Little Boy Blues (32 page)

“He or she,” I said.

“Father Blaise was my parish priest when I was growing up. I knew him from Youth Club. He’s a funny old duck, but he’s always been the kindest person in the world. He did everything for us kids. We had team sports, drama, art stuff, discussion groups. He put a lot of young people back on the right track. It was a shock to hear he’d been hit.”

“Logic tells me he has something to do with the case.”

Deveau scratched his head. “I don’t see how Father Blaise could be involved in this mess. With Reefer Keefer, of all people. Reefer’s hardly a church-goer. The whole thing is crazy.”

“There has to be some connection. Would Reefer Keefer
have been in the Youth Club?”

“Sure. Father Blaise could spot a troubled kid. Reefer was always off the rails, but in small ways. I guess I can talk about that, since he’s dead. I remember him as a teenager when I was first on the force. He would have ended up in a juvenile facility if Father Blaise hadn’t stepped in.”

“What about bullying?”

“Reefer? No way. Nothing like that. No violence. He’d be playing hooky, smoking dope, breaking into garages, minor stuff. He once had a fine crop of weed growing in the field behind the church. Father Blaise sought out that kind of kid and found things to change their path. I think he had Reefer in the choir and the drama group. If I remember correctly, the guy had a great voice. What a waste.”

“Well, he sure struck out with Reefer.”

“Not for lack of trying. Father Blaise is a good person. I’ve been a cop for eighteen years, and I think I’m a pretty good judge of character.”

“No one said he was guilty of anything. It never occurred to me he was involved. I only wanted to talk to him about what happened to Jimmy way back, to see if he could shed any light on it.”

“We may never know. Mombourquette just said they don’t think he’ll pull through. “

“None of this makes sense.”

“And because none of it makes sense, we have no way of knowing who else the killer might target. Everyone involved might be in danger.”

I said, “We know for sure Jimmy is.”

“I was thinking about you.”

• • •

Deveau was driving along Smythe Road on our way back from the hospital when the metaphorical light went on over my head.

“Bridges,” I said.

“What?”

“Jimmy said he spent the last couple of nights under a bridge. We just drove over the Rideau River. There are bridges over the river in the area. Overpasses too that a person can hide under. Some of the homeless people live there. Do you want to pull over?”

“You don’t think they would have searched them already?”

“Probably not this far from downtown. But there are lots of ducks, and Jimmy mentioned ducks. “Great idea. Perfect time. He might be heading back to sleep.”

“Right. But it’s getting dark.”

“It’s almost nine. Let’s go to a Canadian Tire. I think we can find one before they close. How about if you figure out which bridges to check out while I pick us up a couple of flashlights.”

• • •

Three hours later, with midnight looming, we were pretty well ready to give up. If there were people sleeping under the bridges, we hadn’t run into them yet.

“Maybe not such a brilliant idea,” I said.

“Worth trying. I don’t have a better one.”

“Let’s try one more spot,” I said as we followed the bicycle path along the Rideau near Algonquin College and under the Queensway. “It’s not really a bridge. It’s where the Queensway passes over the Rideau. I used to ride past here on the bike path.”

“No problem. You think there’s a chance?”

“Kids hang out under here, but you never see them in the day. You often see bundles and abandoned stuff. I used to think it would be a good spot for runaways and hitchhikers. And it’s easy to get to. A bit far from downtown, but Jimmy’s used to walking. Can you hear the ducks? There are swans too on this part of the Rideau, and Jimmy mentioned swans.”

We parked the rental in the lot by Algonquin and headed down the slope to the path. Trees cast long shadows and obscured the highway briefly. With the soft chirp of crickets and the call of a lovesick bullfrog, it was hard to imagine we were a five-minute drive from Parliament Hill.

“This is something,” Deveau said.

“It is. On the other side is the National Capital Commission bike path system. Goes for umpteen miles.”

“Maybe I’ll bring my daughters up for a visit, and we’ll try that sometime,” he said.

I thought I might like that.

There was a bit of light from the Queensway and a black glimmer from the shallow Rideau which ran under the highway. Every now and then I heard the startled quack of one of the many ducks. Near the far bank we could just make out three sleeping swans, heads tucked under wings. Then we were under the highway. Ugly graffiti bloomed on the concrete walls, hundreds of cigarette butts cluttered the path. Bits of broken glass blinked in the beams from our flashlights.

“Not what you’d call romantic,” Deveau said.

Our flashlights shone on the concrete supporting walls. No sign of anybody.

“Point the lights up. Sometimes you can see where someone is sleeping up in the openings between the supports and the concrete ceiling.”

“Tell me you don’t come here by yourself in the night.”

“Of course not, but during the day I used to notice sleeping bags sometimes.”

Fifteen minutes later, on the far side of the river, we shone our lights on a cardboard box tucked almost out of sight. Deveau climbed up and passed it down to me. Inside was Alvin’s grandmother’s pink flowered china tea set and eight silver spoons.

“Looks like Jimmy was here. What a stroke of luck.”

Deveau said, “I guess these had sentimental value to both those boys.”

“Most likely. I’d feel a lot better if Jimmy was here now.”

“Me too. Why don’t we wait and see if he shows up again?” I liked the way this guy’s mind worked.

Two hours later, we called it quits, picked up the box, and headed for the car. But not before Deveau had a word with the Ottawa cops and told them to keep an eye on the place.

• • •

My alarm went off four hours after I hit the pillow. When I pried my eyes open, I had one thought in my mind. Witness. I needed to find a witness. I stumbled out of bed.

It gave me quite a shock to bump into Alvin as I groped for the coffee filters in the kitchen. It’s not easy facing Alvin first thing in the morning, particularly when you have a throb in your temple, and he has a bee in his bonnet.

“We have to talk,” he said, as I gripped the counter.

“Not before I have coffee.” That was part of a long list including not before I get dressed, not before I brush my teeth, not before I remember my name and not before I walk that stinky dog.

“I made coffee. It’s almost ready. I’ve figured out who it is.”

“Who what is?” I pulled out the coffee-pot and stuck my cup right under the drip.

“The person who knew everything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Someone knew when I found Jimmy. Someone knew Father Blaise was in town. Someone knew Jimmy was in the campground.”

“I thought he was under a bridge.”

“Later. After my place burnt, he said he bought himself a tent at the Canadian Tire downtown and camped in the lot by the Bluesfest, but then someone came in the night and he heard them asking around for him. He said he just managed to grab his stuff and run. That’s why he didn’t have any money, he blew it on the tent.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“He told me while we were waiting for you and Violet to pick us up and take us to Gadzooks.”

“Right. Gadzooks. Surely the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. But how could anybody know? About that.”

“Think about it, Camilla.”

I rubbed my temple.

“You told P. J. Jimmy was staying in my apartment. Violet heard you.”

“Don’t joke when I have a headache.”

“Just because he’s your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just P. J.”

“Did he know about the postcards?”

I stared. “Alvin, he’s our friend. You don’t believe he could be involved.”

“He was out of town on July 1st. He couldn’t come to my party.”

“That’s hardly a crime.” Charlottetown. How far was Charlottetown from Sydney?

“He could have been in Sydney. Easily.”

I thought about it. Half the country seemed to be running back and forth. “But why would P. J. go to Sydney?”

“He knew the Redmores. Both of them.”

“Yes, but from here. They’re big news in this town.”

“He’s a wiry little guy. Put a scarf and gloves on him and…”

“Talk sense.” I felt sick. Everything fit into place. He’d been awfully casual about his mother’s heart attack scare. Why hadn’t he wanted me to send flowers to his mother? Because there was no heart attack?

I turned at the rustle at the door. Mrs. Parnell stood there, leaning on her walker. “I am sorry, Ms. MacPhee, but I must support young Ferguson here. It looks bad for your friend.”

My hand shook, and the hot coffee soaked through the front of my housecoat, burning my skin. It didn’t matter.

“But why? What motive could P. J. have?”

She said. “We must consider the possibility he was the second boy in the park.”

Will Redmore, the first boy. P. J. Lynch, the second boy.

“Alvin do you remember P. J. in the park?”

“I don’t remember any of it. So that won’t help one way or the other.”

“We are speculating about the boys in the park. We have no proof. And P. J. grew up in Ottawa, in Westboro. I know that.”

“People move, Camilla. How many Cape Bretoners do you know in Ottawa? How many that came and went back and came out again? Probably some of them grew up in the West End.”

“It may make sense, but I don’t believe it.”

“Perhaps that is what he is banking on, Ms. MacPhee.”

Alvin said, “Did you tell him you saw Reefer here?”

I thought back to my sighting of Reefer at Bluesfest. The night P. J. left early because the oysters didn’t agree with him.

“Did you tell him about the two boys in the park? Because if you did, we’re all in danger.”

“I must concur. Who knew I had taken pictures with my digital camera? Who knew enough to steal it from the Buick?”

It was hard to imagine a darker moment.

“Who heard we had found Jimmy? And we were taking him to Gadzooks?” said Alvin.

“What do you really know about P. J., Ms. MacPhee?”

Not for the first time, I found it hard to maintain faith in my buddy. Especially since I knew he was such a liar.

• • •

An hour later, Deveau nosed the rental into a Byward Market parking lot. We started our long prowl through the crowded market streets, past fruit and vegetable vendors, flower stalls, crafts, tables of maple products, Indian dresses, wooden clocks, you name it. We were on the lookout for a dusty drunk with four teeth and a real positive attitude. Deveau liked the market, particularly the smell of fresh strawberries. It took an hour before we hit pay dirt, partly because he kept stopping to sniff and sample.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he said.

“Stuff on my mind. We’ll just keep looking.”

For some reason, Deveau decided to buy me a sunflower.

“Why?” I said.

He gave me a funny look. “No reason. But you know what, while we’re here, maybe I should get a bouquet or a plant for Father Blaise. I checked this morning. He was still in the
ICU
yesterday. They thought he’d be there awhile. He hadn’t regained consciousness. The people from St. Paul’s said he was lucky to be alive. Apparently he landed on some garbage bags, and that helped to break his fall. A woman walking her dog spotted him and called 911.”

“Was it a hit and run?”

“Looks like it. He was on the sidewalk. The driver didn’t report it. They think it was hours before he was found.”

“I sure hope he makes it. Any other information from the locals?”

“On another topic, yeah. Turns out your ex-Buick was hot-wired by someone who knew what they were doing.”

Sometimes your luck turns. As we paced back and forth outside the Château Lafayette, the ancient watering hole in the market favoured by poets and panhandlers, waiting for Mombourquette to call back, the object of our search stumbled out and flashed me a smile like an old friend. He doffed an imaginary hat. “Oh, Missus, I hope your day went better.”

“Actually, it didn’t. My car shot through the window of the Gallery at the foot of the hill.”

“Was that your car now? I guess it was. I saw that. Lot of excitement. Like the movies.”

“Too much excitement for me. Since you saw it, I need to know, did you see anyone around the vehicle after I left?”

My new friend seemed to be eyeing Deveau cautiously. Even though Deveau was discretion itself. Eyes open, mouth shut.

“Is this fella here a cop?”

“Does he look like a cop?”

“You can always tell, Missus. Don’t ask me why. It’s not nice to say.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I wasn’t panhandling.”

“Of course not.”

“He can’t arrest me. I knows my rights.”

“Hey, trust me. I just want to know if you saw anyone around that Buick before it shot down the hill.”

“I’m not going to court.”

“Off the record. As a favour to me.”

“I don’t want to talk in front of the cop.”

“Fine. Go away, Ray.”

But Deveau did not go away. He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a ten. “Consider it a favour to me too,” he chuckled.

“I didn’t see no one.”

“You didn’t see a woman? A weird looking lady. Wearing gloves. And a scarf. And sunglasses?”

“No, Missus. No one like that.”

“Well, did you see a woman near my car?”

“No, Missus. No women at all. I would of wished them a good day. They like that.”

Right. Money talk. “Okay, what about a man? A big guy?”

“Like him, you mean?” He pointed to Deveau.

“No, no. Let’s say he’s medium. I mean did you see a big guy?”

Deveau laughed, but that might have been because I was puffing myself up and working on a Will Redmore facial expression.