Moonheart Read online

  Tucker shook his head. “You’ve got to stall him. Give us a couple of days. Foy can’t have gone far. Hengwr disappeared in Ottawa and, unless what Foy told Gagnon was a crock of shit, he’s gonna hang around here looking for him. Then we pick him up.”

  “You’ve got a way with words, John. No doubt about it.” Madison shoved the operation’s file into his briefcase. “I’ll do what I can. Do you have time for some lunch?”

  “ ’Fraid not. I’ve got to check out a couple of leads. You remember that stuff we found in Hengwr’s room? The stuff Benson’s been checking out?”

  “Ted’s got something?”

  “Not exactly. What he has got is some guy that came into the museum with a bone disc that he wants to get dated. Thing is, it matches the set from Hengwr’s room.”

  Madison nodded. “I can use that with the Minister. Following some hot leads.”

  Tucker grinned at the Superintendent’s sarcasm.

  “It’s the only break we’ve got so far, Wally. I’m going to take a run down and have a talk with this guy. Benson’s stalling him for us.”

  “If you get anything. . . .”

  Tucker smiled. “I know where to reach you. Kissing ass in the Solicitor General’s office.”

  “Get out of here!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  They both laughed.

  Chapter Five

  On Wednesday morning, Sara woke up feeling better than she had in ages. She wasn’t normally a morning person; even with ten hours sleep, it took her two coffees and as many cigarettes just to creak her eyes open and start the gears turning. But today she woke up vibrant and alert.

  Her alarm clock informed her that it was eight-thirty. But instead of burrowing her head back under the pillows, she jumped out of bed and set about getting dressed. A few minutes later, she headed down the stairs to the Silkwater Kitchen wearing jeans, moccasins and a pink sweatshirt with a picture of David Bowie in his “Ashes to Ashes” clown makeup on the front.

  There was a fresh pot of coffee simmering on the stove‌—a sure sign that she wasn’t the first up, she deduced with what she thought was a splendid show of deduction for this hour of the morning. She poured herself a mugful and settled down at the table that overlooked the garden to roll her first cigarette of the day. She leaned back in her chair and contentedly blew a wreath of silvery-grey smoke up to the ceiling.

  She was seriously considering even having some breakfast, when she happened to glance out the window. Blue’s new friend Sally was in the garden, wearing a burgundy Danskin top, leotards, leg warmers and black Chinese slippers. She was performing some esoteric warm-up ritual that looked like a cross between ballet and Kung Fu. Her movements were slow and deliberate and she spent as much time holding a pose as getting to it.

  Sara watched until Sally finished, then got up to get more coffee as Sally headed for the kitchen.

  “Morning!” Sara called and motioned to the pot. “What do you take in it?”

  “Just black, thanks.”

  “You must be freezing.”

  “It’s not so bad, once you get going.” Sally slid into a seat across from Sara’s. “You’re up early. Blue said to go up and give you a shake if you hadn’t dragged yourself down by nine-thirty. Said it was the only way to get you up.”

  “Usually is,” Sara replied, pushing Sally’s mug across the table to her. “I don’t know what’s come over me today. I just feel great. Alive! I’ll probably collapse around noon when my brain finally realizes how long it’s been awake.” She looks so serene, Sara thought, studying Sally over the brim of her mug.

  “What was that you were doing?” she asked.

  “Tai chi. It’s a meditation of sorts.”

  “Oh, yeah? Looks like something Bruce Lee would do.” Sara made a couple of quick chopping motions in the air with the flats of her hands. “Slowed down.”

  “They’re quite similar, actually. Only I like to think that the martial arts are just tai chi sped up.”

  They both laughed.

  “So what’re you up to today?” Sara asked.

  “We’re going for a ride up the Gatineau. If Blue ever wakes up.”

  “Brrr.” Sara shivered. “You’d think he’d put his bike away by this time of year. But he never does.”

  “Not till the first snowfall, he told me. It won’t be that bad.”

  “Wanna bet? I can lend you a parka. Then again, the way you were prancing around outside just now. . . .”

  Sally shook her head. “I don’t feel the temperature when I’m doing tai chi.”

  “My offer still stands, then. For the parka.”

  “I think Blue’d be insulted. I’ve convinced him that I’m terribly hardy. It wouldn’t do to blow the image too soon. Are you working today?”

  “Umhmm.”

  “At the risk of seeming very snoopy, I’ve been wondering about something. You don’t really have to work. So why do you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Gets me out, I suppose. The House can get such a grip on you that if you didn’t have to go out, you could spend the rest of your life here, wandering aimlessly through the halls like a ghost. Sometimes I’m not so sure that there aren’t ghosts in here, you know, doing just that.”

  Sara glanced at the old Coca-Cola clock that hung above the kitchen door. The time was nine-thirty.

  “Speaking of work,” she said, “I’ve got to get going and open up. You should drop by sometime. I’ll show you the wonders of the antiquarian business‌—sure to dazzle your mind and baffle your senses. Or something like that.”

  Sally laughed. “Okay. I’ll take you up on that.”

  “Are you going to be around for awhile?” Sara asked. “I mean in Ottawa.”

  “I think so. I’ve only been here a few months, but I really like it here‌—being with Blue and everything.”

  “I hope it works out,” Sara said. “Blue’s never had much luck with relationships. Most nice ladies don’t look any further than his biker image. And as for the women who are are [sic] attracted by it‌—” She put her hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “That’s okay. I know what you meant.”

  “How’d you guys meet, anyway? All I know is one day you weren’t here, and the next you were. With Blue.”

  “We met in the National Art Gallery, of all places. It was so unexpected. I noticed him‌—how can you miss him?‌—standing and staring at some piece of modern art, just shaking his head, and I couldn’t figure him out. There he was in his jean jacket and T-shirt, pierced ear and ponytail, going through the gallery like the art critic from The New York Times or something. Very serious.”

  “He gets like that.”

  “Well, I know that now. I suppose it’s not very fair judging people by their appearances, but it just seemed so strange. I was feeling very bold, I suppose, so I marched up to him and introduced myself. I just had to know what he was doing there. I suppose I was expecting a cocky answer or something, but he started talking very earnestly about this painting‌—I forget who it was by, but it was one of those dreadful abstract things that I’ve never cared for‌—and what with one thing and another, we ended up going for lunch. And then, after a”‌—Sally smiled‌—“whirlwind romance, I ended up here.”

  “That’s perfect! It’s like the plot of one of those Hollywood musicals‌—you know, with Bing Crosby and Marjorie Reynolds. So. Are you going to stay?”

  “In the House? I’m not sure. I think so. I’d like to. It depends on how it all works out. Everything’s happened kind of suddenly.”

  “Well, I hope it works out. I think it’s just great.” Sara looked at the clock again. “Oh, Lord. I’ve got to run. I’ll see you later. Maybe you can show me some of that tai chi of yours‌—if you don’t mind someone who’s a total klutz and stumbles all over herself.”

  “I’d love to. It’ll give me someone to work with.”

  Sara smiled. “I don’t know. If it entails getting up this early eve
ry morning . . . Today’s the exception more than the rule, you see. But I’d like to give it a try. See you tonight. That is if you make it back from your adventure in the frozen wilderness.”

  “I think I’ll survive.”

  Sara raced up to her room, grabbed her coat, a scarf and her knapsack, and headed for the store, her hair blowing every which way in the wind. She was a couple of blocks from the House before she realized that she was still wearing her moccasins, but by then she decided she was too far along to go back and get her boots. The sky was overcast, but maybe it wouldn’t rain. She grinned to herself. Today was the sort of day where nothing could go wrong. Last night’s dream was as far from her thoughts as her old beau Stephan was. And she wasn’t thinking of him at all.

  Sara was sitting in front of her Selectric in The Merry Dancers, with Alan Stivell’s harp music trickling from the speakers above the door. The sense of heightened awareness, or clarity, that she’d woken up with hadn’t deserted her yet. In fact she’d just figured out what to do with her main protagonist‌—something that had been holding her up for a week or so.

  She was in the middle of typing up the reactions of her lead female character when the phone rang.

  “Damn,” she muttered, missing the ‘T’ key so that “heart” came out reading “heary.” She frowned at the phone, willing it to stop ringing, gave up after the fifth shrill jangle and picked it up. “The Merry Dancers, good afternoon,” she said. “This is a recording. If you would like to leave a message, please speak clearly and‌—”

  “Sairey?”

  “Oh, hi, Jamie. What’s up?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know where to begin. Remember I said I’d take your painting into Potter’s this morning? I decided to go up to the museum and show Ted Benson your little bone button first. I knew he’d have to send out to Energy, Mines and Resources on Booth Street, so I thought I’d get that done right away.”

  “Jamie, what’s happened? Your voice sounds all jittery.”

  “I. . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’ve just finished an interview with an Inspector Tucker from the RCMP. It seems that your bone button was stolen from an art exhibit and‌—”

  “Stolen? But that’s impossible! I found it in that box in the back of the shop. It’d been there for years.”

  “Well, I know that. I tried to tell this Inspector and he‌—he’s a real thug, Sairey. Talks like he stepped out of a Mickey Spillane novel.”

  Sara’s heartbeat had picked up.

  “What happened?” she asked. “What did you tell them? Did you tell them about the other stuff I found?”

  She stared at her ring and closed her fist protectively around it.

  “Let me start at the beginning,” Jamie said. “I went up to Ted’s office and told him what I needed done. He just smiled and said, ‘No problem,’ until I took the button out of my pocket. I knew something was wrong right away, because he got this strained look on his face as though I’d‌—I don’t know. Pulled down my pants. He went all white and asked me where I’d gotten it. I started to tell him, but then he said never mind and asked me to wait in his office for a moment. I guess that’s when he called the police‌—or this Inspector Tucker at any rate.

  “When he came back he seemed more normal. Offered me a tea and what not. He was quite casual, asked to have a look at the button, how you were, how was my writing going. He managed to kill a half hour or so with all that‌—not that I was suspicious at the time. I realized all this after. Anyway, a knock came at the door and then the Inspector was there‌—filling the bloody doorway, Sairey! He’s a big man‌—the sort that has ‘authority’ stamped all over his face.”

  Sara had a sudden vision of a policeman with the word “authority” stamped on his forehead in red ink. It didn’t make her smile.

  “He laid right into me,” Jamie said. “Wanted to know where I’d gotten it, why had I brought it in to Ted‌—I think I’ll ask Blue to stomp on him for me. Do you think Blue would do that?”

  “Don’t ask him,” Sara said. Because Blue would. If Jamie or she asked him to.

  “But imagine,” Jamie said. “Calling the police on me. It just goes to show you. You can’t trust anyone anymore.”

  “Why did he want to know all about the bone disc?” Sara asked.

  “Well, that’s what I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me. ‘Confidential,’ he said pompously, then gave me a look as though I was some sort of common criminal. After that he wanted to know who I was, what I did for a living, and kept asking Ted to confirm whether I was telling the truth or not. I got mad then. I refused to talk to either of them anymore and demanded a call to my lawyer. The Inspector just looked at me strangely, then said: ‘Go ahead. I’m not booking you yet, so it might be a wasted trip for him.’ ”

  “Oh, God! Jamie, are you in jail now?”

  “No. I’m at a pay phone. I wanted to call you right away in case this Inspector Tucker decides to go see you at the store. In fact, I’m sure he’ll be down there.”

  “What for?”

  “For more information. You know he wouldn’t give the button back? ‘I can’t do that, I’m afraid,’ he says, all official-like. Then he writes me a receipt for it. A receipt!”

  “Jamie? What am I going to say if he shows up here?”

  “Nothing! Don’t tell him anything. Call MacNabb. You have the right to have a lawyer present. In fact, you should probably call Phillip right now. We’ll sue them for . . . for . . . I don’t know. Harassment.”

  Sara kept glancing at the door, expecting to see a police car pull up outside, siren wailing, light flashing. They’d rush in with their guns out and take her away. They’d ask her about the ring and the painting and everything. But they were her treasures, and they didn’t have any right to them. Jamie’s friend had left them to him, and Jamie’d told her she could keep them.

  “Sairey? Are you still there?”

  “I was just thinking. They can’t really do anything, can they, Jamie? I mean, we know that stuffs been sitting in the back room for years.”

  “But we can’t prove it.”

  “Why should we have to?”

  “The last thing the Inspector told me was that your button was part of an art exhibit that had been stolen en route from Toronto to the museum here in Ottawa. Apparently they recovered all of it except for that one artifact. Your button.”

  “But that’s impossible!”

  “That’s what I told him. I don’t think he cared what I said. You know, Sairey, I’m not sure what’s going on, but I do know this: It’s something very strange. I have a bad feeling about it‌—a very bad feeling.”

  Sara felt the same way. As though in answer to that foreboding, the bell above the shop’s door tinkled and she looked up to see a large man entering. There was no red ink on his forehead, but she knew immediately who he was.

  “I . . . I think he’s . . . here,” she mumbled into the phone.

  “Who is? Inspector Tucker?”

  Sara nodded, then realized that Jamie couldn’t see her. “If not him, then his brother.”

  “Don’t say anything to him! Nothing. I’ll call MacNabb and we’ll be down as soon as we can. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Sara cradled the phone. The man was looking idly about the store and she wondered for a moment if she hadn’t been mistaken. But then the man approached the counter.

  “Are you Ms. Sara Kendell?” he asked.

  There was no mistaking that tone of voice. Although she’d never had any personal experience with it, she knew it from a hundred cop shows on TV. She nodded and tried to figure out why she felt guilty. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Maybe policemen just made you feel that way, she thought. Maybe it was a special ingredient in their cologne.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may. My name’s John Tucker. I’m an I
nspector with the RCMP.”

  As though they were playing out a scene in a movie, he put his hand in the inner breast pocket of his jacket and showed her his ID. The badge gleamed like a mirror.

  “About what? I mean, no. I’m not supposed to talk to you until my . . . uh . . . lawyer gets here.”

  She felt stupid saying that. What if he arrested her for being uncooperative?

  “Your lawyer?” Tucker glanced at the phone, then back at Sara and sighed. “Was that your uncle on the phone just now?”

  Sara nodded.

  “He’s a little excitable, isn’t he?” Tucker nodded to Sara’s visitor’s chair. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “I can’t stop you, can I?”

  “Jesus H. Christ! What is it with you people?” Tucker glared at her. “What do you think I am? The neighborhood ogre?”

  Sara shook her head numbly. She was frightened by the vehement tone of his voice and nervously started to twist her ring on her finger until she remembered that she didn’t want to call attention to it. Then she clasped her hands together on her lap and stared wide-eyed at the policeman to see what he’d say next.

  Tucker sat down.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve just come from an interview with your uncle who is a most exasperating man. I’m not here to arrest anyone. I’m not here to powertrip. I just want to ask a couple of simple questions and then be on my way, okay?”

  Sara swallowed, then gathered her courage.

  “Why did you lie to him?” she asked.

  “To who?”

  “To Jamie. About the bone disc. You know it was never stolen from some exhibit. It couldn’t have been. I only found it yesterday in a box of junk.”

  “I don’t know if the bone disc was stolen or not. I . . .”

  He paused, reviewing his earlier interview with Jamie Tams. Then he thought of Jean-Paul Gagnon. Maybe he should just stop playing games.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m going to level with you as best I can. I can’t tell you everything, but . . . well, we’ll see how it goes.

  “We’re looking for a couple of men‌—I can’t tell you why, but it’s important that we find them. One of them left behind a bag of these bone things in the room he was renting before he disappeared. There were sixty of the discs in it. Each one has a design on it‌—a different image on either side and all the designs are different. The one your uncle brought into the museum seems to be a part of the same set of . . . whatever they are.