Evening
Hazel was almost used to the renewed pleasure of eating dinner at her own table, going to sleep in her own bed, in her own house, under her own star-filled window. The time spent recuperating in her ex’s basement had been almost as difficult as the back pain that had caused her to seek his aid. Now the back pain that had plagued her for years was mostly gone. With its absence, and the fact that she hadn’t had a Percocet since the end of May, she felt renewed. Women her age weren’t supposed to have renaissances, but here she was having one. Maybe the timing of Ray Greene’s return to Port Dundas was supposed to be part of this rebirth of hers? Maybe she was meant to get out now. Actually retire. Get a hobby. Take care of her mother.
Hobby, she thought, and she laughed meanly under her breath.
She and her mother had settled back into what passed for their domestic reality quite quickly, and after escaping from an invalid’s prison at her ex’s house, Hazel began to find it much easier being with her mother. At first she chalked it up to relief at being out of Andrew and Glynnis’s basement, but then she realized it was something else. Her mother was finally slowing down. The recent deaths of a couple of her close friends and some health troubles of her own were weighing on her. Which, Hazel thought, shouldn’t come as a surprise. Emily would be eighty-eight in three weeks. Her time was coming. But it was still hard to believe that this locomotive of a woman was finally slowing down. She still needled Hazel endlessly, but Hazel was beginning to think her heart wasn’t in it.
“I will kill anyone who tries to throw me a birthday party this year,” she grumbled one night to Hazel over a dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches. “Or a cake with any number of candles on it. I don’t want my wattle catching fire.”
“Why don’t I just make you dinner at home?”
“You’re going to cook for me? A special dinner?”
“I can do more than grilled cheese or hangar steak, Mother. I cooked for my husband … on and off … for thirty-six years.”
“Your infrequency of cooking probably prolonged your marriage. We could order in if you’d rather.”
“I don’t rather, but it’s your call.”
Hazel could tell that her mother didn’t actually have a preference. She wasn’t sure her mother cared about much these days, and although Emily was making an attempt to seem her old self, it wasn’t particularly convincing. It wasn’t even a year since a murder spree had come to its climax under this very roof. A mild-mannered psychotic named Simon Mallick had been crossing the country killing the terminally ill, seemingly at their invitation. He got all the way to this house and the mild-mannered-ness had worn off him by then: he staved in the head of one of Emily’s oldest friends, Clara Winchester. It was no wonder Emily hadn’t looked particularly well since they’d come back to this house. But really, Hazel had to admit to herself, her mother looked even worse than a woman who’d been through what she’d been through.
Emily was sleeping in front of the television when Hazel got in from Kehoe Glenn at six o’clock on Tuesday night. The kitchen was dark: nothing had been readied for supper. She decided to let her mother sleep and she cracked four eggs into a bowl and mixed them with a dash of cream and nutmeg. She fried onions and mushrooms in butter and then poured the egg mixture in. The smell of onions woke her mother and Emily shuffled into the kitchen looking bleary. “Did you turn off the TV?” she asked.
“It’s past six, you know. You were asleep.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“I just got in, Mum. You were snoring.”
Emily sat down at the kitchen table, hovering over a chair before dropping into it. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Hazel dished the meal out onto two small plates and put some bread in the toaster. Her mother refused a slice and picked at the eggs. “I think maybe we should go see Dr. Pass, Mum. You’re flat, you know? Maybe he can suggest some vitamins.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me that can’t be fixed by a facelift and a bottle of whiskey.”
“I’m serious.” Hazel slid half her mother’s supper off onto her own plate, like she used to with the girls. The toast popped up and she dropped two dry pieces into the basket on the table. “Finish what’s on your plate and you can be done.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m an invalid,” Emily said, and she pushed the meal away.
Hazel took both of their plates to the sink and washed them. Perhaps her grief over what had happened here was the reason for her lethargy, but Hazel suspected it was deeper than that. Her colour was wrong. “Listen,” she said, “we don’t have to stay here, you know. I can sell the place, we could get an apartment in town. This place is too big for us, anyway.”
“You think I should be in a home.”
“I don’t.”
Emily humphed and picked at a piece of toast in the basket. “Maybe we should both be in a home.”
“Our own home, Mum. Whether it’s here or somewhere else, but I don’t think either of us has to be alone. God knows if the home for spry annoyances would take you now, anyway. With the spring going out of your step and all.”
“I’ll grant you that my step is more spongy than springy these days, Hazel. But so will yours be when you’re eighty-seven. Just promise me the day before you want to put me in a home you’ll leave me alone in the house for an hour.”
“So you can gravely, but not mortally, wound yourself with a firearm you won’t be able to lift all the way to your head, Mother? Don’t worry, I’ll shoot you first if it comes to that.”
Finally, her mother smiled. “You were always such a romantic when you were a girl, Hazel. You so rarely show that side of yourself these days.”
The following morning, as soon as she walked into the station house, Wingate flagged her down. “Jack Deacon’s on the phone. All excited about stinging insects.”
“Excellent,” she said. “Ask Melanie to patch him through to the thingy.” She hung her coat on its hook. “Aren’t you leaving today?” The phone rang a moment later and she punched the speaker button.
“Thursday,” Wingate said.
“Thursday?” Deacon repeated in the speaker.
“James is taking his first vacation since arriving in Westmuir. Nine months without so much as a long weekend.”
“I don’t like to relax,” James said.
“There’s more than one way to die,” said Deacon.
Hazel got to the point. “What d’you have for me, Doctor?”
“Well, it turns out there are nocturnal wasps, Detective Inspector. But they don’t live in North America.”
“I see.”
“However, there’s no saying what might happen to someone who steps on a nest in the dark. Sundown’s almost at ten right now, and wasps do burrow. He could have disturbed something.”
“And then been stung only twice? And on the face?”
“Anything is possible. This is nature we’re talking about.”
Hazel sighed. “All right. I was hoping for more, but never mind.” She stole a glance at Wingate, who was squinting with one eye. “We better get Harvey Tilberg.”
“You want to redo the autopsy.”
“Who the hell is Tilberg?” Wingate said.
“Coroner.”
Deacon spoke over them both. “He’s going to want a reason, Hazel.”
“According to the reservation canvass, nobody saw Henry in the smoke shop. It wasn’t a service call, and he parked far away from the doors. He’s not even an occasional smoker; he’s got no business at all on the reserve. And he had a gambling problem once.”
“What?” Wingate yelped.
“A long time ago. But he stole money at that point. And, well, yesterday, Cathy showed me an envelope of cash. It wasn’t a sickening amount, but it was still fifty-five hundred.”
Wingate closed his right eye. The force of her will and her peculiar way of building evidence for a case was something to see. He understood why she’d driven Ray Greene crazy. And in the end you had to agree with her! There was no way you were going to make your own logic as internally consistent as hers. Supposedly this was “instinct.” He’d never really seen it. Too bad she wielded it like a mallet.
“So you think this is foul play?” came Jack’s voice, finally.
“Committed by whom?” said Wingate.
“A jealous husband. An angry creditor. Someone who felt they were getting the short end of a stick.”
“Armed with what? An angry bee? What’s the weapon?”
“That’s our job, Jack.”
Wingate was facing partially away from her as she continued to negotiate the reinvestigation of Henry Wiest’s body. After a few more exchanges, Deacon acquiesced to whatever Tilberg deemed necessary. It was never good karma to have to redo another doctor’s postmortem, but he would serve as requested. She pressed the button on the star-shaped console, and the doctor was cut off. She felt Wingate’s eyes on her.
“Something is wrong,” she said.
“Are you sure you’re not looking for a last hurrah or something?”
“I never had a first hurrah, James. Are you totally satisfied?”
“Well, what we know is that the band police, a respected institution, with well-trained officers, wrote a thorough report that covered all the bases. We know a wasp sting is not only possible but likely; we know there are no witnesses, there were no signs of a struggle, no contraband in Wiest’s car, no drugs or alcohol in his system, forty-five dollars in his wallet …”
She was smiling, listening to him. “I know.”
“But? Would you be doing this if you hadn’t known him?”
“I would have wondered about it, sure. But I might not have felt so strongly about ruling out foul play as I do in this case. I know there’s a chink in your armour, James. You can live with this.”
“I’m going to be on vacation, so it won’t matter.”
“That’s right. So go. Don’t let me make you any crazier.”
“Unless you’re right.”
“No, you go. I have all the resources I need. You need to recharge, James! Let yourself go for a week. You look a little drawn these days.”
“I am going, don’t worry. Just don’t cut me out of the loop if one starts forming.”
“You think this is the right thing to do, don’t you?”
“I’m on vacation.”
“You are the loop, James,” she called to him as he exited her office.