Act of Evil (26 page)

“No. I want to be there this time.”

“I'm glad.”

“But Mattie . . .”

“I know, there's still the other thing: I saw Brian sail away, so how did he end up under the boathouse? But if he was—killed—somewhere else, how did he get back here?”

“Could he have come back later?”

“Without his boat?”

“I see what you mean. Did the police have any ideas?”

Mattie shook her head. “They've been so busy trying to understand all the rest, I think that the discovery of Brian threw them for a complete loop. It's five years since he vanished, yet I get the feeling the police think
that
and the fire are somehow connected.”

“Could they be?”

Mattie shook her head. “Five years ago, the idea of anyone wanting this property hadn't even come up. Nothing was going on back then that could account for whatever happened to Brian. When he disappeared, no one was here but me. The last I saw of him he was sailing away, and two days later his boat was found wrecked. But now we find he wasn't lost in the sea after all. You know, I sometimes felt—sort of
close
to him when I was in that old boathouse. Who could have known that he really
was
so near. Goodness, my poor darling.”

Tears were finally flowing. Hal longed to put a comforting arm about her, but that felt too much like an intrusion. So he kept still and watched her and waited. After a while he said, “So where's Fitz?”

Mattie wiped her eyes. “I don't know exactly. Lately he's taken to going for long walks. Quite apart from Con, he's lost without his beloved boathouse. Though we know it was that terrible man who started the fire, Fitz still blames himself. He's given up smoking, as a sort of a penance, I think. Though I'm not sure for what. Like me, he's relieved that Brian's been found. But since it's murder—there, I've finally said the word—not knowing who's responsible is driving him a little crazy.”

“You too, I'd think.”

Mattie thought for a while. “Me not so much. Maybe it should. Perhaps after a while it will. But right now I'm just content to know where he is. Does that sound awful?”

“Hell, no! When something so extraordinary happens, I think everyone's got to deal with it their own way. Just so as you're coping. That's all that matters.”

Mattie smiled wanly. “Coping! Yes, I guess that's what I'm doing—though sometimes it doesn't feel like it.” She reached across and took his hand. “But you being here helps a lot. Thanks for coming back, Hal.”

Hal nodded, trying not to show the pleasure that her touch gave him. “You're very welcome. Least I could do.”

“How long can you stay?”

As long as you want
, was the phrase that came to his mind. But he said, “Well, my work's finished out here. But I don't have anything lined up right away. So—when did you plan the . . .”

“Brian's funeral? As soon as Jennifer can get back from France.”

“Well, at least until then.”

“Good. Thank you.” Mattie rose, pulling him to his feet. She moved in, placing her body squarely against his own without embarrassment, stretched up, and kissed him. The embrace was not sexy, nor yet something appropriate from a sister, rather the frank contact of two lovers who in some sense had never been apart. Finally, she disengaged and stood back with a smile. “You hungry?”

“Actually, no. I had something to eat on the boat.”

“Okay, so let's have a glass of wine and sit a while. And then . . .”

“Then?”

“Then you can help me with one last thing.”

forty-one

The house stood alone at the end of a wooded lane running off the Genoa Bay Rd. It had its own view of the water, but this was largely obscured by unkempt greenery that had grown up all around. The building was not as old as the Trail house, but large, built in the faux-cottage style favoured by well-off British émigrés after the Second World War. Time and neglect had turned it into a peeling ghost of its former glory, echoing the sad decline of its owner.

At the gate was a
FOR SALE
sign.

When Mattie rang the bell, there was a brief pause, followed by a rattling of the inside latch. Then the door was opened with surprising energy. Revealed was a small woman whom Hal had little difficulty recognizing as Con's mother; she had the same high forehead and dark, quizzical eyes. By all accounts, Claudia Ryan was younger than Mattie, but looked twenty years her senior. She was thin, her hair white, and she had the mottled, puffy features of the dedicated drinker. She was wearing a shirt and jeans, which hung like prison drab from her angular frame. In her mouth—at an incongruously jaunty angle—was a fat little cigarillo. Her glance darted swiftly between the newcomers: she was obviously cold sober.

“Mattie!” Claudia said, her voice cultivated and incongruously deep. “I'm so glad you could come.”

“Well, of course!” Mattie replied. “You don't think I'd let you leave without saying goodbye.”

Hal was introduced, and they entered, Con's mother ushering them in with a manner that—if not exactly cheery—was clearly welcoming. Hal recalled Mattie's account of Claudia's recent coldness and withdrawal, and they exchanged a glance of surprise.

The dark-paneled hall was cluttered chaos—furniture, ornaments, books, and packing cases competing for space, with hardly room to pass. They inched their way through a similarly dismembered living room to the kitchen, which as yet had been spared the rude winds of departure.

As with the Trail house, the windows looked out over the ocean, or would have done, but for the rampant outdoor foliage. The room was sparsely neat: table, four kitchen chairs, clear counters with appliances and dishes in a rack. On the stove was a simmering kettle, nearby a teapot, cups and saucers, and a plate of digestive biscuits. The table was bare except for two items: a wicked-looking kitchen knife and a full bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label whisky.

Claudia picked up the latter objects and with a grimace put them aside. “Reminders! If I open one, I may as well cut my throat with the other. Maybe it'll work. The jury's still out. Will you have tea?”

They both accepted and settled at the kitchen table. From what Hal had heard of past behavior, it seemed that a radical change had occurred in Claudia Ryan. A short time ago she'd lost her only son and apparently had exhibited all the expected reactions of shock and grief. But now that phase was definitely over. Though they'd just met, Hal felt that this was not just a persona donned for company. Physically ravaged she might be, but mentally Claudia seemed very clear, as if she'd turned some sort of corner.

After they'd chatted, a little awkwardly at first, Claudia said quietly, “Mattie, isn't it nice to think that at this very moment our boys may be together—in some place we can't begin to imagine—goofing off just like they used to?”

“It's certainly a . . . a pleasant thought.”

Claudia smiled, and sipped her tea. “But it's just as likely that they're nowhere at all. That they're both gone into nothing and that's an end to it. But either way—at least for Con—it's for the best.”

Mattie looked startled. “Claudia, what are you saying? Surely you don't mean that Con's better . . . ?”

“Dead?” The other woman sighed then deliberately relit her cigarillo. “I used to think that Con's life being so messed up was his parents' fault: his dad's for running off, mine for becoming a drunk. But none of that seemed to matter when he was young. Then he was happy as a boy could be. And clever! Good grades at school, as you well know. And all that lovely stuff he wrote; poems and stories. You said he could be a real writer. Remember?”

Mattie nodded palely, “Of course.”

“But after Brian disappeared, everything changed. Con just wasn't—
right
anymore. I don't know if he blamed himself. For not being there. For not being able even to
find
his friend. But afterwards, something just went out of him . . .

“Me being a lush didn't help, of course. He was disgusted with me and I can't blame him. Thank God he at least had your family. After losing your own boy, I sometimes wondered how you could even bear to look at Con. But you did, and it was the only good thing in his life: hanging out at your place, fishing with Fitz, just being around where he and Brian used to play. I don't know what he'd have done without that.”

The others watched silently as Claudia extinguished her cigarillo and poured more tea. Finally she looked directly at Mattie. “Dear, I don't know what happened with the boathouse fire, how it started, or who was to blame. If other people were involved, I certainly hope they're punished. But one thing I
do
know: helping to save your dad would have made Con very proud. I don't mean to sound sentimental, but I know he'd have considered the swap—his life for Fitz's—a fair bargain. And if he'd also known the fire would help find his friend . . . I don't think he'd have asked for more.”

The room was very still. Mattie, with her cup half to her lips, had tears in her eyes. Hal felt a lump in his own throat.

“As for my drinking,” Claudia continued, “who really knows. Maybe it's just shock that's keeping me sober right now. But, believe me, I'm going to try like hell to make it stick. Mattie, you lost a son
and
a husband, but you didn't give up. You just—what did we used to say?—kept on trucking. Taking care of the ones who were left and being a wonderful teacher. You rebuilt your life, while I pissed mine away. I've no excuse, I was just shallow and stupid.” She shook her head sharply as Mattie made to interrupt. “No! It's true. If there's any hope for me, I must start by being totally honest.

“And now I know I have a simple choice: either to follow my son into the dark, or try—even though I'm a beat-up old wreck—to follow your example, Mattie:
do
something with what's left of my life. As you know, I've always had money. Too much for my own good, probably. If I'd had to get out and hustle my buns, maybe there'd have been less time for self-indulgence. Anyway, I'm going to try my best to make a new start, Not exciting but
better
. And
AA
full time, of course, to keep me on track. I've got a sister in Kelowna who had a stroke last year. I'm going to stay with her awhile. Give her some help, if I can. Then I'll try to figure how I can use this damn money of mine to do some good.”

Claudia rose, poured more tea, sipped, then made a face. “Damn, I hate this stuff. But I'm going to grow to like it again if it kills me.” She moved around the table to Mattie. “So that's it, dear. I wanted to say goodbye and thank you for all you've done. But mostly I wanted to make sure you understood what I know: Con's death was
his
choice: whatever the circumstances, he wouldn't have had it any other way.”

After that there was little more to be said. Mattie told Claudia about the plans for Brian's funeral, but Claudia made her apologies and begged off. She was leaving for her sister's tomorrow and was unlikely to be back. On their way out, she asked them to wait and hurried upstairs. Presently, she returned, carrying a small bundle, which she handed to Mattie.

“Con's old notebooks. Came across them while I was packing. English compositions, mostly. I thought you might like them.”

Mattie looked pleased. She took the books, extending the move into a hug, so strong that the thin woman gasped and laughed. Having planted a kiss on the white hair, she finally backed off.

They said goodbyes and left. As they swung the car around to head home, Claudia Ryan was still standing by the peeling front door, thin arm raised in mute farewell.

forty-two

They arrived back to find unexpected activity. Lights were burning in the dining room and busy sounds were coming from that direction. Entering quietly, they discovered Fitz hard at work. A tarp had been thrown across the table and upon this rested a thick chunk of log. The sounds they'd heard were of mallet on chisel. Already a considerable pile of shavings had been created, flowing from the table onto the floor. Sensing their presence, Fitz glanced up briefly.

“Doing Brian's boat again.” he said, without pausing in his labors. “Dandy piece of cedar, eh?”

“Yes!” Mattie replied. “Where did you get it?”

“Hauled it out of the woods a while back. Hadn't got round to cutting it up, so I hadn't yet taken it down to the . . .” He trailed off. Since the fire, the boathouse was not easily mentioned. “Once I'd made up my mind, I couldn't wait to get started. Sorry about the mess.”

“Who cares!” Mattie's eyes were shining. “I'm just glad to see you working again. I loved that boat. Of all your carvings, I think it was the best.”

Hal found he could remember it vividly, the storm-swept sails and heroic figure alone at the wheel. That haunting creation, along with the rest of Fitz's work, was now ashes. Yet it still lived in the old man's mind, from which it was evidently about be reborn.

However, now there was a problem: the central premise, lone sailor bravely fighting the elements, was invalid, since Brian had not in fact been lost at sea. Unless after drowning, his body had washed up under his own boathouse—an unimaginable coincidence—the only possible conclusion was that he'd been murdered in an unknown location, his body then returned to be hidden in the one place no one would think to look.

But that was not being talked about now. Mattie must have gone over it with the police, but she'd not as yet mentioned it to Hal and he hadn't liked to bring it up. As for Fitz, since the fire he hadn't said much of anything. For now, recovery, or acceptance, or whatever was happening in his beleaguered spirit, seemed to require the re-creation of the boat carving. If that's what it took, more power to him. Life had to go on. But for Hal, who found it impossible to ignore the mystery of what had really happened to Brian, all this seemed extremely strange.