Wilf had been turning the papers over, trying to keep up.
“When I first started working here,” Carole said, “I had to go through all the active client files and more or less memorize them. Dorothy Dale made me.”
Wilf picked up a sealed envelope.
“What’s that?” Carole asked.
“It says ‘Last Will and Testament, Samuel Marshall Cruikshank.’”
Carole snatched the envelope away. “I didn’t put that in there.”
“Maybe my father did.” Wilf took it back. “It’s his handwriting.”
“Well anyway, it’s sealed. You can’t open it.” Carole made another grab but she was too late. Wilf was tearing it open with his teeth.
Carole retreated to her desk. She could see herself being firmly escorted out the front door by Clarence McLauchlin at nine o’clock the following Monday morning. It would give the town something else to talk about. She was becoming a regular freak show.
She glanced back at Wilf. He had pinned the envelope under his sling and was drawing out a handwritten sheet of paper. He unfolded and studied it for a moment.
Carole looked up at the clock. Five minutes to go.
“Who’s Adrienne O’Dell?” Wilf said.
“Why?”
“Mr. Cruikshank left everything he owned to an Adrienne O’Dell.”
“That can’t be right.” Carole got up from her desk and with a surprising display of speed crossed over to Wilf and snatched up the will again.
“Is that Cruikshank’s handwriting?”
Carole was too busy reading to answer.
“We’ve got enough samples of his signature in these files anyway. And a couple of handwritten notes from him to Dad. We should be able to tell.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.” Carole was staring at the will as if it had gone out of its way to personally offend her.
“Why doesn’t it make any sense?”
“How would he even know Adrienne O’Dell, let alone leave everything to her? She’s just, she’s one of those O’Dells!” In sympathetic shock, a soft lock of her hair came loose and fell slowly over her one eye.
“The O’Dells are not ringing a bell.”
“Half of them are drunks. Half of them have a new baby every year!”
“Oh, right. Those O’Dells.” Wilf had a vague memory of being very young and watching a hopelessly drunk man stop to hug each hydro pole as he made his weary way along the street.
“Adrienne was a grade behind me. Actually she was the only one who ever made it to high school. She tried really hard.”
“Where is she now?”
“But that’s why it’s so strange. She works in a dress shop. How could old Mr. Cruikshank know her?”
“What dress shop?”
“It’s just down the street.”
“Do you think she’d be there now?”
Carole could feel her face heating up. She tried to speak firmly. “You can’t tell her about this will. There’s been some mistake. You’ll have to wait until your father arrives back home.”
Wilf got up on his feet. He began to button his overcoat “What side is it on?”
“What?”
“The dress shop.”
Carole put the will back in its envelope. She put the envelope back in its file and carried all three files back to the filing cabinet. She put the files back where they belonged and slammed the cabinet shut.
“I’m not going to tell her about the will.” Wilf was pushing his way through the gate.
“What are you going to do then?”
“I just want to have a look at her.”
“You think someone drowned Mr. Cruikshank in his bathtub, and now you want to meet the sole heir of his complete estate just to have a look at her. I could be fired, you know?”
Wilf looked back at Carole, at her tall willowy figure standing tensely on the other side of the little wooden fence. For some reason she looked very attractive. “I’ll be careful. She won’t suspect a thing.”
Carole made a face. She brushed back her wayward lock of hair. “It’s after five o’clock.”
“Meaning what?”
Meaning nothing, Carole thought to herself. Meaning I should just shut up and go home. “Meaning it’s time to close the office and since you’re going to do whatever you’re going to do anyway, well, I suppose I could just show you where the shop is.”
Wilf and Carole walked down Main Street together. Wilf glanced over at her from time to time ready to give her a smile of encouragement but Carole continued to stare grimly ahead. She was almost as tall as Wilf, his bad hip had dropped his height by almost an inch, and he could tell by her slight hesitations that she was having difficulty walking in time to his slow halting gait. He tried to speed up.
As they neared the end of the business section Carole pointed across the street to a lighted shop window. Wilf thanked her very much, said he’d see her first thing the next morning and aimed himself through the five o’clock traffic toward the other side. A bell tinkled over his head as he pushed through the shop’s door. He could hear a rough voice coming from the back, rising in volume and then falling abruptly silent.
A tall man in a long yellowish leather coat hurried toward him, maneuvering sideways along the narrow centre aisle to brush by the racks of clothes. He passed without a word or a look, yanked the door open and headed out into the dark.
The door slammed shut, the bell tinkled merrily behind him.
Wilf moved along the aisle, pushing through the first phalanx of women’s dresses. A wave of warm, faintly perfumed air greeted him. He tried not to entangle his cane, his bad leg, knock anything down. When he looked up he was surprised to see a young woman standing in the middle of the store. She was short and slight, her shiny black hair cut almost as close to her head as a boy’s. She didn’t seem the least upset over the tall man’s abrupt departure.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“Hello,” Wilf replied, “I’m Wilf McLauchlin.” He rested his cane against the front of his coat and held out his hand.
The young woman smiled and walked up to him. She was at least a head shorter than he was. She put out a small hand. “I’m Adrienne. Hi.”
Wilf took her hand. It was small and soft and surprisingly warm.
“Can I help you with something?” she said.
Wilf wondered which it was, either she hadn’t heard the news yet that her benefactor was dead and therefore she remained untroubled, or she’d known for days and still remained untroubled. He looked into her eyes. They were a wash of pale violet, endless as a trackless sky. He couldn’t tell.
“What are you looking for?”
“Oh. Just a present.”
“That’s nice. And who’s the present for?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Well, that’s even nicer. Do you have anything in mind?”
Wilf released her hand. “I was thinking maybe a sweater.”
Adrienne smiled again and walked between two racks of clothes toward a shelf of sweaters. Wilf followed her.
“Do you know your girlfriend’s size?”
“I’m not sure. She’s tall. About five ten maybe. A bit skinny.”
Adrienne turned to him. “Slim you mean.”
“That’s it,” Wilf said. “Slim.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He wondered if it had to do with the thick press of women’s clothes secluding them in the otherwise empty store. Her frailty, her smallness. And it seemed to Wilf that she knew she was vulnerable in all that crush of clothes and that the thought of it amused her. A distinct message of availability wafted through the warm perfumed air, though it didn’t seem to be anything she was actually doing, just an innate part of her. Just palpably there. It struck Wilf as extraordinary.
“We have some really lovely sweaters. Does your girlfriend wear cashmere?”
“I’m not sure.”
And it struck Wilf that if only he had the courage to reach out and touch her right then, touch her anywhere, she wouldn’t have moved away.
She reached up for some sweaters.
Wilf studied the curve of her lower back where her blouse and her skirt met. And the lift of her taut behind. He could feel cold sweat trickling down his side.
“Here’s a lovely one,” she said.
He could see Samuel Cruikshank’s strong knotted arms in the muted light in the bathroom; he could see his long veined torso.
Adrienne turned back to him. “Does she have a favourite colour?”
“Pink,” Wilf replied.
* * *
Carole was waiting across the street when Wilf left the shop. He could see her dark outline standing in front of a light from a store window, the shadow of her frosted breath rising. He hadn’t expected her to be there.
He crossed the street and nudged her gently with his shoulder. He was carrying a gift-wrapped package under his good arm. “Here’s a present for you.”
“I don’t want a present.” She was shivering in the cold, but she didn’t move away.
“Take it,” Wilf said.
“I just wanted to tell you. That man who came out of the shop when you went in?”
“What about him?”
“That was Mr. Cruikshank’s son.”
“How do you know?”
Carole looked upset. “I know. That was Frank Cruikshank. I’ve seen him in court enough times.”
“I bought you a wool sweater. I thought it was more practical than cashmere.”
“I don’t want it,” Carole said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three nights a week, Clarence McLauchlin had a woman who worked in the high-school cafeteria come in and cook a hot meal. On the other nights, it was his custom to eat out, usually at a favourite restaurant on the edge of town, though on occasion as far afield as the small cities of Brantford or Galt. This was not one of the woman’s nights.
Wilf ate alone in the large kitchen, aimlessly stirring around the canned stew he’d heated up for supper and thinking about the man in Cruikshank’s backyard. He tried to concentrate on figuring out how he could leave no tracks in the snow, what the trick was, did it have something to do with the rags on his feet, but he couldn’t sustain this train of thought very long. His mind kept going back to what his body had already absorbed, absorbed so well that to think about it at all brought on waves of vertigo. The truth was he’d seen a man who wasn’t there.
Some of the lads in the hospitals had seen things. Terrible things, apparently, because they’d end up crawling under their beds or shivering in a corner or worst of all just screaming. Screaming at nothing.
Wilf tried to picture the round window by the stairs, the frost melting away under his breath, the man’s stark face looking up, desperate hungry eyes. At the time it had seemed to Wilf that the man had wanted to tell him something, something no one else could possibly know.
A loose window rattled in the side door. Someone was knocking. Mr. Gill, Wilf guessed. Alf Gill was the neighbour his father had asked to keep the furnace going while he was away. Wilf had said he could look after it himself.
“What if you fall down the cellar steps? Who would know?”
“Jesus Christ,” Wilf had said with an equal measure of dismissiveness and irritation, but his father had been adamant. While Wilf was staying in the house alone, Alf Gill would have to come in to look after the furnace.
Wilf picked up his cane and opened the door that led to the landing. Andy’s face was peering in through the window.
“It’s open,” Wilf called out. No one bothered to lock their doors in the town. No one but Samuel Cruikshank, Wilf suddenly thought.
Andy was dressed in his police uniform although it was only seven o’clock and his shift didn’t start until nine. He untied his boots and came up into the kitchen in his sock feet. “What are you eating?”
“A can of stew.” Wilf sat back down at the table. “It was always canned this or canned that. I’m trying to relive my life as an Air Force hero. Want some?”
Andy looked down at Wilf’s plate. “I don’t think so.” He took off his cap and sat down. “So I hear you went for a header in some old man’s bathtub.”
“Want a coffee?”
“Sure. I’ll get it.”
“I’ll get it, for chrissake, I can do something!” Wilf was just as surprised as Andy looked to hear himself flare up.
“I wasn’t suggesting you couldn’t.”
Wilf pulled himself up off his chair. “I was trying to see if he was still breathing. It was an accident; I slipped.” He limped over to the counter, purposely leaving his cane behind.
“Must have been unpleasant, though.”
Wilf filled up a large mug and hobbled back without spilling a drop though his hip hurt like hell.
“Thanks,” Andy said.
Wilf eased himself back down. “I’ve had my share of unpleasant experiences. I’ve seen lots of dead bodies, son.”
Andy had to smile. When Wilf got pissed off at him, he always called him “Son.” He’d been doing it since they were twelve years old.
“And not always from ten thousand feet in the air.”
“All right,” Andy said.
Wilf began to stir his stew around again. Andy sipped his coffee and watched him.
“Have you read the police report?” Wilf finally asked.
“Haven’t been downtown yet. Bolton, you remember him, right, Ted Bolton? He’s a cop now. Anyway, he knows we’re good friends so he called to tell me more or less what happened. You know what this town is like.”
“Did he tell you what the housekeeper had to say?”
“More or less.”
It was obvious why Andy was heading downtown two hours before his shift started. Wilf could almost hear Linda demanding that he check in on Wilf first just to make sure he was all right. Andy wouldn’t have come over on his own volition, he wouldn’t have wanted to make a big deal out of it, he wouldn’t have wanted to risk embarrassing Wilf. To Linda that would have been beside the point.
Wilf stabbed a piece of beef with his fork. “Did Bolton say anything about somebody forcing their way into Cruikshank’s house? Shattered window. Broken lock. Anything like that?”
“No.” Andy stared across the table at him. “You know it was an accidental death, don’t you? You know the old man had a heart attack?”
“That’s what Doc Robinson said.”
“That’s right. And he’s the coroner.”
“I just wonder if anyone checked the house. That’s all.”
“Well, sure. They would have.”
“Good.”
All these questions. The pursuit of a crime, if there was a crime. It had all felt irresistibly compelling to Wilf and it still did. And dangerous, too, as if he were letting go of some essential part of himself, as if he were feeling his way into a dark place. He had already involved Carole and to have her company felt better. A society of two in the dark. And after all, Andy was a cop.
“There weren’t any towels in Cruikshank’s bathroom,” Wilf said.
Andy just looked at him.
That was all the encouragement Wilf required. He began to tell him everything he and Carole had found out, including walking in on Frank Cruikshank arguing with Adrienne in the dress shop. “I’ve asked Carole to snoop around a little tonight, see if she can come up with a connection between the old man and Adrienne O’Dell.”
Andy had been sitting tilted back a little in his chair. Now he got up and looked out the kitchen window though there was nothing he could see. “Poor Carole Birley,” Andy said. “She was engaged to be married to Donny Mason. Remember him? He’s younger than us. Anyway, he came back from overseas with a hot little number from Scotland. A redhead. And a baby.”
Wilf nodded. That was interesting information actually, but he knew Andy was stalling.
Andy started to search through his pockets for his cigarettes. He took his time lighting one up. “I think you’re way out on this whole deal, Wilf.”
“Explain the ice on the floor then.”
“A pipe burst, water pooled behind the wall, leaked out and froze.”
Wilf hadn’t thought of that. He felt like he’d suddenly been jerked back about a foot. “Explain the will.”
“Well, I don’t know, but I bet there’s an explanation that doesn’t include Adrienne O’Dell and Frank Cruikshank drowning the old bugger.”
Explain the man in the backyard, Wilf felt like saying. Explain Adrienne O’Dell’s eyes.
* * *
The chain slowly drew the squared-off timber into the saw. The saw began to scream. Duncan was getting impatient. The job was taking longer than he’d thought. He hadn’t had his supper yet. Neither had Eric, the teenager who lived on the farm next door and helped out whenever Duncan needed an extra pair of hands.
Eric was crouched down watching the taut chain for slippage and pushing at the huge timber with an iron-tipped pole. Duncan was at the other end holding on to an inch-thick plank as it peeled off the main piece of timber. Seventy-five planks in all. Six to go.
Duncan eyed the remains of the timber they were ripping. He could usually get ten 1” x 8” planks sixteen-feet-long out of a good-sized piece of white pine. He was either going to be one plank short on this one, and then he’d have to half kill himself getting another log set in place, or it would come out just right. He’d dress the full order of seventy-five planks down to exactly eight-inch widths in the morning. That was a job he could do himself. He liked working by himself, but some heavier jobs required the help of Eric, and other jobs required a whole crew.
His mother had had no problem getting a crew of men together when she’d needed one, mainly the hired help off the nearby farms. And years before that when his father was alive he’d had two full-time men on the payroll. But times had changed. There weren’t many hired men working on farms anymore, for one thing. And the factories were booming; there seemed to be good jobs everywhere. Duncan didn’t have the faintest idea how to hire a crew of men.
After Mrs. Getty’s funeral all the neighbours had wondered how Duncan would make out being left alone in that tidy frame house with its lumberyard to the one side, the shop, the stable and forty acres of bush at the back. That was three years ago and to everyone’s surprise Duncan seemed to be making out more or less all right. His mother’s old customers were going out of their way to give him small orders to fill, which he managed either by cutting out a few trees from his own bush or from time to time hiring on to help mark and cut trees out of some neighbour’s bush lot, taking half-pay and keeping a few extra logs for himself. It was all working out, which seemed a kind of miracle to anyone who could remember the odd-looking boy he used to be, hurrying along the backroads at any time of day or night, eyes bright as two lights, nose continually running, breathlessly heading toward a destination no one else could see.
His mother had to admit back then that she could never keep Duncan in the house, but that was many years ago. The only thing anyone could say against Duncan these days was that he had a tendency to get drunk in public places. He was a harmless, good-natured kind of drunk though, wrapping his huge arms around anyone who made the mistake of getting within range and seeming to look younger the drunker he got until finally that same little boy’s face would shine out of his almost grownup one, a young boy’s face full of a dreamy and dazed wonder.
Duncan turned off the saw. He didn’t have to set another log. The seventy-fifth board had peeled off successfully, leaving behind only the thinnest sliver of rough timber. Eric took off for his home a mile up the road, walking quickly through the cold night. Duncan went into the back kitchen, kicked off his boots and hung up his saw-dusted coveralls just as his mother had taught him to do.
He pushed through another door into the main kitchen, turned on the light and looked around. And just like every night, he couldn’t help but feel proud. Numerous models of airplanes he’d assembled himself hung down from the ceiling on invisible threads. They swayed slowly, spun around in the draft he’d let in. Every available space on the walls was covered with pictures of tanks and warships and planes and artillery pieces and anything at all to do with the war. He’d taped up pictures all through the rest of the house as well. Some were black and white but his favourite ones were in full colour. He had galleries of portraits. Generals. Medal winners. Flying aces. All the local boys, too. Any time anyone in a uniform had their picture in the town’s newspaper Duncan would add it to his collection. Even now with the war finished for over eighteen months he still might see something in a magazine or a newspaper he just had to cut out.
Duncan walked through his model planes and smiled to himself. It was like he was flying too, peering into their cockpits, friend or foe, circling around, speeding away.
He opened a cupboard door and stared for a while at the sparse contents. He’d have to eat something sometime but for now he thought he’d have a drink. He picked up a bottle of whisky, took a swig and sat down in his father’s broken-down old sofa chair. He turned on the radio. Charlie McCarthy and Edgar Bergen were arguing about something.
Duncan took another drink and stared at a news article he’d recently cut out and taped to the wall. It was all about the banquet given in Wilf McLauchlin’s honour. Of all the local warriors, Wilf McLauchlin was Duncan’s favourite. Too bad the picture wasn’t in colour. Wilf, wearing a suit instead of his uniform for some reason, was standing behind a table full of plates and dishes and glasses and he was making a speech. He looked like a movie star. Only better, Duncan thought, because he wasn’t pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. Wilf had flown higher than anyone could imagine. Faster, too. He had protected everyone in the town and he had been glad to do it even though he had paid a high price. He was a hero.
And his father was Mr. McLauchlin. And Carole worked for him in his office.
Duncan took another drink. It burned nicely going down. Maybe one day, once he got up the nerve to ask Carole to marry him and she said yes and they had a big wedding, Wilf would stand up and give a speech just like he did at his own banquet.
“I know Duncan,” Wilf would say, “and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was too big he would have been flying a Spitfire Mk 14 right beside me. I am proud to call him my friend.”
And Carole would turn and look up at her new husband, and she’d smile her wonderful smile just as if he had flown an Mk 14, and they’d stand up together and cut the cake.
He’d seen lots of pictures of other happy couples doing just that. He would have his hand on the knife and her hand would rest on the top of his hand, as gentle and soft as a leaf.
Duncan heaved a sigh. How he wanted to be high up somewhere.
Oh god, how he wanted to fly.
* * *
Wilf came into his father’s study and flicked on the light. All the other rooms had a Spartan look as might be expected in a large house occupied by a long-time widower. No female decorative flair anywhere to be seen, or more importantly to be felt. But at least the study looked more lived in with its two creased leather chairs inviting a friendly conversation, the iron-grated fireplace, the faded but still warmly coloured oriental rug, the tall shelves of well-worn common law and statute books, reference books, novels and histories, Shakespeares and Shaws, philosophies, poetry.