Lake on the Mountain: A Dan Sharp Mystery (2 page)

Dan shot Ked a look. “You know it’s not. Your Uncle Donny just likes to date a lot of men at once....”

“He’s a slut!” Ked crowed.

Dan eyed his son. “Ked — don’t talk like that.”

“Why? That’s what Uncle Donny says about himself.”

“Nevertheless.”

“And you like to date just one guy at a time, right?”

“Something like that.”

Ked thought this over. “Do you think you and Bill will ever get married? I mean, for real married, like in a church and everything.”

Dan reached over and tugged his son’s dark curls. “Why? Do you want to be my best man?”

Ked shrugged. “I would if you wanted me to.”

“I’ll let you know when we set the date. In the meantime, I’ve got a bit of work to do....”

Ked groaned.

“… and you’ve got at least one guest coming for supper, so let’s go get ready.”

Upstairs in his office, Dan set his laptop on the chair and cleared his desk. On the walls, Martha Stewart’s Corn Husk competed for calm with the green-and-white striped shade pulled down. A single upright oak shelf held investigative reports, half-read anthropological texts, and a handful of slim detective novels, book-ended by Joyce, Pound, Proust.

Dan had three cases to write up before the weekend. Donny would be here by eight o’clock, and that left only tomorrow and Friday morning. After that, the wedding would take up all his free time. If he didn’t work now, they might not get done.

He pulled up the latest: a seventy-six-year-old female who hadn’t returned from a day trip to Toronto. He scanned the screen. No physical or mental impairment. The woman’s daughter had tried to file a report with the Kitchener police; no one would take a formal statement. She’d been advised to contact the Toronto force, who confirmed they’d had notice of her mother’s whereabouts on two previous occasions. The bottom of the report carried a familiar name.

Dan flipped through his Rolodex and fingered a card. He had a good guess what had happened. If he were right, Sergeant Carmen Stryker could probably confirm it. He glanced at the clock — nearly seven. If Stryker was still at work, that is.

The phone rang once and someone grabbed it. “Stryker.”

“Hey, Carm. Dan Sharp here.”

“Sharp! How the hell are ya?”

“Plugging away at it.” Dan pictured the beefy sergeant sweating at his desk. “How about you? Still on the desk, I see.”

“Fuckers!” the cop growled. “I never get outta here before eight.”

Dan heard what sounded like a fist banged onto a desktop.

“You’re too good at what you do, my man. If you stopped solving problems indoors, they’d have you back on the streets in a flash.”

A hearty laugh. “You got that right! Anyway, what can I do you for? Your mother disappear again?”

“Close. You must be reading crystal balls. I got a misper who came through your office twice before. Wondered if you were keeping her holed up there again.”

“Name?”

“Edith Walmsley, age seventy-six. Kitchener address.”

“Sounds familiar — she has a history, you say?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Dan heard the tapping of keys. Stryker grunted. Then, “Oh, shit — her! Crazy bitch. Yeah, she’s here. This time we’re keeping her till we make sure her family knows what she does with her spare time. I don’t want her coming back with that poor little old lady story.”

“Shoplifting again?”

“You got it. More jewellery. This latest price tag might just put her in the big league.”

They had a chuckle over the foibles of little old ladies then Stryker had to take another call. “Say hi to the wife for me,” he said, hanging up.

“If I had one I would,” Dan said to the empty air.

One down, two to go. A drink would serve him well now. He slid the drawer forward and reached for the Scotch. He twisted the top and hesitated. When was the last time he’d worried that he couldn’t be bothered to use a glass? Too long ago. Anyway, it was just one. The initial gulp tasted medicinal, iodine on an open wound. The second went down easier.

The next file was more difficult. Two years earlier, a male vic had been found in the Don Valley with gunshot wounds to the face and head. The description was laughably commonplace: white, 175 centimetres tall, 22 to 25 years old, brown hair, heavy tattoo work on the chest and arms. Numerous calls had come in for someone with that description; it never turned out to be him. The case languished in the John Doe files before showing up on a junior officer’s desk. It was another month before it was transferred to Dan’s.

Dan and the junior officer had perused the photographs together. A tattooed word caught Dan’s attention:
bog
. Dan thought he saw what the problem was.

“What kind of moron tattoos
bog
on his chest?” the underling sneered.

“Maybe a Serbian moron,” Dan said. “It means ‘God’ in Serb. You ask off continent?”

The man’s face fell. “How the hell was I supposed to know that?”

“Never assume anything about a man who can’t tell you how he ended up on a morgue table,” Dan said.

The underling stared at Dan as though he were God in any language. Dan wasn’t about to tell him he knew only two words in Serb, thanks to a former lover who’d come and gone with the greeting “Pomoz’ bog.”
God help you
. Though in this case, it appears God hadn’t.

The call came from Bosnia a week later. A woman had reported her son missing two years before. He’d left home looking for employment in March. He hadn’t said where he was going but maintained cellphone contact with her until August 16, the day the unidentified body turned up in the Toronto ravine. The Serbian police forwarded the report and a dozen snapshots. The only thing that didn’t fit was the age. According to his mother, her son was thirty-two when he disappeared.

Whether he was twenty-five or an underdeveloped thirty-two wouldn’t make much difference. Dan looked over the photograph of a mop-haired young man in a navy T. Spiky tattoos peeked from under the sleeves. Dan pulled up the morgue photos. The dead man’s face was too damaged to confirm anything, but the tattoos showed a similarity.

The photographs supplied by desperate relatives fascinated Dan. Of course, with hindsight you could read whatever you wanted into them. Those sad eyes might be holding back a lifetime of misery and despair, or maybe they were just bloodshot from drink. That grim stare could belong to someone who’d finally found the determination to leave a hopeless situation, or it might have been masking a simple dislike for the photographer.

The “why” could be more difficult to determine. Some disappeared to punish whoever kept them from whatever was “out there.” Occasionally they returned on their own, without finding what they were seeking. Dan wondered if the ones who never showed up again had been more successful. Still others claimed not to know why they’d left or even to have considered who might have been hurt by their actions. Sometimes it was sheer desperation, a last chance to escape whatever held them back. It didn’t matter — they just went. Then there were the ones who didn’t have a chance to think about it, because vanishing was the last thing on their minds. They had futures, careers, families — and every reason to stay. They turned up in ditches and farmers’ fields years later, a pile of bones, a tag of cloth, a collection of dental records. What had made them the target of murderers, the victim of rapists who felt they had no choice but to finish a job gone wrong? These were the most intriguing ones.

The second-last photograph showed a group of young men playing ball near a line of bleachers. Marker arrows pointed to a shirtless figure, his right arm thrown back and a ball in hand. The torso was wiry, the ribs too prominent. A blazon of hair ran up his belly and across his chest. Dan’s eyes lingered. If the boy had been alive, he might have found the photo erotic. Being aroused by pictures of the dead made Dan queasy, however. He brought out a magnifying glass and leaned in. On the left pectoral over the heart, he could just make out the word
bog
. Case closed.

He signed off on the file and wondered about his Bosnian counterpart — the one who would contact the family with the news. No matter how a case ended, Dan seldom took pleasure from it. It was work. Whether he successfully tracked someone down or had to pass on bad news had little bearing on how he presented it. He offered his findings quietly, but unambiguously. “Your son died of natural causes.” “The dental work confirms it’s your daughter’s body.” “Your wife is alive and well, but no longer a woman.” His words fell with simple gravity, as though he were pronouncing a sentence the hearer must bear accordingly.

Some took the news quietly. Others cried or broke down, knowing their lives were changed forever, if not outright ruined. For some it came as a combination of pain and relief at finally knowing. Knowledge could stop the hoping, but it didn’t make things better. They were the ones who made Dan’s life hell, though he didn’t resent them. It was the ones who didn’t or wouldn’t grieve he resented, as though they’d made his work a failure, like a fireman saving a burning building only to learn it had been condemned. He hated futility — the feeling that his work amounted to nothing. “No return” was unacceptable.

In the course of his investigations, Dan was meticulous. A missing person’s past was like a shadow thrown against a curtain, all outline and little detail. Sometimes the smallest point was the telling one. He thought of the junior who’d missed out on the word
bog
. The mistake was understandable, but it was sloppy work all the same. Know thoroughly the nature of what you’re being asked to investigate and then look for the unexpected — that was Dan’s modus operandi. It was the only way to find the missing, especially if they didn’t want to be found.

He stopped and took another pull from the bottle, then settled in again. He brought up the last file and glanced at the overview. He didn’t have to read far. Why anyone was surprised when abused teenagers ran away, Dan couldn’t imagine. The fourteen-year-old, Richard Philips, had left his home in Oshawa following an argument with his mother and stepfather. The photograph showed a dark-haired teenager with wary eyes and a pouting mouth. Dan wondered who’d taken the shot.

The details were predictable. Richard’s problems had started when he was twelve, not long after his mother remarried to a man who never got along with her son. According to his mother, her son had been picked on at school. More importantly, he had sexuality issues. Richard’s stepfather threatened him after police nabbed him hanging around a gay cruising area. The boy disappeared two weeks later when the same officer picked him up again.

Dan sat back. He could easily imagine some sadistic homophobe getting his jollies by fucking with the kid’s nascent sex drive. At that age, it was hard enough to accept yourself for what you were. To have bullying cops, taunting classmates, and a narrow-minded stepfather harassing you might prove too much for some kids. Running away was one solution. Suicide was the other.

The report carried the usual protestations by the mother and stepfather: they’d given their son everything and didn’t understand how he’d become someone they barely knew — angry, resentful, and gay. The first two were usually easy to explain when the history was examined. The third wasn’t something you could rationalize to distraught parents, especially the ones who wanted to justify their actions: threats and beatings, doors locked at midnight to teach a lesson to the habitual latecomer and rule-breaker. Self-justification was one thing, but how did you forgive yourself if you locked your door and your kid ended up dead? It happened. Ask Lesley Mahaffey’s parents.

Dan looked at his watch — nearly time. He closed the file on the teenage runaway and went downstairs to see what Ked had done to prepare for his party.

Two

Modern Jazz

Ked was asleep in a chair next to the barbecue. Donny and Dan sat across from one another. The remains of a food platter, a dozen empty beer bottles, and a half-eaten birthday cake sat on the table between them. Coloured lanterns threw shadows around the deck. Sleepy nighttime jazz seeped from the speakers and wafted through the backyard.

Donny blew a smoke ring. “This Marsalis?”

“You got it,” Dan said. “Is he hot or cool?”

“I’m not sure he’s either,” Donny answered. “Wynton plays like a white boy. I put him in the same category as Chet Baker.”

Dan’s face was a question mark. “Are you saying that because he plays classical?”

“Not at all. I think Marsalis is a dynamite classical player. Except for that number two Brandenburg where he sounds like a synthesizer. It’s his jazz I have a problem with. It’s too stiff and intellectual.”

“You don’t like Chet either? He’s got great tone.”

Donny took a drag worthy of Bette Davis then stubbed out the cigarette. “He’s Ivy League. I don’t like anyone who thinks ‘Over the Rainbow’ is a respectable jazz number.”

Dan laughed and uncapped a beer. “You snob!”

Donny’s eyebrows shot up. “Sugar, I work in the cosmetics industry. It comes with the territory. And you can’t touch me for that.”

It was Donny’s revenge for growing up poor, black, and — the ultimate disgrace for a Caribbean son — gay. Somehow he’d discovered he had a discerning nose for expensive scents, the perfumes and nectars of the gods. He now made a living turning up his nose for the same people who’d once snubbed him, advising them on the lotions, potions, and magic formulas they hoped would transform their looks. Maybe even their lives.

“Oh, yeah?” Dan countered. “How cool is it for some of these old black guys to be playing ‘Summertime’? That’s just tourist shite!”

“Hee-hee! You got me there.”

Dan thought for a moment. “Are you saying you can tell whether a player is black or white by how he blows a horn?”

“Sure I can!”

“No way! You’re going to have to prove that one.” Dan went inside and returned with a handful of CDs, tossing another bottle of beer to Donny. “Test time,” he said, slipping a disc into the player.

Chirpy bird-awkward notes wafted upward, drifting among the branches, cool and seductive.

“It’s Miles,” Donny said after a moment. “Probably from the mid-fifties, which means it’s the Quintet.” He listened again. “Yeah, that’s Coltrane. No mistaking that sound.”

Dan whistled. “Very good. It doesn’t even sound like the Miles Davis I know.”

Donny shook his head. “I can always tell Miles. Ellington called him the ‘Picasso of jazz.’”

“Does that make him hot or cool?”

Donny shot him a quick glance. “You have to ask? Miles Davis is the
epitome
of cool jazz. There’s no one better. Listen to that sound!”

A rap beat emerged from the player next. Pure street cred. Donny smiled. “Miles again. This is from
doo-bop
, am I right?”

Dan nodded.

“I don’t even need to hear the horn. You can’t shit me. This was his last album. I’m a true blue Miles fan.”

“Damn.” Dan shook his head and removed another CD from its case. “Okay, smart ass. Who’s this?”

A feathery drum brush dominated the speakers as a stuttering horn searched a pathway between the notes. Donny listened quietly for a moment.

“I’m going to guess Dizzy, and you’re a dead man if I’m wrong, ’cause I hate to be wrong when it comes to my horns.”

Dan grinned. “Right again.”

“I don’t know this piece. What is it?”

“It’s a live performance of ‘Lullaby In Rhythm’ from a Paris nightclub. Very early Dizzy. It’s a reissue I picked up recently.”

“Cool! Catch those brush strokes! That drummer’s making love to someone. So’s Dizzy. Hear those triplets? Whenever I hear Dizzy, I feel a whiskery set of lips moving to-and-fro across my belly till I’m ready to explode.”

“So is he hot or cool?”

“He is definitely hot. Listen to that sound — the man’s on fire!”

“Define Gillespie’s tone in three words or less.”

“Hmm....” Donny put a match to a cigarette, cocked his head, and listened. “Sexual … seductive … he’s all wet and slurpy. He gets right inside your skin with that splatter of notes.”

“Too many words. How about ‘slutty’?”

Donny exploded in laughter. “You got it. That’s exactly what old Dizzy is! Slutty! Whoo, boy! I can feel those bristles on my belly! Just don’t tell him he’s making love to a man, though. He might get upset.”

“You never know. He might like you.”

The laughter subsided. Dan switched CDs. A glittery baroque theme gilded the air.

Donny snorted. “Ah, man! That’s Marsalis again.”

“You sure?”

“You can’t fool me just because he’s playing classical.”

Dan shook his head. “Nope.”

“What? Sure it is. That’s Wynton Marsalis. I know this piece.”

“What is it?”

“Something about the Bright Seraphim. It’s by Handel.”

“No, man. You are dead wrong on both counts. It’s not Handel and it’s not Marsalis.”

Donny stared, cigarette smoke leaking from his nostrils. “It can’t be. Let me see that thing.” Donny looked over the CD case, shaking his head. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly.

“That’s Gerard Schwartz playing Scarlatti. He’s as white as they come.”

“You see? I told you Marsalis plays like a white boy.”

Dan smirked. “Gotcha!”

Donny raised a warning finger. “You say a word about this and I’ll tell everyone you gave Abe Pittman head in my bathroom because you felt sorry for him when Victor dumped him.”

“Ooh!” Dan said. “That’s mean. Okay, I promise.”

The track came to an end. The night was silent again. Donny turned to look at Ked curled up on his chair.

“You think the kid enjoyed his party?”

“Party of three, with his father and surrogate uncle?”

“Doesn’t he have any friends his age?”

Dan shot him a look. “Do you think he’d want me to introduce them to gay Uncle Donny and his dad’s boyfriend Bill?”

“I see. We’re good enough to fuck, but not good enough to be family, is that it? And what happened to His Royal Highness, anyway? He stand us up again?”

Dan shrugged off the question. “You know — work. Something came up.”

“Uh-huh. Something’s always ‘coming up’ at work. When are you going to get wise to that one?”

Dan cocked a warning eyebrow. “Whatever that means, Bill is fine. For now.”

“Yeah? Then why’s he always running around half-naked, doing E at clubs and acting like he’s still in his twenties? He’s a doctor, isn’t he?”

“He’s still a big kid at heart.”

“I’ll say.”

Dan took a pull from his beer and set the bottle on the table. “Anyway, it’s not as if I have options.”

“And it’s not as though you advertise, either. When was the last time you went out to a bar?”

Dan shrugged. “I don’t get lucky in bars — I just get drunk. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m no beauty.”

“No, Sugar, you are not, but you have a very tight, trim body the older boys love because it makes them feel like powerful daddies, and the younger boys enjoy because it makes them feel desired by a hot, sexy man. So everyone’s happy.” Donny looked askance at Dan. “What about you?”

“Don’t be a spoilsport.”

Donny glanced over at Ked again. “The boy was asking how come you and I don’t date any more.”

Dan took another pull on his beer. “What’d you tell him?”

“I said I only fuck white boys to hear them scream, and I don’t date you because I couldn’t respect you if I did.”

Dan threw a hamburger bun at him. It glanced off Donny’s shoulder and rolled across the table.

“Asshole! You did not say that. And as I recall, you’re the one who screamed on our dates. Good thing I told Ked not to believe a word you say about me.”

“Well, I think I once told him his daddy was pretty sizeable for a white boy. He told me his mother said the same thing.”

Dan laughed quietly. “Bastard.”

“What? It’s true! It’s a monster.”

“You don’t need to tell my kid that.”

“Don’t you want him to grow up to be proud of you?”

“Not for that.”

“Suit yourself.” Donny crossed his arms and turned away. He waited a moment before looking back. “So you and Miss Doctor are getting along these days?”

Dan shrugged. “He’s unreliable and takes forever to return calls, but he’s great in the sack....”

“And you say
I
reduce everything to sex!”

“… which you do … plus I’m going to meet some of his friends this weekend. Did I mention that the wedding we’re invited to is on a yacht?”

“Ooh! A yacht even!” Donny made a face. “The girl’s classy for a low-down bitch. Where’d she buy these friends?”

Dan stabbed the air with a finger. “You are a total asshole.” But he was laughing.

“It’s my greatest charm....”

“You have no charm,” Dan said, emptying his beer. “One of the guys getting married is Bill’s oldest friend. They went to school together. Upper Canada College and a few years of university somewhere.…”

“You and your rich boys.”

“I was still born in the gutter.”

“And you’ll die there, if you don’t stop dating men like Bill. Like most poor folk, you confuse money with class.” Donny peered intently at Dan. “You used to be a regular prolie when I met you — rough around the edges and wet behind the ears — but somewhere along the line you picked up some pretty bourgeois tastes.”

Dan snorted. “Really? And what about you?”

“Moi?” Donny splayed a hand against his chest — Marie Antoinette before the tribunal, disavowing all knowledge of privilege. “I’m as middle-class as they come. Which is why you stopped dating me. It’s okay, though. I respect you now. But do tell about the wedding. It sounds very recherché.”

“Let’s have some Scotch first,” Dan said, rising.

Donny’s hand went up. “I’ve had enough for tonight. Haven’t you?”

“Maybe.” Dan sat back and cupped his hands behind his head. “Anyway, I don’t know much about the wedding yet, but it promises to be fun. I’ve never spent an entire weekend on a boat before. Just me and Bill and a bunch of rich folk.”

“Rich white folk, no doubt. And where does the prideful event take place?”

“Somewhere in Prince Edward County, half an hour east of Kingston. Ever hear of a place called Glenora?”

Donny took so long to answer that Dan thought he hadn’t heard his question. “Yeaaah ...” he said finally. “Something about a freak lake?”

“I don’t know anything about a lake, freak or otherwise, but they make a very nice pale ale.” He held up the bottle of Glenora Red Coat he’d just finished.

“Oh, is that why.…”

“Just sampling the local wares.”

“And here I thought you were getting cheap on me.” Donny shook his head. “No, man — this place is famous. There’s some strange geological phenomenon like nowhere else in the world. It’s up on a mountain somewhere. Apparently it has no incoming source of water, but never runs dry.…”

“Underground streams?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember.”

“You sure you don’t want another drink?” Dan asked.

Donny put down his bottle and stood. “Thank you, no. I must depart.”

“It’s about time. I thought you’d never leave.”

“And that’s the only reason I stayed this long.” Donny looked over at Ked. “Say goodbye to the kid for me.”

“Take some cake?”

“Please!” Donny made a face. “Keep it for your doctor.”

Ralph sniffed curiously at Donny as he passed through the kitchen then turned back to his bed.

“Thanks for coming,” Dan said. “Ked was thrilled you made it.”

“Me too.” Donny filled the doorway. “It was fun to celebrate somebody else’s birthday for once.”

They hugged as Donny’s fingers felt around Dan’s midriff. “Still not an inch of fat on you. I don’t know how you do it, with all the drinking you do.”

“Willpower,” Dan said. “That and light beer.”

Donny smiled. “You have a good weekend, Sis. And take notes — sounds like it’s going to be
trés
elegant. I expect you to come back with lots o’ dirt. I want to hear all about how the rich and filthy-minded live. I need to compare notes!”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

An hour later, Ked was packed off to bed. Dan had cleaned up the porch and headed inside. After pouring himself a final drink, he put away the bottles of alcohol. Upstairs in his study, he turned back to the folder containing the file on the runaway, Richard Philips. He read the report again, and again laboured over the photograph. Something about the boy’s eyes — some vulnerability — wouldn’t let him go. Finally, he closed the file and turned off the machine.