The Dells (7 page)

Very little surprised Hannah Lewis anymore. She had learned early to take things in stride. But that afternoon, she'd been knocked for a loop when she'd realized that the tall, dark-haired man with the battered face and distant eyes was none other than Joe Shoe. She hadn't let it show, of course, but it hadn't been easy; she'd spent so much of her teens listening to her brother's endless bitching about how Shoe had stolen his wife and destroyed his career that she'd almost come to believe it herself.

Shoe had done neither, of course. Shortly after Ron's “accident,” and two months before her death, Sara had set Hannah straight, explaining that her marriage to Ron had ended long before she'd met Shoe because Ron had insisted that she choose between marriage and her career as a police officer. Likewise, it had been Ron who, in a jealous rage after discovering that Shoe and Sara were seeing each other, had gone after Shoe in the locker room with his nightstick. If Ron's injury and resulting forced retirement was anyone's fault, it was his own, not Shoe's.
Shoe had simply been defending himself. Moreover, had Shoe not told the division commander that he and Ron had been roughhousing and that Ron's injury had been an accident, for which Shoe had nevertheless received a reprimand, Ron would not have qualified for a disability pension.

“Most of Ron's troubles are of his own making,” Sara had told her. “Maybe one of these days he'll realize it.”

Hannah lucked into a parking space immediately in front of her three-storey row house in the Danforth, across from the old, scaffolding-encased Greek Orthodox church that was in its fifth year of restoration. She'd got the house in the divorce, otherwise she might not have been able to afford to live in the area. As it was, the upkeep and the taxes were slowly bleeding her dry. She loved her house, though, and the neighbourhood, even if parking seriously sucked.

As she locked up her ten-year-old Pathfinder, her cellphone began to ring. She swore when she saw the number on the call display, and pressed the button that sent the call directly to her voice mail. Florence De Franco had called at least twice a day for the past three days. Obviously, she'd weaselled Hannah's unlisted numbers out of her husband, who was a city councillor, as well as a member of the civilian Police Services Board. Dominic De Franco had denied giving Hannah's numbers to his wife, but there was no other way she could have got them.

Inside, the message light on her landline phone was blinking. She pressed the recall button and swore again. Her brother had called twice and Florence De Franco had called three times. Wearily, she accessed her voice mail. Both had left messages. She fast-forwarded and erased them all without listening to them. She knew what they were about.

In June, Councillor De Franco's wife had gone into Ron's copy and print shop to place an order for invitations to a charity event she was organizing. The day after the invitations had gone out, however, someone noticed that the date was wrong — August 12 had been transposed to read August 21. Ron was certain he'd used the date Mrs. De Franco had given him, but admitted it was possible he'd transposed the numbers when he'd filled out the order form. Either way, he offered to tear up the bill and mail out corrections at his own expense. Mrs. De Franco, however, would have none of it. She accused him of purposely trying to sabotage the event, claiming he'd made an indecent proposal, which she'd rebuffed, and that sabotaging the event was his way of getting back at her.

“It's crap,” Ron told Hannah. “She's not bad looking, but nothing to write home about.” As if it mattered.

Ron sent out the corrections, hoping it would end there. No such luck. A few days later, Mrs. De Franco filed a police report, alleging that Ron had vandalized her car and sprayed herbicide on her prize-winning roses. Likewise crap, apparently. The police couldn't find any damage to the car and the roses looked fine. According to a reporter friend of Ron's at the
Toronto Sun
, Mrs. De Franco had a history of making nutty allegations. She'd evidently accused mail carriers of reading her mail before delivering it, gas station attendants of making sexual advances by suggestively poking the pump nozzle into the gas filler, and her vet of injecting her dog with a drug that made it hump her leg. Her allegations against Ron were just more of the same. Now the woman was accusing Hannah of abusing her police powers to have her phone tapped and have her followed. Things were getting out of hand.

The doorbell rang.

“Christ, now what?” Hannah muttered as she went
to the door and peered through the peephole. “Shit,” she said when she saw her brother's balding pate shining under the porch light. She was briefly tempted to leave him standing there, but he must have been waiting nearby in his car for her to get home. She opened the door.

“You're working late,” he said.

“You know how it is,” she said, stepping back to let him in. She closed the door behind him. “What's up?”

“Haven't you listened to your messages?” He followed her into the living room.

“No.”

“The light on your phone isn't blinking. You erased them without listening to them, didn't you?”

She sighed. “C'mon, Ron. Gimme a break. It's been a long day.”

“You know what that crazy bitch says I did now?”

“No,” she said. “And I don't want to know.”

But Ron wasn't listening. “She says that I hired someone to hide in her closet, videotape her getting undressed for bed, and post the videos on the Internet. I've had it up to here with this crap. I'm going to get me a lawyer.”

“Save your money, Ron. The woman's obviously got psychiatric problems. No one takes her seriously. Just ignore her.”

“Hell with that. I did some poking around and found out she was diagnosed with a borderline personality disorder. Hah! Nothing borderline about it. Last year, when her husband claims she was on vacation in Mexico, she was locked up in the psych ward of Mount Sinai. Sleazebag's been covering for her for years. She's been busted for everything from shoplifting to public indecency. If she doesn't stop this crap, I'm going to send what I got to my buddy at the
Sun
.”

“Christ, you really are your own bloody worst enemy, aren't you?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“If you go dragging her psychiatric history through the muck, you're going to need that lawyer. Let it go.”

“You're afraid that if I make a stink it will wreck your chances of promotion.”

“That's not fair,” she said. But it wasn't entirely untrue. Being a cop, and a female cop at that, was tough enough without making enemies on the Police Services Board. “Have you eaten? I'm going to fix myself something.”

“I'm okay. Wouldn't turn down a beer, though.”

“Help yourself.” He did, and when they were seated at the table in her kitchen-cum-dining room, Ron with a beer and a can of dry roasted peanuts, Hannah with a salad and a glass of white wine — a big glass — she said, “You'll never guess who I saw today.”

“Okay, so tell me.”

“Joe Shoe.”

“No kidding. Where?”

“At his parents' house in Downsview.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Working a case.”

“Don't tell me he killed someone.”

“No. He's in town visiting his family. Last night a man who used to live in the neighbourhood was beaten to death in the woods behind his parents' house.”

“Bad timing. How is he?”

“I didn't recognize him at first. He's been living out west. Vancouver.”

“He still a cop?”

“No. He's some kind of corporate investigator. He looks like he's taken his share of lumps, though.”

“I hear the corporate world can be pretty dog eat dog. The vic …?”

“What about him?”

“Any leads?”

“Nothing much so far. Early days yet.”

“What was the name again?”

She smiled dryly. He smiled back. She hadn't mentioned the victim's name. She said, “Cartwright. Marvin Cartwright.”

“Cartwright?” Ron said.

“That's right. What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Sounds familiar, that's all.” Hannah finished her salad and poured herself another glass of wine. Ron refused a second beer.

“I'm driving,” he said. “Speaking of which, I should get going.” He stood. “If you see Shoe again, say hello for me, will you?”

“Sure,” Hannah said, walking him to the door.

“Tell him … ” Ron paused, seeming lost in thought for a moment. Hannah let him find his own way back. “Tell him, if he's got time, to drop by the shop. We'll go grab a beer or something, get caught up. Tell him … ” He hesitated, then said, “Tell him it'd be good to see him.”

“I will,” she said.

“Good,” he said. He kissed her quickly on the cheek and almost ran down the steps.

No, nothing much surprised her anymore.

“Goddamnit, Hal,” Maureen said, bracing herself against the dashboard as Hal braked suddenly. “What the hell is going on with you? And slow down, for god's sake. Or pull over and let me drive.” She immediately regretted the offer, hoped he wouldn't take her up on it; she'd had a couple of glasses of wine too many herself.

“I'm not drunk,” he snapped, mashing the horn button because the car in front of them had slowed to make a right turn without signalling.

“I didn't say you were drunk,” Maureen said with a sigh. Sometimes talking to Hal was like talking to a fiveyear-old. “I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you.”

“Nothing's bothering me,” he growled.

“Oh, for god's sake, Hal, it's obvious something is bothering you. What is it? Is it work? Is it me? Have I done something to piss you off?”

“What were you and my brother talking about?”

“He was telling me about Marvin Cartwright, the man who was killed in the woods.”

“I know who Marvin Cartwright was, for Christ's sake. What did he tell you?”

“He didn't get a chance to tell me very much at all before you came barging out and practically accused him of trying to fuck me. Frankly, it was bloody embarrassing.”

“Not half as embarrassing as watching you fawn all over him like he was some kind of rock star or something.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Hal, don't be ridiculous. I was not fawning all over him. I was just being polite. What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing's the matter with me,” he barked. “What's the matter with you? Look at you. You're a forty-fiveyear-old woman dressed like a goddamned teenager. You're practically falling out of that shirt. And it's so thin I can see your nipples right through it, for god's sake.”

“If I was dressed like a teenager, Hal, you'd see a lot more than my nipples. I'd have jeans so low I'd have to shave my pubic hair, tattoos, and a stud through my tongue. Maybe one in my clitoris, too. How's that, Hal? Maybe I should get a clitoral ring. I'm told it makes cunnilingus a lot more interesting.”

“That's disgusting.”

“What's disgusting, Hal, is that just because I'm forty-five you think I should dress like your mother.”

“What's wrong with the way my mother dresses?”

“Oh, for god's sake, Hal, it was just a figure of speech.”

Hal lapsed into a sullen silence. Did he really think she was interested in Shoe? Maureen wondered, staring out the passenger side window. Or, if she was, that she'd do anything about it? If she was honest with herself, and she tended to be, she'd be the first to admit that she found Shoe attractive. What was not to be attracted to? Well, lots, actually. He wasn't exactly handsome. His jaw
was crooked, his nose was bent, and there was something oddly asymmetrical about his cheekbones. In fact, he looked as though someone had taken a baseball bat to his face. But he seemed to be in great shape, didn't drink much, didn't smoke, and, most refreshing, did not litter his speech with profanity, whereas she had a vocabulary that would make Tony Soprano blush. He wasn't a prude. Swearing just wasn't a habit he'd acquired. She wondered what his views were on cunnilingus.

“What's funny?” Hal asked tartly.

“Eh?”

“You laughed.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Sorry.”

Poor Hal. He was as unlike his brother as a man could be. He was overweight, drank too much, smoked (although he didn't know she knew), swore, albeit not as much as she did, and seemed to think that oral sex of any variety was disgusting. A man who doesn't like fellatio, her friend Dinah had said to her once, was as rare as a duck that doesn't like water. “Not that I'm especially keen on it,” she'd added, “but I don't mind doing it if I know I can expect something in return. Fortunately, Clark is as happy to give as to receive.” Maureen's experience with either was sadly limited.

Nor was Hal the same man she'd married twentyfive years ago. Maybe what she found so attractive and exciting about Shoe was that he reminded her a little of Hal when he'd been younger. Or maybe she was just making excuses for herself. There was an element of danger about Shoe that Hal had never possessed. There was also an odd, almost contradictory vulnerability about him. Shoe brought out the protective side of her that Hal never had, but at the same time he brought out her submissive side as well. Although she had never been a fan
of the adventure romance novels Dinah consumed like air, Maureen laughed at the sudden and completely ridiculous image of herself on the heaving deck of a stormtossed sailing ship, bodice of her gown ripped, clinging to Shoe's sinewy arm as he steered the ship between treacherous shoals to the safety of a sheltered bay, where they made tender passionate love on a white sand beach.