DEC STEEPLE slouched on a lawn chair wrapped in one of Birdie’s shawls. He was pretending that the thin April sunshine was warmer than it really was. A book about the South Pacific lay open on his lap. It was a birthday present from Birdie. Somewhere in the middle of all this he had turned sixteen. “Isn’t that one of the places you plan to travel?” she had said. And the look in her eye seemed to suggest that she was ready to help him pack any time soon.
But the glossy picture book lay unattended. He was reading the Ladybank Expositor instead.
The story of the intruder’s death had made the front page of the weekly. Sunny sat on the deck happily killing off one of her Barbie dolls, burying her under a deluge of accessories.
“Read it Again,” said Sunny.
Dec didn’t have the energy to argue. “B and E Ends in Fatality,” he read.
“Beundee?”
“Break and entry. Its when you force your way into a place.” He showed her the headline.
“More,” she said.
And so Dec read more.
A local man died last Thursday night after a break-in of a deserted house on County Road 10, west of Cupar. Dennis Runyon, 35, was found crushed to death under a heavy bookcase in Steeple Hall, once the residence of Senator Michael Shaughnessy Steeple, founder of Steeple Enterprises and Member of Parliament for Lanark and Renfrew, in the thirties.
Runyon, who grew up in Ladybank, had not lived in the area for many years. He returned only last fall. He was currently an employee of Eden Mobile Wash and Water Haulage. Ted McHugh, manager of Eden, expressed his sorrow at the news. “He was a lot of fun to have around,” said McHugh. “He’ll be missed.”
Bernard Steeple’s son discovered the corpse of Dennis Runyon.
“Liar!” cried Sunny, her voice hot with indignation. “I discovered him.”
“Well, they can’t say that,” said Dec. “You’re too young.”
Sunny made a face and then proceeded to squash Barbie under a red Ferrari.
“You don’t want to call any case open and shut,” said Constable Dwayne Hannah of the Ontario Provincial Police. “But at the moment it looks as if the death was accidental.” Police believe that in trying to reach a valuable statuette, Runyon brought down the bookcase on himself. Constable Hannah went on to say that a Forensic unit has been brought in from Toronto and the investigation would continue. There will be an inquest.
“But it isn’t valuable,” muttered Dec.
“What?”
“The statuette, Plato. It’s not worth all that much.”
“Because he’s got no Brains,” said Sunny, and laughed.
Right, thought Dec. The bust of Plato was heavy, hollow and worthless. It made no sense. He read on.
Runyon had a record of petty thefts and misdemeanours dating back to his youth, but had “cleaned up his act” according to Clarence Mahood, a boyhood friend of the deceased.
The last resident of the Hall was Bernard Steeple, grandson of the senator. He and his family still live nearby. He keeps up the historic property.
He keeps up the historic property, thought Dec. His father: part historian, part janitor. He let the paper fall to his lap, closed his eyes. Began to drift into sleep.
Not a good move.
The nightmare is waiting for him, hiding just beyond his consciousness, a tanker trailer of a nightmare, barrelling across the lawns of Steeple Hall, bearing down on the big house. Dec is at the wheel but nothing works — not the steering, not the brakes. He looks up and sees his mother standing directly in his path. She has her hands on her hips and a grim smile on her face. She isn’t going to move for anyone. She is Wonder Woman, invincible.
“Deckly Speckly?”
Dec’s eyes snapped open. Sunny was tugging on his pant leg.
“You were Snivelling,” she said.
He sat up, wiped his eyes. “Was not,” he said.
“Was, too.”
“I was thinking.”
“Me, too,” said Sunny. “I was thinking how the paper got it All Wrong. Mr. Play-Doh wasn’t On the book case.”
Dec looked at her, a little dim-witted. Sunny was staring at him impatiently.
“’Member? ’Member you put your baseball cap on him?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your Raptors cap,” she said, patting the top of her head.
“You put it on Mr. Play-Doh. You said, ‘Yo, Play-Doh. Wazzup!’” She giggled. “‘Member?”
He did remember. The bust of Plato had been on the side table near the vestibule door. His father had been painting the hall ceiling; there had been a tarp spread over the bookcase. When had that been? Tuesday or Wednesday. He had gone up with Sunny a day or two before the accident.
“Daddy must have put it back on Thursday,” he said.
But Sunny wasn’t listening any more. Making all kinds of concerned mommy noises, she began digging for Barbie.
Dec’s gaze wandered up the hillside to see his father coming down from the old house. He had on his work clothes, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and he was carrying his red toolbox. There was a streak of paint on his arm. He seemed lost in thought, his chin on his chest, his hair falling across his brow —just like Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird. That’s what Birdie liked to say. Bernard was her very own Atticus Finch. He was lanky like Peck and strong through the shoulders, but he didn’t look so noble to Dec. There was a worried look in his eye. The forensic unit had been at Steeple Hall all week. They were finished now and Bernard had been putting things to right, making everything the way it was.
He didn’t look too happy about it.