on the scene who arrived, out of the blue, on the day the Townsend guy shows up dead. You have to admit, the optics are bad. See it from his point of view. Who else is in the frame? An old couple—”

“No, Madelaine and Gerard are not a
couple
 . . . most definitely
not
a couple,” I interjected. I didn't want Bud getting the wrong impression.

“Okay, then—in this case the immediate suspects are an old man and an old woman, neither of them overly mobile and, presumably, they're well known in the area and they've had many chances before to kill Alistair. The dead man's wife—who you've painted as a dotty airhead, who may or may not have the wits about her to be an honest to goodness gold-digger. There's a world famous American author, who fawned on the dead man. Oh, and just one more pillar of the community—the director of the local museum! Not very promising as a list of suspects when running against a criminology professor who hated the victim and is visiting town on the very weekend when he drops dead, eh?”

“Oh Bud . . . don't put it like that.”

“No Cait,
I'm
not putting it like that—but I am guessing that that's just how that captain saw it. Like I say—I'll talk to him about you, then we can get on with thinking about the others. You know what you should do?”

“I don't know—do my ‘thing' on Alistair?”

“If by that you mean work up a victim profile on your old boss, then, yes, that's what I mean. I know you knew him once, Cait, but things might have changed.”

“I doubt it . . .” I mumbled.

“Cait—don't do it! Don't let your judgmentalism cloud your objectivity. You have to find out about Townsend as he was, there, in Nice, now. Unless you think it's something from his earlier life come back to haunt him?”