Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Page 4

  “Champagne,” said Orwell decisively.

  “Domestic, or imported, Sir?”

  “French.”

  “We have Charles Heidsieck, Mumm’s…”

  Orwell cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Just bring us whatever’s most expensive.”

  “Of course.”

  “And make sure it’s real cold. Put lots of ice in the bucket.”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  Parker leaned towards Orwell, resting her elbows on the table. She still wasn’t sure why she was going out with Orwell. To help her forget about her brief fling with Jack Willows, probably. She’d thought Orwell safe enough, because she wasn’t really attracted to him and because she’d heard he was serious about a woman named Judith Lundstrom. Maybe that’s what the champagne was all about. Orwell was planning to drop her, let her down easy. Or was that just wishful thinking? She smiled at him and said, “What’s going on, Eddy?”

  “Nothing,” said Orwell, maybe a little too loudly. “So tell me, how was work?”

  “Let’s not talk shop, okay?”

  “Fine, fine. Whatever you say.” Orwell held up his hands in a gesture of mock submission, displaying palms that were padded and swollen with thick callouses built up during the endless hours he’d spent pumping iron at Gold’s gym.

  “And please don’t try to change the subject, either. Why the champagne?”

  “No reason, really. Just a whim.”

  Parker stared suspiciously at him, but didn’t say anything. Silence was often an interrogator’s most effective tool.

  Orwell smiled nervously. He fiddled with his silverware, wiped his sweating hands on a thick white linen napkin that had too much starch in it. He adjusted the knot of his tie. He frowned.

  Parker leaned back in her chair. High above her, the wavering lights of dozens of candles were reflected in the convex glass of the ceiling, like so many distant stars. She leaned back a little more, so that she could take in the entire tableau, and tried to work out which spark of light came from their particular table. A palm frond tickled her ear. She reached behind her and briskly detached it from the main stem.

  Orwell pretended not to have noticed. Lowering his eyes, he solemnly studied the prices on the menu.

  A white-coated waiter arrived with the champagne, a silver ice-bucket and a pair of tulip-shaped glasses. He put the glasses and the bucket down with a restrained flourish, stripped the foil from the neck of the bottle and deftly removed the wire cage enclosing the bulbous cork. Orwell watched him carefully, memorizing every move he made. The cork pulled free with a festive pop. The mouth of the bottle smoked like a gun. The waiter placed the cork on the table in front of Orwell, and filled his glass just a bit too full. Orwell tasted the champagne. It was so cold it made his teeth ache. He swallowed, and nodded his approval. A flurry of golden bubbles jostled upwards and committed mass suicide in a futile attempt to make him sneeze.

  The waiter indicated Orwell’s menu. “Are you ready to order, Sir?”

  “No, not quite.”

  “I’ve never eaten here before,” said Parker. “Is there anything you recommend?”

  The waiter hesitated, visibly pondering, his eyes on her face. “The pheasant’s very good this evening,” he said at last.

  “Then I’ll have the pheasant,” said Parker, smiling.

  The waiter cocked his head at Orwell, and the gold chains around his neck glinted in the light.

  “Pheasant for two,” said Orwell. He picked up the wine list.

  “We’ve found the Pouilly-Fuisse goes very well,” the waiter offered.

  Orwell, studying the wine list, didn’t notice the waiter give Parker a conspiratorial wink. He found the wine right at the bottom of the list, priced at $42.50. He bit his lip, thinking hard.

  “Pouilly-Fuisse it is,” said Parker.

  Orwell picked up the broken palm frond. He held it over the candle flame. The frond twisted and writhed fitfully, as if trying to escape. Orwell watched it shrink, turn black from the heat. When it began to smoke he let it drop negligently to the floor.

  “Is something wrong?” said Parker.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Nothing’s bothering you?”

  “I’m fine. Perfect.”

  Parker drained her glass and reached for the bottle.

  “Let me get it,” said Orwell.

  Parker ignored him. She gripped the heavy bottle with both hands and pulled it from the ice bucket. Water dripped on the tablecloth. She filled her glass and offered the bottle to Orwell, then plopped it back in the bucket. Water spilled over the lip of the bucket and splashed on the carpet. He watched her pick up her glass, carry the glass carefully to her lips. He noted with a sense of wonder the movement of her slim and graceful throat as she swallowed.

  For the hundredth time, he told himself she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and that he could not possibly live without her.

  Parker caught him looking. He blushed like a kid on his first date, the suffusion of blood turning his skin a dull red, the colour of porch paint.

  By the time they’d finished their pheasant, the sun had set and the horizon was dark. Nothing remained of the bird but the backbone and a few jutting ribs, a congealing pool of blood and gravy. The champagne was long gone and they were on their second bottle of wine. Parker’s drinking had slowed down, but Orwell had picked up the slack. He was feeling very relaxed. A thick film of grease lay on his glass. He held the glass up against the unsteady light of the candle, turning it this way and that, admiring the clarity of his fingerprints. Wine trickled down his chin. He dabbed at himself with a napkin. A sliver of meat caught his attention. He winkled it free with his thumbnail, chewed, drank some more wine.

  Parker smiled across the table at him. “You still hungry, Eddy?”

  Orwell shook his head. “No, not really.” Just nervous as hell, that’s all.

  “Want some dessert?”

  “I’m too full. How about you?”

  “Coffee would be nice.”

  “If we can find our waiter,” said Orwell. “I think he went off shift about an hour ago. Next time we come here, let’s remember to pack a flare gun.” He picked up the bottle and tipped the last inch of wine into Parker’s glass.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “I thought it was the other way around,” said Orwell. The look on Parker’s face encouraged him to add hastily: “Hey, just kidding.” He raised his glass, and saw that it was empty, and put it back down on the table in front of him with a heavy thud.

  Parker studied her watch. “It’s been a nice evening, Eddy. But I’ve had a long day, and tomorrow isn’t going to be any easier.”

  “I thought you had tomorrow off,” said Orwell.

  “So did I.”

  “Listen, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.” Both Parker and Orwell had spoken at exactly the same moment, their voices in perfect synchronization, as if they’d been rehearsing for months. They stared warily at each other. Parker recovered first.

  “Go ahead, Eddy.”

  “Ladies first.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Orwell had been waiting all through the meal for the right moment to make his move. But the right moment had never seemed to come. And now, suddenly, it had been forced upon him. Covertly, he slipped his hands inside the pocket of his suit jacket. The small sterling silver box felt smooth and cold. He flipped open the lid and ran the ball of his thumb over the faceted surface of the diamond. Half a carat. Eighteen hundred and fifty bucks. What with his health club dues and a few other odds and ends, he’d pushed his Amex card right to the limit.

  Parker asked him if something was wrong, and he had said no. But that was a lie. Something was terribly wrong. He’d planned to ask her to marry him as soon as the champagne was poured, but the fucking waiter had kept hanging around. Next thing he knew the food was already on the table and his mouth was too full to talk. Why he’d eaten
so much, he couldn’t say, especially since he’d hardly tasted a thing. And now, suddenly, the meal was over. They were about to leave and he had blown it, had failed to summon up the courage to ask for the hand of his own true love.

  Frustrated, he snapped shut the hinged lid of the little box on the delicate web of flesh between his thumb and first finger, and gave a little yelp of surprise and pain.

  “What’s wrong?” said Parker.

  The waiter hurried up, looking concerned. Orwell glared at both of them, and flung his credit card down on the table like a gauntlet.

  Outside, the air was fresh and sweet after the warm, humid, cloying atmosphere of the restaurant. There was a cool breeze coming in from the ocean, across the mouth of the harbour, and they could hear the leaves rustling in the trees behind them, a gentle whispering above the wail of a distant siren. High above them, the night sky was crowded with real stars — the genuine article, and not stars of wax. Orwell filled his lungs, exhaled slowly, He and Parker walked slowly across an open expanse of lawn towards her car.

  “Lots of ships out there tonight,” said Orwell, taking in the expanse of restless black water and the scattered ovals of light with a negligent wave of his hand.

  “Freighters,” said Parker.

  After a moment Orwell said, “Let’s count them.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Just for the hell of it.” Orwell was experiencing sudden bouts of double vision, but he was nobody’s fool. Half a bottle of champagne and the better part of two bottles of white wine had not entirely eliminated his ability to think like a fox.

  Cunningly, he squeezed shut his left eye. “One,” he said. “Two…three…”

  With each step Orwell took across the grass, his perspective seemed to shift and jump, the horizon tilted, and the relative positions of the ships was altered radically. Also, there was a tugboat off to his right somewhere, and the monotonous throbbing of the powerful diesel engines was giving him a killer headache.

  They were almost at her car when Parker said, “You finish counting yet?”

  “Just about,” said Orwell. Cannily, he said, “How about you, what’d you get?”

  “Eleven,” said Parker.

  Orwell dived headlong for the opening. “Me too,” he said. “On the nose.”

  They were very close to the car now, crossing the parking lot side by side. Parker fumbled in her bag for her keys, dropped them jangling to the asphalt. Orwell knelt and scooped them up, lost his balance and had to brace himself. He gave her the keys. To his left, a sloppily parked Corvette was crowding the Volkswagen. Orwell had trouble opening the car’s door wide enough to get in.

  Parker turned the key in the ignition. The black skirt had ridden high up on her thighs. She appeared to be unaware of how much leg she was showing, and Orwell decided not to notice. He wasn’t going to pop the question in the car. Instead, he was going to suggest that they go back to his apartment for a nightcap. Once there, he’d turn down the lights, pour a couple of stiff brandies, mix in some mood music and pick his spot.

  Parker revved the engine, put the Volks in reverse and gently let out the clutch. The car started to creep backwards. She spun the wheel with both hands, arcing the nose away from the Corvette.

  Orwell couldn’t stop himself. He leaned across the seat and put his hand on her thigh, nuzzled her neck and tried to stick his tongue in her ear.

  “Cut it out, Eddy.”

  Parker pushed him away. There was the loud crunch of metal impacting on metal, the snap-crackle-pop of safety glass shattering. The Volkswagen lurched to an abrupt stop, rocked on its springs, and was still.

  “Nice going,” said Parker. “Really terrific.”

  “Hey,” said Orwell, “it wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t driving.”

  Parker shifted from reverse to first gear, gave the Volkswagen enough gas to disengage. More glass tinkled on the pavement. She turned off the engine and reached across Orwell to flip open the glove compartment. There was a flashlight in there somewhere. It was about the size of her little finger, and the battery was weak, but the thing worked. She got out of the car to assess the damage.

  The vehicle she’d hit was parked on her side of the Volkswagen. It was a jet black Econoline van, and the front bumper looked as if someone had hit it with a bowling ball. Parker tried the door. It wasn’t locked. She opened the door and sat down on the edge of the bucket seat, half in and half out of the van, her legs dangling. She aimed the yellow beam of the flashlight at the steering column, looking for the registration papers. Incidental light gleamed on dark plastic, chrome trim. A row of glass disks on the dashboard shone like mirrors.

  The beam of the flashlight moved along. And stopped.

  Parker’s mind registered the tangle of stripped wires and the alligator clips dangling beneath the steering-wheel. She saw a rumpled suitcoat, and among the folds of dark green cloth a shining length of metal that looked like the barrel of a gun, but on closer inspection proved to be nothing more sinister than an empty aluminium cigar tube.

  The weakening beam moved over and down, across a blizzard of Kleenex, the tissue stained dark red.

  There was a noise behind her. She turned and saw Orwell getting out of the Volks.

  “Stay right there, Eddy. Don’t move an inch.”

  “Why,” said Orwell. “What’s the problem?”

  Crouching, Parker directed the faltering cone of light into the back of the van. The glossy pages of a pornographic magazine splashed light back at her. The stiff, clawed fingers of a blood-streaked hand seemed to scuttle sideways as the shadow of the hand moved beneath the moving beam of light. She saw the slashed bed, tufts of foam rubber mattress. A smooth white face. Lacquered eyes. A mouth that hung wide open and might still have been screaming. A shirt of red and black, with more holes in it than a cribbage board.

  In shock, Parker started to count the wounds.

  A black car sped past, tape-deck blaring, tyres whining on the asphalt. The sudden intrusion startled Parker, got her thinking again. She switched off the flashlight and yanked her Smith & Wesson out of her purse.

  Backing out of the van, taking care not to touch anything, she called out, “Okay Eddy, let’s go.”

  “What?” said Orwell. His voice was smudged. He was sobering rapidly, but he was still a long way from legal. Parker grabbed him by the arm and led him away from the scene of the crime, towards the bright lights of the restaurant. Parker was with the city of Vancouver’s serious crimes squad. Solving homicides was part of her job. As she hustled a confused Eddy Orwell back across the lawn, she was thinking that probably the first person she should phone was her partner, Jack Willows.

  Then she remembered that Willows had gone fishing, and that he wasn’t due back in the city for another two days…

  Chapter 7

  Mannie adjusted the temperature of the water until it was so hot it hurt. He stepped under the spray and slid shut the pebbled glass door. Water drummed on his skull and poured down his face, into his eyes. His shoulders reddened. He tasted salt — a legacy of his recent ocean voyage.

  There was a narrow green belt between the beach and the parking lot where he had dumped the van. Once he had reached this cover, Mannie stripped down to his bathing suit. He rolled his sticky bundle of cheap clothes into a ball and flung the ball high into the fork of a tree. Then he strolled down to the sea wall, across the sand, and into the ocean.

  When he was about fifty feet out, he paused to tread water and orient himself. The sky was crowded with stars. Tinker Bell had been putting in overtime. Whispered conversations and soft laughter floated across the waves. Mannie smelled beach smoke, and hot dogs. He started swimming again, taking a course that would bring him to shore about two hundred yards away from the point where he had entered the water.

  It took him a quarter of an hour to walk the mile of winding seawall to English Bay. The sight of a man in a bathing suit was not unusual; no one paid any attention to him.


  His towel, cords, leather sandals and Lacoste polo shirt lay exactly as he had left them, in a tidy pile at the end of a log. His wallet and car keys were also as he’d left them, buried under six inches of sand. He picked everything up, went into the big concrete changing room and dressed. His bathing suit was still damp. He squeezed a few drops of water out of the material, rolled the suit up in the towel, and went back outside.

  Hum of soft rubber wheels on asphalt. Blur of music. Mannie looked up as a black girl wearing a red and white diagonal striped bathing suit shot by on roller-skates. A portable radio was strapped to her narrow waist. Her hair was twisted into two stiff braids that stuck out over her head like antennae. She looked like a mobile barber’s pole. Mannie watched her undulate into the darkness. Murder always made him horny, why was that? He started up the concrete steps to street level, the slap of his sandals seeming to applaud his every step.

  The water was cooling. Mannie stooped to adjust the mix of hot and cold. He massaged a pale green worm of shampoo into his scalp, rinsed, shampooed, and rinsed again. Turning to face the spray, he used a nail-brush to get rid of the black crescents of dried blood beneath his fingernails.

  When he was satisfied that he’d washed the last of the evidence down the drain, Mannie turned off the shower. He pushed back the pebbled glass door, slipped on the Chinese silk robe with the gold dragons crawling all over it. He wiped his face with a towel and then blow-dried his sparse hair. When his hair was dry he used the stream of hot air to clear a patch of condensation from the mirror. No sign of guilt in those pale blue eyes. The smile as friendly and spontaneous as it had ever been. Satisfied with his appearance, he went into the kitchen and pulled a Molson’s Light out of the fridge.

  He drank the beer straight from the can, standing in front of the open refrigerator with his feet spread for balance and his head tilted well back.

  Hilda must have heard him, or noticed the kitchen light come on. She meowed as she came in from the back yard. Mannie took another sip of his beer and then went over to the sink and cracked open a tin of ersatz tuna. He forked the stuff into the cat’s bowl and stood back. Hilda purred as she ate; a trick of the vocal cords Mannie very much admired. He drank his beer and watched his cat eat her dinner. It was ridiculous, but the smell of the viscous pink food had triggered his appetite. He was salivating.