I heard it through the grapevine! Have you heard that Kountry Pantree offers premium Canadian vintages right on site in our own Wine Shoppe?
—A Kountry Pantree ad in the Laingford Gazette
Of course, as soon as I said it, I realized that it wasn’t Becker to whom I should be taking Sophie’s snapshots, it was Morrison. After all, Morrison was the one leading the investigation, if there was one, into Vic Watson’s death. Morrison and that cute, blonde rookie cop called Marie. I wasn’t quite sure why I felt so much antagonism towards her. She hadn’t done anything to me, she’d been perfectly polite and sensitive, even, in her dealings with me and with Bryan. Deep down I suspected that my mistrust was based on Morrison having the hots for her, but I didn’t want to examine that one too closely. Still, I would have to come to some sort of conclusion about the photos, and soon.
I invited Yolanda and Dimmy to join me at the Slug and Lettuce Pub for a pint to talk it over and perhaps to solicit some friendly feedback about Becker’s proposal. Dimmy begged off, explaining that she was shooting a wedding the next weekend, and had to go meet the bride and groom and talk about locations, shot lists and all that complicated stuff that professional photographers have to nail down before the big day. In my “what if I actually said yes to marrying Mark Becker” moments, I had fantasized about Dimmy being the official wedding photographer. Me on soft focus in a frothy white gown, gazing wistfully into a mirror, the veil held in trembling hands. Dimmy called that the “sucky mirror shot” and said every sentimental bride insisted on it. Sucky? Sentimental? You bet. Who was I to stand in the way of tradition?
The Slug and Lettuce overlooks the Kuskawa River in downtown Laingford. It has all the qualities that I insist on in a watering hole: plenty of English beer and Kuskawa Cream on tap, old jazz playing not too loudly in the background, comfortable booths where friends can get intimate without making a spectacle of themselves, deep ashtrays on every table and a bartender who knows what you drink without having to ask.
Yolanda and I grabbed a booth by the window. The screen doors let in a cool breeze and Nick, the barman, drew us a couple of pints of Kuskawa Cream as soon as we walked in the door.
“Afternoon, Polly. Caught any murderers lately?” Nick said, wiping the table and depositing the beer in front of us with a flourish.
“Hot on the trail of a new one, Nick,” I said. It wasn’t as if I bragged about it. It’s true that I had been connected with a couple of suspicious deaths (well, four) in the past year or so, but I didn’t hand out little cards with “Polly Deacon, Private Eye” on them. It’s just that word gets around in a small town and I did (ahem) occasionally take a drink at the Slug and Lettuce, eh? Nick went back to the bar, and Yolanda and I clinked glasses.
“Here’s to weird Kuskawa art,” she said.
“Cheers,” I said.
“I’m glad that Arly Watson is on board,” Yolanda said, “but that was very strange about Sophie Durette. It was like she didn’t really even want to be included at all—she just wanted you to have those snapshots. So what’s up with that?”
I filled her in on the Vic Watson thing, including the suspicion that David Kane had something to do with it. She had heard about his death, but none of the details. Yolanda’s a safe confidante. I know this because in Grade Ten I told her that I had a crush on Fish Gundy, which, because he was four foot nothing and had really bad acne, would have been dangerous information in the wrong hands. She never told a soul, and I’ve always appreciated her discretion.
“I don’t even know how Vic died,” I said. “All I know is that the nurse at the hospital said there was something funny about it and that Morrison and Lefevbre are looking into it.”
“So why did you say you had to talk to Becker?” she said.
“Well, Mark’s on vacation right now, but normally he would be investigating something like this.”
“Uh-huh. You’re still seeing him, I take it.”
“Yup. More than that, Yolanda.” I whispered the next bit. “He wants to get married.”
“To you?” she said and hooted like a fog horn.
“Thanks a bunch,” I said.
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry, Polly,” Yolanda said, straightening up as soon as she saw my expression. “I thought you’d find that as funny as I did. I just can’t see you as the marrying type. Your dogs and your, you know, lifestyle.”
“It’s not that far-fetched,” I said. “I could adapt. He’s a nice guy, you know.”
“Of course he is,” she said. “Or at least, he’s not a criminal and he has a steady job, which is more than I can say for the last two men I went out with, but honestly, Polly, the thought of you going through with a marriage just tickles my funny bone. You told him no, didn’t you?”
“He put you up to this, didn’t he?” I said. “He’s working on all my friends, getting them to tell me how crazy the idea is so that I’ll consider it just to be perverse.” Yolanda narrowed her eyes.
“You’re not serious?” she said. “You’re really considering it? Who have you told?”
“You’re the first,” I said. I showed her the ring I wore around my neck.
“Oh, God, you’re wearing his ring?” she said.
“Around my neck, Yolanda. I haven’t given him an answer yet.”
“Around your anything is bad,” she said. “Listen, Polly, I’ll be frank, okay? None of us, your friends I mean, think it’s a great idea that you’ve been dating a cop, although we haven’t said anything, mainly because you automatically do the opposite of whatever advice you get. If you marry this guy, you won’t be Polly Deacon any more. You’ll be a police wife. God.”
“Of course, I would still be Polly Deacon.” This was not, I discovered, what I wanted to hear from Yolanda, or from anybody. She knew me too well—I am a sucker for reverse psychology. What I wanted to hear was the conventional “Oh, Polly, congratulations . . . when’s the wedding?” so I could tell them that I was flying in the face of convention and would rather perform self-surgery than marry him. What I wanted was to hear people trying to convince me that marrying Becker was a good idea, so that I could argue against it. What I didn’t want to hear was a validation of my own gut feelings, because—why? Because that would make me predictable? Because that would mean that I was actually taking the advice I was being given? Heaven forbid.
I wondered suddenly if my self-image as a goer-against-the-norm was entirely healthy. Splashing around in a sea of confusion, I downed my beer and waved at Nick to bring us another round.
“Polly, Mark Becker may be a nice guy, but he sleeps around, or at least he used to,” Yolanda said. “After he got divorced, he went through about half a dozen women in less than a year.”
“I’m not exactly a saint myself, you know,” I said. Actually, I was rather more of a saint than were most of my single contemporaries, and Yolanda knew it. She quirked an eyebrow at me.
“He’s just looking for someone to look after that kid of his,” she said. “Everybody knows that his ex is involved with Duke Pitblado. Duke’s got enough kids as it is. He won’t want another one.”
“What?”
“You don’t gossip nearly enough, Polly. Duke’s wife moved to Toronto a couple of months ago, but their five kids are staying in Laingford with him. He’s got a housekeeper and a nanny, but Catherine Becker is on the bench, just panting to play,” Yolanda said. “She may be next in line for the Pitblado millions. Little Bryan Becker is the wild card. The grapevine says that Detective Mark Becker would get custody whether he wanted it or not.”
“How the hell do you know this?”
“The grapevine, Polly. You’re completely out of the loop. We need to see each other more often.” I wasn’t so sure about that.
On the way home, I thought about Yolandas unkind suggestion that Becker was just looking for a live-in babysitter. I was hardly the ideal candidate, if it came to that. Becker had already made it clear that my “lifestyle” as Yolanda called it, (which was code for being a dope-smoking, alcohol-sodden bohemian back-to-the-lander) was not something he was eager to let Bryan share. Hadn’t he double-checked that I didn’t have any dope lying around before he’d let the kid come home with me? He was hardly expecting me to transform myself into Martha Stewart in the twinkling of an eye. Or was he? I pictured my pro and con list and added another con. “Item #14”, I wrote on my mental notepad, “Concessions. Is Becker willing to make concessions about his own lifestyle, or does he want me to play Eliza Dolittle to his Henry Higgins?” As I parked George’s battered Ford pickup in the farm driveway, I found that I still wanted to give the photos to Becker, not Morrison. I’d use them as a bargaining chip in the “discussing our future” game. Not very laudable, but then I was stressed. I also found that Yolanda’s advice was at work within me, percolating in reverse, like one of those cheap metal espresso pots. I wasn’t ready to tell Becker I wouldn’t marry him. In fact, I was searching for ways to make it a possibility. I am such an idiot.
There were several cars in George’s driveway, Stan Herman’s yellow Camry with the plastic camera on the roof, Emma Tempest’s purple, posy-splashed mini van and a big old vintage van I didn’t recognize. I came in the back door of the farm house with some supplies Susan had asked me to pick up while I was in town. Archie Watson, Emma and Stan were in the kitchen with Susan, sitting around the big pine harvest table with coffee and donuts in front of them, obviously having a League of Social Justice meeting. There was no sign of George, and they clammed up as soon as I walked in.
“Don’t let me interrupt anything,” I said. “Just go on as if I’m not here.” I headed for the fridge to deposit the eggs and the beer. Archie took me at my word.
“That bastard’ll be at the funeral,” he said. “I know he’ll be there—he already sent us a big bunch of flowers and a card and he’ll be there, all right, pretending Vic was his best friend, although we all know otherwise.” Oh, right. I’d forgotten that Vic was Archie’s brother. Although Vic’s remarks on Saturday had suggested that the brothers weren’t exactly close, losing a sibling was a horrible thing. I went over to clasp his hand.
“I’m really sorry to hear about Vic, Archie,” I said. “My condolences to your family.” Archie’s eyes misted up as he nodded his thanks and I wondered why, the day after a death in the family, he was sitting in George’s kitchen having a political meeting.
“It was a shock, all right,” Archie said. “He was a healthy fellow. Nothing wrong with his heart, far as I knew.” He gave me a challenging look as if daring me to tell him otherwise. I did, kind of.
“Well, he did fall in the river on Saturday,” I said with as much sensitivity as I could. “He nearly drowned. I expect that weakened him a good deal.”
“He was pushed,” Archie said. “I know it and you know it. Everybody knows it, and everybody knows who did it. What I can’t figure out is why David Kane is still walking around a free man.”
“Why do you think David Kane pushed him in?” I said.
“I heard it from one of the camera club members,” Archie said. “Kane was mad that Vic voted against the Kountry Pantree project and wanted to get him back.”
“What good would it do to kill a council member after the project has been approved?” I said.
Archie laid one finger beside his nose, nodded and winked at me. I’ve never actually seen anybody do that in real life before, and I’ve always wondered what it meant. “There’s a detail or two you don’t know about, Miss Deacon,” Archie said. Oh. The international symbol for “I’ve got a secret”, I guess. Susan put a restraining hand on Archie’s arm.
“Archie, that’s enough. It’s best if Polly doesn’t know about our plans,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to tell,” Archie said, sounding like a wounded child.
“Susan, I frankly couldn’t give a damn what the League of Social Justice is planning,” I said with some heat. I’ve always hated being left out. “But if you’re looking to stop the project, you’re leaving it kind of late. The grand opening is slated for the first of September, and they’re already hiring staff.”
“We know that,” Susan said.
“If you want to find out more, come to the town council meeting tomorrow night,” Archie said, as if he were giving me a stock tip. “Should be quite interesting.” He pronounced it “innerestin” and did the nose/finger thing again.
“Maybe I will,” I said. “If only to be there when you guys get arrested for disturbing the peace, and I have to bail you out.”
“Oh, what we have planned is quite legal,” Susan said. “Anyway, Polly, you’re hardly in a financial position to bail us out of jail, are you?”
“Speaking of which, you owe me twenty-three bucks for the beer and eggs,” I said. She paid up.
I left the Social Justicers to their coup planning and slipped into George’s living room to make a phone call.
Becker picked up the phone before it rang at his end. It was one of those weird Ma Bell moments you can’t explain.
“Becker?”
“Polly? How bizarre. I was just calling you.”
“We have a psychic link, eh?” We blithered about how strange that was for a while, then got to the point.
“I’ve signed Bryan up to spend a couple of days at Camp Goomis,” Becker said. “He’s driving me crazy.”
“I thought you guys were supposed to be having some quality time together,” I said without thinking. “Isn’t eight a little young to be doing overnights at camp?” Rule Number One in relationships where there’s a kid who is not yours: Don’t criticize the parenting. Ever.
“You don’t know Bryan,” Becker said through suddenly clenched teeth. “He wants to go. He’s not a baby.”
I backtracked. “Of course not. When’s he going?”
“I just dropped him off. You want to get together?”
“Sure. Actually, I have something I want to run by you. Have you talked to Morrison today?”
“Nope. He’s not returning my calls. He’s treating me like a civilian, dammit.”
“Well, I guess it’s because you’re off duty, eh?”
“That’s no excuse. Anyway, I’m back on as of Thursday.”
“What about Bryan?”
“If he likes the camp, he’ll be staying there until Sunday night, when my ex gets back.”
Poor little guy, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud. If his Mom was truly planning to hand him over to Becker so that she could join Duke Pitblado’s family unencumbered, Bryan and his Dad were in for some rough times. Especially if they couldn’t last four days together without fighting.
“I see. So if you go back to work on Thursday, does that mean you’ll be taking over the investigation of Vic’s death?”
“I hope so. Before Morrison messes it up too bad.”
“You don’t have a lot of faith in your partner, do you?”
“Look, Polly, I know he’s your friend and all, and he’s a good guy in his way, but he’s not the most brilliant police officer in the world. Why do you think he’s still a constable?”
Earlie Morrison had once told me that he had been passed over for promotion so many times he hardly thought about it any more. Detective Constable Becker had been parachuted in from Toronto about four years previously, and had, according to Morrison, been stealing the limelight ever since. Morrison said he didn’t care, but I suspected that he did.
“Maybe it’s because Morrison isn’t very glamorous,” I said.
“Maybe it’s because he’s fat and kinda slow,” Becker said. “He’s muscle, Polly. That’s why we make a good team—he’s the brawn, I’m the brains. By himself, or with that fluff-ball Lefevbre, it’s just meat without the heat.”
How unkind, I thought. Catchy, but mean. Becker said he would pick me up at the farm at around seven and take me out for a night on the town.
“There’s one of those chick flicks playing at the Laingford Odeon,” he said, “and I’ve already made reservations at the Mooseview Inn, if that’s okay with you.” The Mooseview meant candlelight and wine, big time. And a “Chick Flick” to boot. Gosh. My suitor was pulling out all the romantic stops, no question.
The scene that played across my mind wasn’t Cinderella and Prince Charming, though. What I saw was a live trap, baited with honey, with me in the role of skunk, scent glands fully-armed, waddling in with my eyes wide open.