Desolation Row
©2013 Kay Kendall
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 978-0-9859942-2-8
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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1500A East College Way #554
Mount Vernon, WA 98273
In memory of David Thompson
His vast knowledge and passion for mysteries
were infectious and helped me get my start.
Austin hurried down Harbord Street in the deepening twilight. She’d tried the usual meeting place at the University of Toronto, but some bearded hippie said the anti-war group had moved, gone to the United Church on Bathurst. Which she was having trouble finding. She was tired of rushing, her feet hurt, and her skirt was too tight. Carrying the container of muffins was awkward and slowed her down. Why did she bother to bake anything anyway? David’s anti-war colleagues would just gobble up her food and keep on arguing.
Hiking several more blocks, Austin reached Bathurst and turned north, searching for the flashing lights that marked Honest Ed’s. The popular cut-rate department store was near the church, and she hoped her weary legs wouldn’t collapse during those long, final blocks.
She stopped and slumped against a lamp post, catching her breath. Why didn’t she throw the blueberry muffins away and be done with them? That would be foolish and wasteful though, given how little money the transplanted Americans had. The draft resisters didn’t often thank her, but they’d be grateful for free food.
“Boo.”
Her heartbeat tripled while her gaze pierced the darkness. After an eternity, a small figure slithered out of the shadows. A devil’s red face, topped with horns, loomed before her.
Her jaw dropped open and she stifled a scream. What the hell?
“Trick or treat.”
Damn it. Halloween had completely slipped her mind.
“My goodness, you’re very scary.” Austin tried to slow her thudding heart by taking deep breaths, then leaned closer to view the devil better. He stared back, swinging a pillowcase no doubt filled with treats.
“I’ve got goodies. Do you want some?”
The devil child nodded solemnly, then grabbed the offering and skipped away shrieking. His cries were probably joyful, but to Austin they sounded sinister, like a ghoul howling into the urban wilderness.
She turned in a circle and examined her surroundings, noted for the first time the jack-o-lanterns decorating the stores. In her frantic rush to make the meeting on time, she’d ignored the signs of Halloween. A wave of homesickness washed over her. Back home in Cuero, Texas, Daddy would be dressed like an abnormally tall ghost and doling out candy with a lavish hand.
She set out once more, tramping past tacky storefronts that hadn’t seen a paintbrush in years. While she’d never dream of walking alone at night in a similar American neighborhood, she assumed it was okay in Toronto. Everyone did it. Everyone said the crime rate was low here. But while she’d felt safe just moments before, if worn-out and cranky, now she was rattled, even a little scared. Phantom lizards hopped around in her midsection.
When she finally reached the United Church, it opened its brick arms to her, representing a safe haven. Puffing, she raced through the side door, only to slam into a deathly silence. She’d expected the usual cacophony of arguing voices to greet her, to lead her to the meeting, but the old building felt like a mausoleum, not a meeting place or house of worship. The frustration of failure crashed against her fatigued body.
Summoning her last few ounces of energy, she dashed down the dim hallway.
“Ye better watch out,” an ethereal voice called. “I mopped the floor, and it’s still wet.”
Austin jerked to a stop and lost hold of the box she was carrying. It hit the floor, and the muffins burst out. She watched her baking—a labor of love shoehorned into a too-full day—rolling across the wet floor. She howled, sounding just like that devil child.
A stooped old man emerged from the shadows and shuffled to her side as she fought back tears. He leaned on a mop, using it like a crutch, and then reached down to help her.
“It’s okay, lassie.” He wheezed between words. “Your treats are only a wee bit dented. Look—some are still wrapped up pretty.” His hands trembled, but he managed to tuck a few wayward muffins back in the box. He tried to scoop up another, but had to stop, both hands gripping his mop, as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Thanks for your help, but I’ll get the rest.” She crouched down to finish cleaning up while the old man stood by and watched. Straightening, she said, “Do you have any idea where the anti-war meeting is? I’m late.”
“Those lads ran off somewheres. Maybe try the university, eh?” The janitor tried to lift up his mop, but his hands were so unsteady that he dropped it. The mop clattered on the linoleum, making Austin jump.
What was wrong with him? Austin inhaled a long breath—what was wrong with her? She felt guilty that he’d exerted himself to help her. He looked as old as her grandfather, and Gran was eighty. Now drenched in remorse and stymied, she simply wanted to flee.
“I can’t carry this stuff another step. Think I’ll just leave everything in the kitchen for y’all to enjoy tomorrow.” She shifted several steps away down the hall.
“But I must go,” he called after her, “and canna help you.” A violent coughing spasm interrupted him.
“That’s okay,” she stopped to yell over her shoulder. “I’ve been here before and know my way around.” Then remembering her manners, she swung around to thank the old man, but he’d already faded back into the dark, a slick move appropriate for Halloween.
She began to jog in the direction her memory dictated, listening to her footsteps echo in the empty hall. When she turned a corner to see a sign pointing to the kitchen, she grinned with relief.
“Something’s finally going right,” she murmured.
Austin pushed the door open and entered a room as dark as puddled ink. Promising herself never to bake for the group again, she inched through the murk, feeling along the wall for a light switch. Her ears seemed to catch the sound of scampering feet, and she quivered; mice gave her the creeps. After several cautious steps, one foot slipped. She almost fell, but instinctively grabbed the counter and righted herself.
With greater care, she edged ahead.
Her left foot hit something solid. She pitched forward, not managing to catch herself a second time. But the object she’d tripped over had some give to it and cushioned her fall.
“Damn, that was a close one.” She spoke aloud in the darkness, needing to fill the silence. Lying on the floor, she thought about just staying put. That had to be better than anything else she’d tried that day. Yet the smell of dust and something oddly metallic made her change her mind. She sneezed and reached for her purse, needing a tissue, but instead her fingers met a sticky, moist goo.
Her heart slammed against her breastbone, and she gasped.
The dark was no longer her biggest worry.
She lunged to her feet and felt her way back along the wall. Her quivering fingers found the switch and flipped it. Florescent lights crackled and illuminated the room.
Austin’s eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden flood of light.
Before her sprawled a man in a pool—no, a lake—of blood, and her blueberry muffins covered the most beautiful suede jacket she’d ever seen. She knew not to touch anything and squelched an urge to brush crumbs off the body. The blanket of baked goods made the man’s condition appear comical.
It was anything but.
She recognized him. No one who’d seen Reginald Simpson in action would ever forget him. But she mustn’t think ill of the dead.
Her legs were unresponsive planks. Frozen in place, Austin could only stand and gape at the corpse. Or what she guessed was a corpse.
Reg lay on his back. Blood covered one side of his head, catsup-colored and slick, shimmering in the light. The blood was wet.
So his was a recent death, if in fact he was dead. She needed to check but hesitated, trying to recall her CIA mentor’s advice for daunting moments like this.
“When you need to forge ahead but don’t really want to,” Mr. Jones used to say, “then just breathe deep and focus. Empty your head of expectations so you can absorb all the data that surrounds you.”
One gulp of breath was not enough. She took three more. Emptied her mind of fear and crept back toward Reg. Leaned down close, turned her face away to breathe deeply again, placed her fingers on the skin beneath his beard, and felt the truth. This was an inert thing, not a man.
Reg was gone.
Warm bile rose in Austin’s throat. She needed to vomit but swallowed and gagged instead. Eyes closed, she willed the wave of nausea to pass. She’d never seen a dead person before, other than an aunt who had passed away peacefully of old age. But that frail body, lying in a satin-lined coffin in a pristine funeral home, belonged in a reality much different from this grotesque one with its figure laid out on a worn tiled floor.
Austin began shaking and grabbed the kitchen counter to steady herself, then jerked back, afraid to leave more fingerprints. After a few moments, her racing heart slowed and her curiosity overcame her initial fright. Here was an event plucked from one of her favorite mystery novels. It was morbidly compelling.
Using the hem of her blouse, Austin rubbed the place where she’d clutched the counter. Okay now, she told herself, get it together. What should she do first?
She’d often wished she could step into an Agatha Christie novel or work alongside Nancy Drew. Once Austin startled a friend when, upon entering a room, she abruptly declared, “That brass candlestick would make a good murder weapon.” However, surveying this scene, Austin didn’t see a single candlestick—or any other obvious implement good for killing.
She stepped back from the body and moved around the kitchen slowly. She peeked into an open container for trash, but it held nothing. Either the trash had been cleared away before the murder or the killer had taken it with him.
The closed cupboard doors called to her. “Open me,” they clamored. And so she did, again covering her fingertips with her blouse. This operation took a long time—using her blouse was awkward and added complexity to the process. And the kitchen was enormous and held many cupboards. Twenty-two. She counted them. Twice. The tedious process calmed her teeming brain.
Her gaze swept the room, searching for clues. For anything out of place. Anything unusual. Satisfied that there was nothing suspicious, she decided it was time to call the cops.
Sure, but what cops—the city police or the state police? Ontario was a province. Damn it, how could she get in touch with them? What were they even called? She and David had talked to officials when they’d crossed the border into Canada, but she didn’t know if they were border police—did Canada have those?
Maybe she could call the Mounties. After all, Sergeant Preston always got his man. But no, the pamphlet designed for assisting Americans emigrating to Canada to avoid the draft warned that some members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police sought excuses to export draft-aged boys back home. Officially, they weren’t supposed to harass them. Unofficially, they did.
She felt a fool for dithering while a body, adorned in her baking, lay on the floor of a church kitchen. But she truly didn’t know who to call.
She gawked at Reg’s body and felt more out of her element than usual. Maybe she should call the operator and let her choose the right cops to contact. Okay, check. Her first step would be to locate a phone. The church office was a likely spot, but that door was probably locked. Also, if she left to find a phone, what about Reg? It didn’t seem decent to leave him alone like this, now that she’d found him.
She gulped. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?” she asked the body. It didn’t respond. She’d half expected Reg to answer; that would’ve been a fitting climax to this evil day.
“Oh, no.” Austin slapped her forehead. What if she went for help and then someone came in and saw Reg? She’d be a suspect!
She wasn’t a citizen, and Canada would be happy to deport an alleged murderer.
She looked again at Reg.
Deportation sounded rather appealing. At least that would make her family happy, although her mother would mostly be mortified. Good heavens, she was mortified enough already, her only child having fled to the Great White North with a draft-resisting husband.
Austin shook off her circling thoughts. This was not the time to be obsessing about her mother. She clamped her hands together; they were twitching like they’d suddenly acquired a case of St. Vitus Dance.
“Slow down and take just one thing at a time.” Austin spoke aloud the words her father often used to counsel her, back in the good old days, back when her worries didn’t include politics, flight from her own country, and a corpse staring up at her from the floor.
She studied the body again, saw how the fringes of Reg’s western-style suede jacket were absorbing more blood. The crime scene was changing already. How long had she been stuck here, hesitant about what to do? Probably hours.
And what if the killer were still lurking somewhere in the church? No, she refused to consider that possibility. She shook her head, hard, forcing those fears from her mind.
Checking her watch, she was flustered to see she’d been in the kitchen only a few minutes. Her mind had been rocketing around at the speed of light, spinning totally out of control, until passing time had felt like an eternity. She shook her head hard, again, in an effort to stop dawdling and finish her mission—finding a phone.
Austin decided to abandon Reg and the once-precious muffins and leave the kitchen. She peeked into the hall and looked for the janitor. He was nowhere in sight.
She rolled her eyes. “Just my luck.”
Then, realizing she’d need a dime for a payphone, Austin turned back to the kitchen. Careful not to touch the body, she grabbed her purse. It had fallen clear, away from the blood, and looked unscathed. She wished she felt the same. Her breath came in short gasps as she rushed back into the hall and began trying every door along the hallway.
Each was locked.
She ran to the exit, made her way out to the street, and looked up and down the sidewalk. Where did Canadians put their phones? Austin stepped off the curb without checking the traffic, and instantly a car horn blasted on her left.
The first horn she’d heard in oh-so-civil Canada.
She waved a placating hand and made it to the opposite curb. She walked up Bathurst toward Honest Ed’s, keeping an eye out for a payphone. A woman walked ahead of her, loaded down with packages, and Austin hurried up to her to ask where she could find a phone.
The woman’s eyes widened, and she stepped away.
Austin glanced down, saw decorations of blueberry bits, purple spots, and blood stains on her jacket. Such evidence could place her at the crime scene. This frightened her, and tears trickled down her cheeks.
For the first time since she’d found Reg, she wondered about David. Where was he? If he were here, he’d know what to do. Nothing ever rattled him.
David thought Reg was a showboat—all flash and no substance. Maybe that was why she hadn’t thought of getting help from David right away. Although he never passed judgment on his fellow draft resisters, she sensed that David loathed Reg. David wouldn’t be overcome with grief over Reg’s murder.
She bit her lip, contrite. Her assumption was harsh and unfair. David was a moral and highly ethical man. But she herself didn’t have to be a do-gooder. She could walk away from the old church and the gruesome contents of its dark kitchen.
Her apartment beckoned, a sanctuary far removed from Reg’s bloodied body. Her new home had never seemed so welcoming before.
No, that was a copout, a cheater’s way out. Austin would stand her ground. After all, she had an ancestor who’d defended the Alamo. How dare she even contemplate for one second fleeing from the scene of a crime? Besides, what was it Mr. Jones had said so often during her CIA training?
“Don’t imagine you can outrun foreign authorities. They’re devious, even if they don’t let on that they suspect you.”
The mental image of Mr. Jones, now lodged more or less permanently in her brain, reminded her that those damned muffins back at the church might as well have worn a sign: Austin Starr was here.
She imagined the old janitor arriving at work the next day, finding the corpse littered with baked goods, remembering their hallway encounter, and turning her in to the cops. Then a policeman would find her on campus, pull her out of class, and march her down to some police station. The police would charge her with the murder of Reginald Simpson, the show-off firebrand who divided his listeners into warring camps—those who thought he was a jerk and others who swore he possessed the oratory skills of Lincoln, had Lincoln been a vain and profane revolutionary.
Austin didn’t like that scenario one bit. She pulled the scattered pieces of her mind back together.
Totally refocused now on finding a phone, Austin was barely aware of the hordes of children and parents out trick-or-treating. She plunged past them down the street, but in her haste, and with her sensibilities dimmed by tunnel vision, she reeled into an unseen guardrail at the corner of Harbord and Croft. She fell for the second time that night.
Lying on the cold cement made her shiver. Her teeth chattered as Austin inspected her skinned knees and bruised hand. She’d live. Too dazed to stand, she raised herself a few inches and rested on the curb.
She picked up her purse, detected smudges of blood on it, and rubbed them off. Then she stood on wobbly legs and surveyed her surroundings. Two doors down, she spied a British-style pub.
Glory be, in front of it stood a beautiful payphone.
The thrill of success jolted through her. Dodging a surge of drinkers exiting the pub, Austin approached the phone. A telephone directory chained to it simplified her task. When she found a listing for the Toronto police under the category of city government, she felt another moment of triumph.
Austin took a dime from her purse, stuck the coin into the telephone, and placed the call.
“I want to report a dead body in a church on Bathurst.”
Austin decided it was better to wait outside the church for the police rather than return to the interior with its gruesome kitchen, a perfect setting for film noir. Halloween would never again be just a time of fun and candy.
She stood on the sidewalk and eyed the seven steps leading to the massive wooden door, the main entrance to the United Church. The pitch was steep and even though there weren’t many steps, still they intimidated her.
Once upon a time back in grade school, Austin had fallen backwards down the stairs of a slippery slide. Since then, stairs had unsettled her. The church’s side door, the one she’d used earlier and the one without stairs, was now locked.
There was no handrail to hang on to, so she chose a step only two up from the sidewalk. She brushed sodden leaves away, sat down, and was instantly chilled. Shivering again, she pulled her jacket tight. Toronto was frosty in October, and Austin’s thin Texas blood rebelled. Heat and humidity she could take in stride, but freezing temperatures and blizzards were unknowns. A brutal Canadian winter lay ahead, and she dreaded it.
She glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock. No sounds of police sirens yet. Only ordinary traffic noises and occasional childish peals of laughter reached her ears.
How long would it take for the cops to show up? She glowered into the darkness, her eyes seeking any sign of the authorities or danger.
Off to her right, she detected a red mailbox, and the sight brought her up short. She flashed back to the first one she’d seen. The British royal coat of arms painted on its red background had pierced the bubble she’d inhabited, the one built on Everyone’s advice that moving to Canada would produce no culture shock whatsoever. She’d banked on that advice, coming to Toronto under that illusion, only to find that Canada was full of differences. The rampant lion and unicorn shouted that Everyone had been wrong. Now, it would appear, even dead wrong.
Where were the stars and stripes? The American eagle?
All Canadian mailboxes now shrieked at her, symbols of her naiveté.
How trusting, how stupid she’d been to believe that Canada would feel just like the States. Why hadn’t she raised a fuss before moving north? Being compliant hadn’t saved her from harm. After all, here she was on Halloween night, convinced she was about to get mired in a murder case, while little kids scurried around holding their loot bags close to their scrawny little chests for safekeeping.
Oh, why couldn’t David just plop down beside her, like magic? But she had no way to contact him and beg him to come help her. Where was he? And where had all the anti-war activists gone?
She should’ve known this day would be difficult—it had such a rough beginning. When the alarm clock had failed to go off, she and David were rushed getting ready for class. Then the bacon burned and the scrambled eggs went dry. She singed her thumb taking biscuits from the oven, but at least they were perfect. She’d mixed the dough the night before, a trick of her grandmother’s. A wife for only seven months, Austin was still eager to do her new job properly. And still learning the ropes.
In the distance a siren blared and snapped her back into the present. The noise came closer and closer until a police car pulled up to the curb in front of her and two stern-faced men in uniform emerged. They were young, probably in their early twenties, same as she was.
The red-haired one came toward her, cap in hand. “Hello, miss. I’m Constable Peters. Are you the person who phoned about the dead body?”
“My name is Austin Starr. I called, yes.”
“Pleased to meet you, miss,” Constable Peters said.
“Missus. It’s Mrs. Starr.”
“Our apologies, Mrs. Starr.” The second officer stepped forward. “I’m Constable Higgins. We need you to take us to the body.”
Austin rose from the step as a second squad car pulled up behind the first. The flashing lights from both created a psychedelic effect. Her head throbbed and her vision blurred, but before she could steady herself, a third car pulled up. Not a police car, thank goodness, so it added nothing to the light show. It was an ordinary dark sedan, and out of it climbed an ordinary, pleasant-looking man in a windbreaker and sport coat.
Who was he?
“Hello, sergeant.” Constable Higgins spoke to the man exiting the second police car. “You made it fast.”
The man in the windbreaker approached the three policemen with an outstretched hand. “Officers, how can I help? I’m Reverend Baxter, and this is my church.”
Austin watched the men introduce themselves until finally they remembered her. Reverend Baxter came forward and put his arm around her in a consoling manner.
“You must have had quite a shock. I’m so sorry you’ve been drawn into this,” he said. “Officers, how long does she have to stay here? She’s shaking.”
The sergeant said, “She can’t leave until someone from the homicide squad comes. He’ll want to question her. Meantime, let’s go inside and see what the situation looks like.” He pointed to Constable Higgins. “Wait out here for the detective sergeant.”
Leaving him outside, the others followed Reverend Baxter into his church, down the hall, and right up to the kitchen door, where Austin stopped abruptly. “I don’t have to go back in, do I?”
“You can stay here in the hall until our superior officer arrives. Then he’ll decide how to proceed.” The sergeant pushed the door open.
Austin turned her face away. She knew what was in there. She didn’t need to see it again. The image of Reg’s corpse was forever burned into her memory.
Austin slid down the wall and landed with a thump on the cold tile. She stretched her tired legs in front of her and watched the tweed-clad back of the minister recede down the hallway. He’d draped his windbreaker around her and gone to get chairs so they wouldn’t have to stand or sit on the floor.
Too late now. She’d spent half the night on the cold Canadian ground; why stop now?
Waiting for the minister to return. Waiting for the homicide detective to show up.
Most of all, she was waiting to run home to David. He must be very worried about her by now.
Would this horrible night never end?
Up and down the long hall were many doors, eleven in all. She had tried each one earlier when searching for a phone to call the police. She looked across to the other side of the hall, at the entrance to the kitchen. Counted nine tiles from where she sat to that door. She was looking for something else to count when noises came from down the hall.
Raising her head, she eyed two male figures slowly advancing toward her. Her vision seemed clouded by exhaustion, but as they drew nearer, she was able to discern that each wore a brown tweed jacket and tan slacks. Her mind was so befuddled that she couldn’t tell which man was Reverend Baxter and which a newcomer.
Wasn’t the minister supposed to be bringing chairs? Maybe he’d forgotten. He probably had no more experience with a murder inquiry than she did. God would forgive him for not keeping his promise, and so would she.
Suddenly both men stood before her, and the air filled with talk.
Talk. Talk. Talk. She couldn’t keep it all straight.
Only two things dented her consciousness. One of these men was a detective sergeant from the homicide division. And she had to return to the bloody kitchen.
Someone pulled her to her feet. Austin took a few steps, then stopped. Her mind balked at the thought of walking back in to see Reg laid out on the floor. But she had to do it. She was a good girl. She always did the right thing.
Well, almost always. She was in Canada, wasn’t she?
Now one man in a tweed jacket took her left arm and the other took her right. Together they maneuvered her through the kitchen door and into that evil room.
“He’s right where I left him. Now may I leave?” Her voice sounded thin and reedy, not low and confident as it usually did.
“Afraid not,” one of the cops said. She had no idea which. Did it even matter? She was so tired, so very tired. How could she help them? She knew she wouldn’t make sense.
“Would you like a glass of water, Mrs. Starr?”
“Yes, please, but not from that tap.” She pointed at the kitchen faucet.
One of the young constables went into the hall and returned with a paper cup filled with water. She sipped from it. “Thank you. I feel better now.”
One of the tweed gentlemen stepped forward. “Is this room the way you left it?” he asked.
She nodded.
“What did you do when you were in here?”
Austin hesitated, trying to remember. “It was dark. I came in when the lights were off. I stumbled. I didn’t know where the light switch was. Then I fell when my foot hit…my foot hit…” She gestured at the corpse, but her eyes remained locked on the kitchen door.
“I was tired of carrying the muffins. You see them now.” Again she waved at the dead body without looking at it. “I dropped them when I fell. I felt something sticky on the floor and got scared. Got up, fiddled for the light switch. When I could see, when there was light, there was Reg. I knew who he was. I’d met him before. He was dead when I fell on him.”
“How do you know?”
She shuddered and drew in a sharp breath. “I suspected, but I made sure.”
“How?”
“I felt under his chin, under his beard. There was no pulse.” She was on automatic pilot now. She could answer anything.
“Why did you come to the church tonight?”
“Came for a meeting of the anti-war group, but no one was here.”
“What did you touch?”
“Nothing. No, that’s not right. The light switch. The countertop. The doorknob. After I saw what had happened in here, I tried not to touch anything else. Knew I shouldn’t. I read lots of mysteries you see. That’s how I knew.” She started to giggle but stopped herself. If she continued, she might never stop. “Will you take my fingerprints? Will I have to go to a police station? My husband will be worried about me. He doesn’t know where I am. I’m late.”
“No, the equipment will be here soon. Where is your husband?”
“I don’t know.” Her tone was almost a whimper.
“Your accent suggests you’re not from Canada. Are you a Canadian citizen?”
Oh dear, now this was tricky terrain. “I’ve got landed immigrant status.” She added a touch of pride to her voice. Surely the Canadian policemen would like that, wouldn’t they?
“Where are you from originally?”
“Texas.”
“Why are you here?”
“We’re graduate students at the University of Toronto. My husband and I have teaching fellowships there. He studies mathematics, and my area is Russian history.”
She took a peek at her questioner in time to watch his eyebrows shoot up so high that his glasses slid down his nose.
“Russian? Are you a fellow traveler, a supporter of Communism?”
“Of course not.” Austin felt hot indignation flash through her. Of all the nerve. “The Russian past is exotic and foreign, and I adore history, but American history seems dull by comparison. I like all the English kings and queens too. It was Queen Elizabeth’s coronation that got me interested in history. All that pageantry is beautiful.” She stopped to breathe.
“You’re babbling, Mrs. Starr.” The voice was kind.
She turned to face him and saw that her questioner’s expression was surprisingly pleasant. “Do you like history too?” The minute she asked, she felt stupid.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“I’m sorry I’m babbling. I’m a mess.”
“We understand. You’ve had a shock.”
Austin shut her eyes tight, tossed her head back, and wiggled it back and forth until her neck crunched. “There, that’s better. Do you think you can find the killer?” Her words startled her. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. Of course you can.”
The man grinned at her. “Of course we will.” The man in tweed turned to one of the younger men. “Take her back into the hall. Let me know when the fellow comes to take her fingerprints; I’ll need to talk to her again.”
“Yes, sir, Detective Sergeant McKinnon,” the younger man said.
When he led Austin from the room, she looked back to see McKinnon following her with his eyes. She was surprised to sense only concern in his gaze.
She hoped she hadn’t blown everything by gushing about Russia. That was so unlike her. How bizarre. What would their future dealings be like?
She didn’t doubt she’d be seeing the detective sergeant again.
“Where’ve you been? It’s after midnight.” David threw down the book he’d been reading and ran to the door.
Austin flung herself into his arms and burrowed her nose in his sweater. The familiar scent of him was reassuring. She didn’t speak for several moments, then muttered, “I was at the church, just like I promised.”
“All this time?” He grasped her shoulders, shifted her farther away, and assessed her expression. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
“All this time, yes, I was at the church. Right where you were supposed to be.”
“Oh, babe, I’m sorry. Word came of a huge rally at Queen’s Park, and we all dashed over there.” He coaxed her to the couch, they sat, and he grabbed her hands. “You’re cold. Do you want some tea?”
“No.”
He cocked his head and regarded her closely, question marks seeming to leap from his eyes. “I figured you’d find us, and it’s a pity you didn’t. It was really cool, a happy demo for a change. Johnson’s finally called off the bombing in the north.” He paused. “But we can talk about that later. Why on earth did you stay at the church so long? Didn’t you know I’d worry?”
A hint of exasperation crept into his voice.
Her perception amazed Austin. Sensing his feelings was usually like trying to read tea leaves without being taught how. But after stumbling over a corpse, coming home to find him upset was too much. She burst into tears.
“Honey, honey, what’s wrong?” David sounded distraught, and he clearly didn’t know what to do.
Through her sobs, she managed only a few words. “You have no idea, just no idea. It was all so horrible.”
He drew back, and his eyes widened when he noticed the blood and blueberry stains on her clothes. “Are you okay?” He threw his arms around her and spoke into her hair. “Did someone attack you? Tell me.”
Austin’s reply was shaky. “No, nothing like that. No, no.”
David’s sigh of relief puffed against her cheek. “Everyone says Toronto’s safer than America, but—”
“Yeah, right. Everyone says.” Austin’s laugh bordered on hysteria. “Reg Simpson is dead, and I found his body.”
“Wha-what?”
“You heard me. Reg was murdered in the church. I phoned the police. They came to the church and grilled me. The whole thing was a big, god-awful nightmare, and now I’m exhausted.” She cuddled deeper into his arms and kept on crying.
David held and rocked her for a long time, not saying a word until she settled. Then, leaning forward, he wiped tears from her face and gazed into her eyes. “Who questioned you?”
“At first I couldn’t decide who to call and couldn’t find a phone and—the Metro Toronto Police.”
“Nobody from the RCMP showed up?” David sat up straight, and his fingers began to twirl a lock of his long hair.
“The Mounties weren’t there. But why would that matter?”
“Thank God, only the local cops. Good thing they talked to you, not one of the guys.”
“You’ll all have to talk to the police pretty soon anyway.”
“That’s bad, really bad.” David took his glasses off, polished them on his denim work shirt, and put them back on. He twirled his hair again.
Despite her agitation, Austin noted this new gesture. What did it mean? She watched the obsessive twisting and wondered why he didn’t cut his hair. The hippie look didn’t suit him.
“You’re not exactly heartbroken that someone killed Reg, and maybe that’s not remarkable. But you don’t seem very upset over my ordeal either.” Austin tried to keep from sounding angry. She wasn’t sure if she succeeded.
“Honey, how can you say that?” David’s hands moved from his hair to her shoulders, and he hugged her to him. “I got frantic, didn’t know where you were. Why didn’t you call?”
She explained about her problem finding a phone. “And after that I was with the police, and then it got too late to call. Didn’t want to wake you up.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “It’s just that you’ve never been late like this before. Promise me the next time you fall over a murder victim, you’ll call me.”
Austin giggled and kept on giggling, unable to stop. Soon David joined in, and then they were both laughing so hard they gasped for breath.
Once they regained their composure, he said, “Okay, let’s take it from the top. Tell me everything that happened tonight. And tell me if I’m right about this: part of you thought the whole episode was fascinating.”
Her face grew hot, but she said, “You’re right. You know how I love murder mysteries and spy stories. I couldn’t help being intrigued by the circumstances of Reg’s death. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be caught up in a real mystery. What makes it hard, though, is not being on home ground. I don’t know the jurisdictions, the laws, even the names of the officers’ ranks. It’s all different from back home. Unsettling. I would’ve felt more competent if this happened in Texas.”
She crossed to the window, pulled aside the sheet they were using in place of drapes, and pondered the darkness. Without looking at David, she said, “I really don’t want to agonize over everything that happened, not right now anyway, so here it is in a nutshell. Two young cops and a sergeant showed up, and someone rounded up the church’s minister and brought him in. Next, a senior man came, Detective Sergeant Bill McKinnon.
“They questioned me, over and over, about the same things. They naturally tried to trip me up, and so I only repeated what I knew for sure, but I was scared.” Austin stopped to dig out a tissue from her purse. She blew her nose and wiped tears from her face.
“The minister was comforting though, said what a decent person I was, calling the police and not running away.” She snorted. “After that, I was ashamed I’d even thought about slinking off into the night and letting someone else find the body.”
She paused, eyes on the ceiling, considering her next words. “Still, you’re right, David. The whole evening was mesmerizing, like being caught up in an episode of I Spy.”
“Aren’t you mixing up spies and cops?” He was restacking the books piled beside him on the couch.
Austin froze. She didn’t want to talk about spies. She’d never admitted to David that she’d done several weeks of training with the CIA. He wouldn’t have approved. Besides, Mr. Jones warned her not to confide in anyone, and then she’d married and rushed off to Canada, putting a stop to her fling with international intrigue.
Now she chose her words carefully and adopted a spritely tone. “You never know—maybe Reg’s murder did have something to do with spies.”
Her face lit up. “David, just think. Maybe federal agents hopped over the border to take out Reg because he was being so effective against the war.”
“That joker? Effective?” David yelled. He never yelled.
“Hey, come on. Have some respect for the dead.” Austin rubbed her eyes and tried to erase what she’d seen. “It was so grisly. Blood seeping out of him, spilling on the floor. I tracked through some of it when the lights were off, couldn’t help it. And his beautiful suede jacket got saturated with it.”
“That ridiculous thing? Looked like he was dressed up for Halloween.”
David’s harsh manner grated on Austin. “Then you did see him?”
“Sure. He was at the meeting, ranting against LBJ. Reg said stopping the bombing of North Vietnam was just a ploy to help Humphrey beat Nixon in next week’s election. Reg boasted like he always does. Said he knew lots of politicians, that they’re all no good, just like the military brass.”
David slammed a book on his knee. “I’m sick of all his hints, that he knows so many big shots. He’s just like the rest of us—he knows what he reads in the newspapers. He gave a decent speech tonight, though. I didn’t agree with his analysis, but he did get the guys fired up. Hard to do now, you know. Most of them are pretty gloomy, living so far from home and on so little money.”
“So Reg’s speech turned out to be his swan song, and he won’t annoy you ever again. Maybe he’ll become a martyr for the cause. Songs will be written about him, like for Joe Hill.”
David sniffed. “Now that would be a shame. Reg was no hero. You don’t know what kinds of things he’s been up to lately.”
Austin’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
David didn’t answer. He sat still, avoiding her gaze. Finally, he asked, “When do you think the cops’ll talk to me?”
“Soon, maybe even tomorrow. Already gave them your name and how to contact you.”
“Gee, thanks a lot.”
Austin made a face. “You know I had no choice. But I hope DS McKinnon will be the one who calls. He’s really nice.”
“I’m sure.” David’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “This is going to be complicated, you know.” He was twirling his hair again.
The only time Austin had ever seen him fidget was when he told his parents about moving to Canada. Now she realized how much tension he must be holding in. She carefully said, “Why would things be tricky? After all, we’re here legally. You haven’t even been drafted yet, and we’re following all the rules.”
David stopped twirling and glared at her. “Still, I’m worried.”
“Why? We’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Yeah, sure, but you never know.”
Austin had a sudden thought. “By the way, David, where’d you go after the rally? You can account for all your time, can’t you?”
He turned away and contemplated a poster of a peace sign. “Umm, sort of.”
“What’s that mean, for pity’s sake?” Austin felt her blood pressure soar. Now she’d have to add David’s interview with the police to her ever-increasing list of worries. If only someone would come up with a pill to take anxiety away. Booze and pot never helped her—neither one worked right. They either made her mood darken or her mind speed into paranoia.
“After I left Queen’s Park, I went back to campus,” he said. “I studied for a while and came back here about eleven o’clock. Doubt if anyone saw me after the rally.” David jumped up and knocked over a coffee cup. He stooped to mop up the spill with a sock from a pair that he’d left on the floor.
Watching her husband’s endearingly sloppy habit made Austin smile, made her want to wrap up the evening on a tender note. “Shall I make some herbal tea before we go to bed? I’m dead exhausted, but my mind keeps racing anyway. Maybe chamomile will slow me down and help me sleep.”
David ignored her olive branch and stalked from the room, leaving Austin alone in disbelief and silence. What was wrong with him? He didn’t trip over a dead man and then have to deal with the cops.
Why was he so upset? She sensed he was nervous about tangling with the authorities and being a draft resister, although if asked, he would no doubt deny it. Okay, so she understood that, but still.