ALBERG DIDN’T LIKE the Jolly Shopper much. It made him uncomfortable, with its wooden signs and its eclectic selection of merchandise. The place made a statement that he found incomprehensible; or maybe he just disapproved of it, whatever it was. He hadn’t spent any time there to speak of, except when he used to drop in for pipe tobacco during a period when he was trying to quit cigarettes without giving up smoking. The store, he thought now, pulling up in front, was kind of like him smoking a pipe: it didn’t ring true.
When he climbed out of his Oldsmobile he saw that the front door wasn’t standing open as it usually did in good weather, and as he got closer he noticed the Closed sign. This was exasperating, but not surprising: the store’s hours were eclectic, too. He got back into the Olds and headed for Porpoise Bay.
He got to Buscombe’s house a few minutes later and pulled up on the roadside across the street. He sat in the car for a moment. His eyes felt as though they were full of sand, and every bone in his body hurt. He was chagrined to admit that he could no longer take a night without sleep comfortably in his stride. He wondered if Cassandra was as wiped out as he was.
He found Richard Buscombe at the back of his house, gazing out down the slope toward the water. His hands were clasped behind his back. He was watching a seaplane that was making a big circle, heading north, turning, coming low and slow, finally landing with a crisp splash at the southern end of Sechelt Inlet.
Richard Buscombe’s house occupied a piece of land about a hundred feet above the water. There was some lawn in the front and a few bushes, and Alberg had recognized roses lining the driveway. In the back there was a patio with a gas barbecue, a table and several chairs, and a field of tall meadow grass that grew down the hillside to the water’s edge.
Buscombe was standing beyond the patio, in grass almost up to his knees. He was wearing gray pants and a white shirt and a pair of gray suspenders. He was a man not much older than Alberg, of medium height, somewhat overweight, and he didn’t have much hair.
The seaplane had cut its engines. Alberg became aware of birds chirping somewhere—there were islands of trees here and there, scattered among the wild grasses—and the tranquil waters of the inlet washing languidly upon the beach below.
“Mr. Buscombe,” said Alberg, and the man turned, startled. “My name is Alberg. I’m with the RCM Police.” The man looked at him intently. Alberg knew he was mentally shuffling a lot of material, starting with his nearest and dearest—where were they? was he confident they were safe?—eventually working down to possessions—had somebody broken into his store, stolen his car, whatever? “Are you the husband of Maria Buscombe?”
Richard Buscombe hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally.
“I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“Is she dead?”
“Yes,” said Alberg. “I’m sorry.”
Richard turned around now, slowly, facing out toward the sea again, and he folded his arms in front of him. Alberg stayed where he was, watching the man’s back. There was a fragrance in the air that he couldn’t identify. He stood there for what felt like a long time. He thought he might fall asleep on his feet, lulled by the birds, and the ocean, and the breeze that was stroking the tall grasses, bending them, creating flashes of a different shade of green.
Richard Buscombe faced him again. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
Alberg nodded sympathetically.
“Was it an accident? What happened?”
Alberg said, “I think we should go inside.” Even though the man was obviously in full control of himself, Alberg had a vision of Richard Buscombe pelting down the hillside and throwing himself into the water.
Buscombe looked at Alberg for a long moment, trying unsuccessfully to read his face. Then he crossed the patio and entered the house through a sliding glass door. Alberg followed. Buscombe sat on a red-and-white-checked sofa. Alberg sat on a chair.
“I’m afraid your wife was murdered, Mr. Buscombe.” The man’s face filled with bewilderment. He said nothing, just stared at Alberg, waiting intently for more information. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Monday, September twenty-eighth, 1987.”
“Uh-huh.” Alberg gazed at him. But Buscombe said nothing more; he was still waiting.
“And what were the circumstances?” said Alberg.
“Circumstances?” He made a harsh, painful sound that was supposed to be a laugh. “She was in bed with a cold when I left for school. And when I got home she was gone.” He leaned forward suddenly, his hands pressing on his thighs. “She’s been murdered? Are you certain?”
“We’re certain.”
“Wait a minute,” said Richard, pointing at him. “I’ve seen you around town. Are you with the local detachment? Sechelt?”
“That’s right.”
“You mean—” He looked completely confused. “This happened here?”
“That’s right. Your wife had rented—”
“Please don’t keep referring to her as my wife,” said Richard sharply. “Maria stopped being my wife the day she left us.”
“Maria Buscombe had rented an apartment on Trail Avenue,” said Alberg, referring to his notebook. “She moved in last Friday. September thirtieth.” He looked over at Buscombe. “I take it that she hadn’t been in touch with you.”
“No,” said Richard. “She hadn’t. Not once, since the day she left.”
“Where has she been for the last seven years?”
“How the hell should I know?” He was sitting literally on the edge of the sofa. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. She told me she didn’t know where she was going.”
“When did she tell you this?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She didn’t tell you before you went to work, or you wouldn’t have gone. Right? And she’d left by the time you got home. So when did she tell you she was going, but didn’t know where?”
Richard rubbed his face with his hand. There was a rasping sound—he hadn’t shaved. Alberg looked at him more closely and saw a gray stubble. “She left a note,” said Richard. “It really didn’t explain anything at all.” He gave Alberg a weary glance. “She’d gone in search of herself that summer. What she found hadn’t pleased her.”
Alberg felt his patience, what there was of it, ebbing away. “I don’t follow you.”
“She’d found out that she was adopted. And she became obsessed with finding her natural parents. That’s all. That’s what I meant.”
“And? Did she?”
Buscombe reddened. “This is going to be a very difficult situation for my daughter and me.”
Alberg’s eyes stung, his body ached, and now his head had started to throb. “Believe me, Mr. Buscombe,” he said softly, “it was a hell of a lot more difficult for your wife.” He leaned toward him. “What can you tell me that might help with my investigation?”
“Nothing. I don’t know anything about her life these last seven years.”
“What about before that?” said Alberg. “What happened when she went off looking for her family?”
“She found them,” said Buscombe stiffly. “Her parents. But that’s all she told me.” He sat erect on the edge of the sofa, looking at Alberg with an unaccountable belligerence.