The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (33 page)

Of course
three jam-packed international flights all landed within five minutes of each other, and the line ups ahead of me looked daunting. No sooner had I stepped off the escalators than a woman in uniform approached me.

I could feel my aching shoulders hunch as she asked, “Are you Professor Cait Morgan?”

“Yes,” I answered hesitantly.

“Could I see your
ID
, please?” she asked politely.

I grappled with my handbag and finally managed to pull out my passport and my customs declaration form. She scrutinized both. Then she gave me a warm smile and said, “I'll hang onto these. Follow me, please. Can I give you a hand with that bag?”

I thanked her, then tried to keep up as she strode toward the “special line”—you know, the one for flight crews and people with those passes. She walked me to the front of the line, handed my documents to the officer in the booth, and that was it. I was through. It was like a little miracle!

“I'll come with you to collect your bags,” she said. She pulled out a luggage cart and we waited for my suitcase to plop out onto the carousel.

“Umm . . . who are you, exactly?” I asked.

“I'm attached to the security services at the airport,” she said. She was just stating the facts.

“I see,” I said, even though I didn't. “Well . . . umm . . . although I'm very glad to have your help, of course, what have
I
done to deserve such special treatment?” I was puzzled.

“We were alerted to your arrival and told you needed some extra help,” she said, smiling pleasantly.

“The airline alerted you?” I asked.

“No.
VPD
. They'll be waiting for you outside.”

Ah. I was to be met by someone from the Vancouver Police Department. Initially, I wondered if I was to be arrested on sight at Moreau's bidding. Then I realized that couldn't be the case because if it was, the
RCMP
would be running me in. It must be something else. I didn't say any more. I thought it best not to.

My suitcase finally arrived—last off, of course—and my “helper”—I'll call her that, because “minder” sounds too menacing—placed it carefully onto the cart. She walked with me through the double doors that led into the arrivals hall. “You'll be alright from here?” she asked.

“I guess so.” I wasn't in handcuffs yet, so that was a good sign.

“Bye then,” she said cheerily, and she waved as she disappeared back into the baggage claim area.

I started to push the cart as best I could with one hand toward the exit. I didn't get very far before I was approached by two policemen in uniform.

“Professor Cait Morgan?”

I nodded. I was ready to surrender peacefully.

“Please come with us. We'll take that.” One man pushed the cart and they escorted me to the main exit. Heads were turning. I must have been quite a sight. I was tired, and I was hungry, and I just wanted to get home. It seemed as though that might never happen.

Outside, to the left of the main exit, we headed toward a big black Suburban with tinted windows—like the ones the
FBI
uses. My heart sank. So many things were running through my head, but none of them made sense. Then the driver's door of the
SUV
opened, and out stepped Bud.

I had never, ever, been so happy to see someone in my entire life.

Of course, I immediately started to cry.
Idiot.
Relief. Sadness. Happiness. Tiredness. Pain medications. Everything hit at once.

“Bud!” I hobbled as fast as I could. He was smiling. Can you believe it—actually smiling! “Oh Bud . . . I'm so sorry . . . you poor thing . . . oh God, poor Jan . . .” I was blubbing so much that the hug I'd planned became him handing me a wad of paper tissues as he helped me into the passenger seat and got me buckled in. The two policemen tossed my stuff into the back of the truck. Bud thanked them, and a lot of back-slapping followed. Finally, he got in beside me and we were off.

“Home, I guess?” he asked.

I was rubbing my nose with a tissue as I answered. “Yes please. Home would be perfect.”

We sat in silence as we moved slowly out of the airport. I had no idea what to say.

“You're quiet,” said Bud, once we were out on the open road.

“I don't know what to say. Except, thank you for getting me through the airport so fast—I assume that was your doing?” He nodded. “And thank you for helping to save my life in Nice.”

“You're welcome,” he replied. “I'm assuming you'd do the same for me.”

“Well, of course I would, but how could I . . . ever?”

“You never know, Cait. You never know.”

“Well,
whatever
I can do to help. You know you've only got to ask.” I meant it. “Oh Bud . . . I'm so sorry for you. Jan was just wonderful. I'm
so
sorry. So
sorry
. And I know you might not want to talk about, but I've got to ask . . . what happened? Are you able to tell me? Can you talk about it?”

Bud sighed.

“It looks like they thought she was me, Cait. The guy thought he was killing me.” His voice was full of anguish.

“What do you mean? How could anyone think Jan was you?” I didn't understand at all—Bud's about five-ten and stocky, whereas Jan was about my height, and, unlike me, she was slim. It seemed impossible that anyone could mistake Jan for Bud.

“She was in my truck, wearing my big wet-weather jacket and hat. She was just a shape to him. It seems that the gangs had
ID
'd my vehicle a while back, and when this bastard saw it, he decided he'd be a ‘hero' and take me out. But it wasn't me—it was Jan, ready to take Marty for a walk in the pounding rain.”

I took a moment to let it sink in. I'd thought it couldn't be any worse for Bud, that losing Jan was as bad as it could get. Now I realized he'd have to live with the knowledge that he'd been the target. Poor Bud.

When I spoke next it wasn't about Jan, or Bud. I couldn't ask him to talk any more about that. “What about poor Marty? Is he doing okay?”

Bud smiled wryly. “The little guy's a hero, you know? He got a part of his ear shot off trying to grab the gun. Dumb dog. Anyway, the vet said it's a tough place for a wound to heal, but that he should be fine, in time. They operated to removed a bit more of the ear flap, just to make it less ragged, but they want to keep him in for one more day, just to make sure there's no infection. He's got a giant bandage on what's left of his ear and the biggest ‘cone' you've ever seen—apparently he's an expert at pawing! He looks pathetic, and he's playing it for all he's worth.”

I could imagine! I suspected that Marty would be getting lots of treats for a while to come. “Aww, I'm glad he'll be alright. He's a grand dog. Nuts, of course, but hey . . . look at his owners, right?”

Oh bugger! Oh damn! What had I said?! I could have kicked myself.

Bud must have seen the look of horror on my face.

“Hey—don't let it worry you,” he said, kindly. “Even
I
keep saying ‘we.' It'll happen. For a while I guess. I know people don't mean it, and I don't want them to feel bad about it. You shouldn't. I know what you meant.”

“Thanks, Bud. I'm such an idiot.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “you certainly can be.” He smiled.

“Again, thanks!” I dared a smile myself. “By the way,” I added (I wondered if I could get myself out of the hole I'd been digging), “I know it might not help, but I'm glad you got the guys who did it.”

“It helps a lot,” replied Bud flatly. “You know I'm not the vengeful type, but I'm glad we've got the bastards,
and
with enough evidence that the judge won't be able to let them get away with it. We did everything by the book. Airtight case.”

“Good for you, Bud.”

Silence followed.

“The service is next week,” said Bud. “Christ Church Cathedral, Downtown. Ten o'clock on Monday.”

I almost said,
All the bells and whistles
, but I managed to stop myself in time.

“All the bells and whistles,” said Bud. “She'd have hated it.”

“Yep.” I knew she would have. Jan disliked it if anyone made a fuss about her.

“So why there?” I asked.

“So many people want to attend, I don't have much choice. She had a lot of friends. Belonged to so many groups. They all want to say goodbye. And I have no right to say they can't. So it'll be a big do. Hundreds of people I've never met. Food afterward. It'll be a nightmare. I'm dreading it.”

“But
you'll
have a lot of friends there too, Bud.” I looked at his stern profile. He was concentrating intently on the road ahead. He looked older than when I'd last seen him. I guessed I looked a bit different, too.

“No. Not friends, Cait. I have colleagues. That's it.” There was an edge to Bud's voice, a hardness I'd only ever heard when he'd been questioning suspects. “I didn't need anyone but Jan. And she . . . well, she used all that time we weren't together—those long days when I was at work catching bad guys, ‘making a difference'—she used that time to build her own support network. I'm sure they're all great people. And I know they'll all want to support
me
now . . . but I'm just not that type, Cait. But, hey, I don't need to tell
you
that. We're neither of us the ‘group' type, right?”

I, too, turned my attention to the road ahead, fresh tears streaming down my cheeks. Bud was right—I was the sort of person who never liked to join a group or hang out with a bunch of people. It just wasn't my sort of thing.

What he said deeply saddened me. I'd always thought of Bud as a friend. Apparently, he didn't think of me in the same way at all. I was just a colleague. It came as a shock.

The silence between us had felt comfortable, but it suddenly felt more tense.

At least, it did to me.

I wiped away my tears and told myself I was being stupid and selfish. That if I cared at all about Bud then I should think about
his
needs, not my own, and that, at this time, if ever, I should be as supportive a “colleague” as I could be for him.

We didn't talk again until we pulled up in front of my little house. I was so pleased to be there at last. Bud switched off the ignition and got out of the truck.

“Hang on a minute,” he said, as I tried to reach my seat buckle. “I'll come and get that for you. Just stop wriggling. Give me a moment.”

I sat still and he unbuckled me and helped me find my house key. He insisted I take his arm as we walked along the little pathway to my front door. He opened the door and threw it wide so I could enter, then he brought in my suitcase.

“Where do you want this?”

“Oh, just dump it there,” I said, pointing at the floor in front of me. “I'll sort it out a bit at a time, then I'll just shove it in a corner until I can dump it in the basement.”

“Okay,” he replied, laying it on the floor with a look on his face that said, “On your own head be it.”

And there we stood. Two colleagues with a battered suitcase on the floor between them.

“Thanks, Bud. I really appreciate all your help. I'll be just fine now. You get off. I guess you must have lots to do.”

“Not really,” he said. “What will you do about food? Have you got anything in?”

I suddenly thought about all the stuff that had probably gone off my fridge during the past week. I'd rushed to the airport so fast I'd forgotten to clear out the perishables before I'd left.

“I'll order a pizza,” I said. I laughed aloud. I couldn't help myself.

“What's so funny?” asked Bud.

“Oh . . . it's a long story, Bud, and it's really not important—or even funny, really. It's just that the idea of ordering pizza . . . well . . . it involves fancy restaurants in the south of France delivering posh meals to the homes of women who can't even manage to boil an egg for themselves.” It sounded so stupid, saying it aloud. How very far away the Townsends' balcony seemed: not just on a different continent, but in a different world. “Hey . . . it's not important. There's no need for you to hang about here with me. I
can
dial with one hand, you know, and I'll be all unpacked and tucking into a large, thin-crust pepperoni before you know it.”

“With extra cheese?” asked Bud, smiling.

“How well you know me!” I replied. “With the hundreds of pizzas that have fuelled your investigations over the years, you must know
all
your colleagues' favorites, eh?”

A strange look clouded Bud's face. He looked hurt. Wounded. He scratched his head. His wedding band glinted in the lamplight.

“Cait, when I said in the truck that I only have colleagues . . . ?” I nodded. “I didn't mean
you
, Cait.
You're
a friend. You
know
that, right?”

I felt tears welling up inside me.

“Well . . .” I hesitated, “I've always thought of
you
as a friend, but . . .”

“Oh, come on, Cait! Jan always said that you and I were like male and female versions of the same person. How could we
not
be friends? We each know what the other one is thinking, and feeling, don't we?” I nodded. “We have our differences too. I guess that's why we get on. Jan never saw that—she could only see how similar we were, not how different.” He seemed to lose himself in remembrance for a fleeting moment, then said, “So yes, I really only have colleagues because . . . well, that's just
me
. But you're a
friend
Cait Morgan. And don't you forget it.”

I shook my head. “Never.”

“Good. I'm glad we got that sorted out. So, shall I order, while you get yourself organized?” he asked.