on the way to mr. Barisoff’s, Lane thought about the man in his garden. Darling had said he had indeed died by misadventure. The misadventure of being shot at close range. They were working on the theory now that the man might be the railway mogul Sam Turner, if building these little local railways made one a mogul; Lane wasn’t sure what the local criteria were.
The door to the cabin was swung open before she’d even mounted the stairs. She held out the tin of biscuits given her by Eleanor. “I bring gifts,” she said.
“Come in, come in,” Barisoff said. “We have something new,” he added in Russian.
Simpson had risen from the table where he’d been sitting. “Ma’am,” he said by way of greeting.
“Hello, Mr. Simpson. Lovely to see you again. You must think I live on nothing but biscuits, or should I say ‘cookies.’”
He smiled. “I don’t make any judgments. I personally like cookies.”
“You’ll really like these, then. They are made by my lovely neighbour, Mrs. Armstrong.”
When they had sat with fresh coffee and the cookies arrayed on a plate, Lane asked, “So, there is something new? I assume you mean about . . .” She motioned toward the back of the house.
“Yes, so interesting. You tell, Mr. Simpson,” Barisoff said.
“We found something,” said Simpson.
ames was back at the library. He’d often been sent on this sort of errand in the past. He remembered his first few times. He’d been annoyed by the assignment. It was boring and felt like school all over again. But he was surprised now to find himself enjoying the research more each time. Old dusty newspapers provided by the library were sometimes treasure troves, direct links to the solving of a crime.
“You again, Sergeant Ames. I shall have to set up a special carrel just for you. What can I get for you this time?” Mrs. Killeen asked.
“I’ll need all the papers for . . . hmm . . . let’s say January through June of 1921.”
“You’ll be busy. Perhaps I should arrange for provisions to be sent to you. Any particular story?”
“Yes, the disappearance of that Samuel Turner character whose book you got. April 1921, he disappeared, apparently, and was never seen again.”
Mrs. Killeen nodded. “Goodness, yes, now you mention it. I think I remember something about that. I was only a girl, but it made quite the splash at the time. Now isn’t it odd that I didn’t make the connection when that book came in?”
“Have you had any new thoughts about how the library got the book?”
Mrs. Killeen shook her head. “No. Afraid not. All I can say is that it was on the counter here with a note in it. No one can remember seeing anyone leave it. I didn’t keep the note, unfortunately.”
Settling Ames at a quiet table, she produced a pile of yellowing newsprint and said, “How’s your mother?”
“She’s great, thanks.” He looked at the pile. “Well, here goes. Wish me luck!”
Ames started with the April papers. It would have been front-page news, so he concentrated on headlines and put the papers to one side as he rejected them. And then, there it was: “WHERE IS HE? Disappearance of railway man Samuel Turner puzzles police.” The newspaper was dated Friday, April 8, 1921. The article said Mrs. Turner reported that her husband had not returned from a business trip as expected on March 26, and, further, that she had waited five days before reporting his absence and had wished to avoid publicity. The article detailed the efforts of the police and RCMP to locate Mr. Turner.
Taking up the next few papers, which all noted a lack of progress on the case, Ames looked for added information. Turner had only one business partner, a James Rolland, who was as puzzled as everyone else. As he read through April and then May, he wasn’t surprised by how the police investigation seemed to dry up. There was little enough in the file—had they hit brick walls, or had they been keeping details under wraps for some reason? Then, in late May, he found something in one small paragraph on the second page. “Well, well, well,” said Ames under his breath. He got up and stretched his long back, piled the papers back in order, and returned them to Mrs. Killeen.
“Find anything?”
“I think I might have,” he said.
lorenzo and his wife had fallen more and more into silences. All day at the restaurant conversation was limited to what was required to get orders out; in the evening, when they finally made their way home, Lorenzo shook his head at the usual offer of cocoa and said he was off to bed.
Olivia Vitali thought about making a cup for herself, but instead sat at the dining room table and looked out the window. The town, cascading down the steep hill, was settling for the night, with only a few lights still twinkling below her. Their new backyard security light created an artificial brightness that, while she knew it might dissuade any arsonist, destroyed her calming view of the darkling town. She felt a kind of shame about the light—as if there were something wrong with them that required this embarrassing thing singling them out among their neighbours. She longed for a cigarette, which surprised her. She hadn’t smoked since she left Italy. Lorenzo had told her it destroyed the taste of food. She’d realized he was right, and that she’d only taken it up because her best friend had started smoking in secret as a rebellion against her parents. She saw herself on the sunny hill behind the village with Ana, the two of them smoking cigarettes under the olive tree, laughing. We laughed freely because we had nothing but our poverty and ourselves, she thought. She closed her eyes and recalled the sun on her face, the smell of dry grass and wild oregano, the sound of crickets. Now they had everything, but Lorenzo was worried, and she too was assailed by anxiety. The fact that they weren’t talking about their troubles made her think that he was hiding yet another worry. So was she, for that matter, but at least that horrible lecher Tilbury hadn’t been around when she’d gone to buy the lights. Mrs. Tilbury had been there and, if anything, had been effusively friendly. She was nice, Olivia thought. How could she be married to such a man? Did she even know how he behaved?
She would try in the morning to talk to her husband. She turned away from the unquiet light illuminating their now dishevelled garden and went to bed.
things felt becalmed at the police station. Terrell had looked at the note Darling handed him and confirmed that it looked like the same handwriting as the first one. There had been no fingerprints on the first one besides Vitali’s, and Terrell suspected there’d be none on the second. But he, like Darling, was worried.
On his way up to his office, Darling had nodded to O’Brien.
Where was Ames? It was unlike him to be late, Darling thought in irritation. As if in answer to his mental query, the phone rang. It was Ames.
“Hello, sir, sorry, sir. My mother had a fall and sprained her wrist. I told her not to go up that stepladder in her bedroom slippers! Anyway, I’m just up at the hospital with her while she gets patched up. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
“No, no. Take your time. I’m sorry to hear it. Give Mrs. Ames my best.” When he’d hung up, he felt a slight and, he knew, unbecoming amusement at the thought of Ames having to do all the cooking at home for the next little while. Wondering whether Ames was capable of cooking anything at all, Darling’s mind turned to a fresh cup of coffee. Feeling restive, he put his hat and coat back on and made his way down the stairs.
O’Brien appeared to be shuffling papers, and he could see Terrell on the phone at his desk in the back corner of the room. “I’m going for a fresh cup of coffee; after that I’ll be stopping by the barber for a trim. If there’s any crime while I’m gone, shuffle it over to Terrell. Ames is helping his mother,” Darling said, his hand on the doorknob. He knew he didn’t have to elaborate because O’Brien would have listened in to hear why Ames was late.
“Bad luck, that,” O’Brien said.
once on the street, Darling decided that the coffee would be a reward for surviving the barber, so he turned instead in the opposite direction to where the barber pole turned in a stately manner on the next block.
“Morning, Eric,” Darling said to the barber.
The shop was empty, and the barber was laying out some instruments on the bench in front of his chair. He looked up and seemed to struggle for a moment with what to say. “Er . . . good morning, sir,” he finally managed. “I’m . . . did we . . .”
Darling looked around the empty shop, somewhat flummoxed by this response. “I should have called, of course. I was hoping I could catch you for a quick trim this morning. The usual.”
“Of course, Inspector. Please, sit.”
This was more like it. Darling removed his coat and hung it on the hook by the door and plunked his hat on top of it.
In silence, the usually garrulous barber draped the cloth around Darling and took up comb and scissors. Puzzled by this silence, Darling essayed a remark about the weather.
“March, eh?” was the only answer he got.
Then he remembered that Eric Strong had been, and might still be, the chair of the Chamber of Commerce. Didn’t they usually have a meeting at this time in the month? Perhaps he could tell him what might be circulating about Lorenzo Vitali. He vaguely remembered that Lorenzo had tried a couple of times to join but had been turned away. Was this rejection the same thing that was animating these attacks against him?
“You know, maybe you can help me, Eric. Lorenzo Vitali, the fellow who owns that Italian restaurant down the hill there, has had a couple of, I think you could call them ‘attacks’ against him. Someone tried to burn his house down, and he’s found a couple of notes of warning shoved through the back door of his restaurant.”
“Oh, yes?” Strong said noncommittally. He lifted a strand of Darling’s hair with his fine-toothed black comb and snipped at a row of dark fronds.
“Well, I was wondering . . . I mean, you have your ear to the ground among the Nelson merchants; has there been anything said about him? I mean, is there a reason he keeps getting the bum’s rush?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” the barber said stolidly.
At this Darling turned right around to look at him. “I can’t believe that. You’re the most respected merchant in this town. Everyone turns to you. I thought you were the chairman. You must know something.”
Strong had removed comb and scissors from the vicinity of Darling’s head because of his sudden movement, and now stood, undecided, with his hands down, his work suspended. He thought for a long moment as Darling turned back to face the mirror. “I’m afraid the discussions at the Chamber are confidential.” Comb, snip. “In any case, I’m sure there is nothing to worry about.”
“But there is. Someone tried to burn down the Vitalis’ house,” Darling said, watching Strong in the mirror and feeling the beginnings of some unfamiliar anxiety.
“I certainly hope you are not implying that any of our businessmen were out throwing gas and lighting matches in the middle of the night,” Strong said coolly.
Wanting to say, “What the devil is the matter with you? You’re not usually like this,” Darling instead said, “So you do know about it.”
“It’s all over town. You might ask yourself what Vitali might have done to deserve it. And I’m sure you will come up with an answer.” The barber took the cape off Darling’s shoulders and brushed the hair off his suit. “That will be thirty cents, please.”
Looking scarcely any different in the hair department, Darling went out the door before he even put on his hat. He was feeling a kind of rising anger that came, he knew, of this new worry. This was now the third person to give him the freezer treatment. Pushing his hat onto his head, he made for the café. At least a cup of coffee was a good honest thing and wouldn’t give him any backchat. But he wasn’t, now, at all sure about April.
It was with relief that Darling heard nothing but the usual friendly tones in April’s voice when he sat down at the counter.
“Inspector, good to see you. I have a fresh pot of coffee, as it happens. In fact, you look as if you could use one.” She turned to pull the coffee off the burner and filled him a mug and followed it by pushing the cream jug and the sugar bowl in his direction. The inspector didn’t usually take sugar, she knew, but the way he looked this morning, he might.
Darling nursed his cup of coffee between his palms after pouring a dollop of cream into it and watching it swirl.
“Is everything all right, Inspector?” April asked, looking at him with concern.
Darling turned and gazed around the café. It was empty.
“You know, I’m not sure what the heck is going on in this town,” he conceded. He toyed with whether he could say anything else. He couldn’t talk directly about the case, and he wasn’t sure if what was happening to him was related to the case.
“You mean about poor Mr. Vitali and the fire,” April said with a nod, thinking she understood. “I have to agree with you there—about something going on, I mean. Yesterday my usual group of ladies was in, and they were talking about Mr. Vitali, and they weren’t being all that nice. Apparently, he’s been trying to get into the Chamber of Commerce, and they are all shocked by that. Mind you, I will say at least one of the women allowed that as he runs a local business, after all, why shouldn’t he be allowed in? Though she was shut down in a hurry. You know what people are like in a group. They said he’d driven a café owner out of business, and that he was suffering now, and it was all Vitali’s fault. One of the women was especially sharp, that Mrs. Tilbury, from the hardware store. Then they started in on his missus. Can you imagine, that beautiful woman? And she’s always nice to everyone! It’s disgusting. I nearly threw the pie right in their faces.”
“Now, that’s interesting. Do you remember the name of the fellow with the eatery? I think I remember there was a place there when I first came to Nelson. I don’t think I ever ate there. It was gone by the time I got back from overseas.”
“I went in a few times with my dad when I was a girl. You didn’t miss much. It was sort of depressing. The food was okay—I mean, how much can you do to a hamburger? But I remember at least one time when there was an argument in the kitchen loud enough for us to hear out in the booth. In fact, there was a bit of language used that caused my dad to hustle me out of there in a hurry. Now that I think about it, I don’t think the Vitalis had even come here yet. They didn’t come till the thirties sometime.”
These details were, of course, interesting, so Darling nodded and set his mouth in a thoughtful line, and then prodded gently, “Name?”
“Oh, yes, sorry. Now let me see. Hilary, that was the wife’s name, and Bob! That’s it. Hilary and Bob.”
“No surname?”
“Drat. No. The ladies will be back in today, no doubt; do you want me to try to find out?”
“No, absolutely not. I can’t have you spying for the constabulary.”
April appeared undaunted by this repressive answer. “You know, I kind of want to be a policeman . . . woman. In fact,” and here she rested both hands on the counter and looked at him in a way that made him wish he’d taken his coffee to go. “I was going to ask you about it. I mean, what would be my chances of becoming a police officer?”
“On the face of it, it is possible. We don’t need anyone right now, of course. But there are some women police officers in Vancouver. It’s dangerous work. I’m not sure your father would approve.”
“He does dangerous work, so he’s hardly in a position to object,” she retorted. “Damn,” she added, as a couple of men came in and took a booth by the window.
“But he’s a man,” Darling said to her retreating back, and then immediately felt aghast at himself. He put a coin on the counter and started back to the station, nodding at April as he left. It was a sign, he thought, of how discombobulated he was by getting the cold shoulder that he could have blurted out something so insensitive. Something that he categorically did not believe. Or did he?