The Suspect - L R Wright (15 page)

"She prefers my brother," said Cassandra.
'"But he's in Edmonton, so she has to make do with me.”

This would have been a provocative and interesting
remark, coming from a stranger. From a potential lover, it was
disquieting. He made no response, and she said nothing more. They
drove to Davis Bay, where the main highway dipped close to the sea.
Alberg parked the car, and they crunched down the gravel to the
beach. They walked out to the end of a long wharf, passing amateur
fishermen and kids in bathing suits who were running up and down and
yelling, causing the wooden flooring to spring beneath their feet.

"Up that way," said Cassandra, pointing
northwest, "is Selma Park. It's in the next bay. There's a stone
breakwater there. Have you seen it?"

Alberg nodded.

"
There was a luxury yacht named the Selma,”
she said, leaning on the wharf's railing. "In the 1880s. It
cruised the Mediterranean, sometimes with Edward the Seventh and
Lillie Langtry aboard." She grinned at Alberg. "Must have
been fun, huh?" She turned back to the sea. "Anyway, the
Selma went around the Horn to British Columbia eventually, I can't
remember why, and ended up plying the run between Vancouver and
Powell River. The land near the breakwater was bought by the shipping
line. They used it as a picnic ground for the steamship passengers.”

"
It's very handy,” said Karl, "knowing a
librarian.”

"
Actually it was George Wilcox who told me all
that.”

They began walking back down the wharf toward the
beach. But he stopped halfway and turned around to look out at the
ocean, and almost due west, a clump of rocks protruding from the sea.

"That's Trail lslands,” said Cassandra at his
elbow. "In the winter you can hardly see the rocks. They're
covered with sea lions."

He smiled, remembering his first sight of it.

The water was stitched with silent sails. He could
hear the raucous murmur of powerboats. He looked far off across the
water and saw on the horizon the mountainous outline of Vancouver
Island, hazy in the distance.

They left the wharf and wandered north along the
beach, which became sandier as they walked closer to the water. The
evening was very warm; sunlight flashed from the sea, and when Karl
half turned his back on it, he saw that there was a golden glow over
everything.  They were walking close together, but not touching.
The air was so filled with other scents—salt and seaweed and the
pine trees they were slowly approaching—that he couldn't tell
whether she wore any perfume. He felt mildly helpless, a tourist. But
he thought he probably didn't look much different from anybody else
on the beach. Except that he wasn't wearing shorts. He hadn't been
able to imagine wearing shorts while meeting somebody's mother.

Suddenly Cassandra began to run. He watched in
exasperation as she pelted up the beach, her straw bag bouncing on
its long braided straps, her skirts flying out every which way. If
she thinks I'm going to chase her, he thought in disgust. She was a
grown woman, for Christ's sake. He glanced around in embarrassment,
but nobody seemed to be paying any attention. A group of small tanned
children ran in and out of the water, screaming. Some adults sat on
towels on a big log, eating hot dogs. And still Cassandra ran,
growing smaller as she increased the distance between them.

Finally she whirled around and bent to put her hands
on her knees, catching her breath, he figured. She stood up and waved
him energetically forward. He couldn't see her face clearly, but he
thought she was smiling. He began a slow, sedate jog, holding onto
his dignity and his disapproval. She waved again, impatient. He
jogged a little faster. The soles of his sneakers grabbed confidently
at the gravel and tossed it behind him. He felt himself start to
grin, and he ran faster. Cassandra urged him on with shouts and
gestures. Soon he  was flying up the beach. She grew larger and
larger; he could hear her laughter clearly. When he reached her he
threw his arms around her, panting, and her hands grabbed
instinctively at his now sweaty back.

"
Jesus," he gasped, "I'm out of
shape.” He was leaning on her; she pushed him away gently, smiling
at him. His heart was thumping quickly and he felt triumphant.

"
George Wilcox lives up there a way, " said
Cassandra, pointing beyond the end of the beach. "I'd like to
stop in to see him. He's got a lovely garden. Are you game?"

Where the curve of the beach ended there were trees
and houses that backed onto the sea.

"lsn't it all private property, past here?"
said Alberg.

She laughed. "Yes, but l don't think anybody's
going to mind. Come on.”

They clambered along a much rockier, narrow beach
that led behind lawns and gardens, some well cared for, some not. The
sun was lower now, getting ready to drop behind Vancouver lsland.
Alberg wished devoutly, as he stumbled over the rocks, that they were
back in his car, heading for his house, or hers.

"How much farther?” he called out, as they
rounded a slight curve and came within the gaze of a middle-aged
couple sitting in lawn chairs.

"Not far, " shouted Cassandra, who was some
distance ahead of him, and she waved at the couple, who waved back,
mildly surprised.

"
Here we are,” she said a few minutes later.
Karl caught up to her and stopped, panting and grateful. He took a
few seconds to recover his wind and then looked curiously at George
Wilcox's house, set back about a hundred feet from the water's edge.

A lawn sloped gently up to a garden buffered from sea
winds by a low stone fence built across half the width of the
property; some tall plants rose above the fence, swaying idly.
Flowers grew against the house, and there were more next to the
fences that separated George's house from those of his neighbors.
There was a small toolshed at the end of the lawn, to Alberg's left.
On the grass to the right, near the back door, sat a somewhat
threadbare canvas chair and a small table. The large window which
Alberg knew was in the kitchen, and the smaller one next to it, in
the den, were veneered with gold from the slow-sinking sun.

Cassandra was advancing across the lawn toward the
door. Albcrg followed, ill at ease. She banged on the door.

George Wilcox opened it and looked at her in
amazement. "I hope you don't mind," said Cassandra. "Wce've
come to see your roses.”

George's gaze shifted to Alberg. "The Mountie,"
he said. "You've brought the damn Mountie.”

"I'm not on duty, Mr. Wilcox," said Alberg,
furious now with Cassandra and with himself.

"Well, I can see that, can't I," said
George, eyeing the two of them.

"He's actually a very nice man,” said
Cassandra.

"
That may be,” said George, holding on to the
door.

"
We were walking on the beach," said
Cassandra. "At Davis Bay.”

George looked at Alberg. "You want to see my
roses? I find that hard to believe.”

"Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Wiloox,” said
Alberg. He had thought of his hydrangeas and felt suddenly like a
normal person. "Cassandra says you're a gardener. I need all the
help I can get.”

"
What do you mean, help?” said George
suspiciously.

"
I'm living in a house in Gibsons with all sorts
of things growing in the yard, and I don't even know what most of
them are, let alone what to do about them."

"What house in Gibsons?”

"
The one they call the directors' house."

George snorted. "That place has been going to
rack and ruin for years, ever since the C.B.C. got its hands on it.”

"
Well, I've got it now. I'm only renting it, so
far. But it's still my responsibility. And I'm not really up to it.”

George Wilcox joined them on the grass, leaving the
door open behind him. He was wearing his gray sweater. It was dark
enough, Alberg supposed, halfheartedly, to be taken from a distance
as blue.

"
Y0u've got some dandy hydrangeas there,"
said George, "if I remember the place rightly." He shuffled
over to the corner of his house, next to the neighbor's fence. "These
are hydrangeas," he said, pointing to an enormous group of
shrubs about four feet tall. He reached into the middle of a bush and
stroked a faintly blue blosso m much larger than any on Alberg's
plants. "In a couple of weeks these will be so big," he
said, indicating with his hands a six-inch circle. "Blue, then
purple-ish. Last the whole summer. You got these in your yard?"
 
Alberg nodded. "They're growing
along my front fence. I think they're going to bring it down.” .

"
Damn things'll grow into trees if you let
them,” George agreed. "Cut them back. Be brutal. But don't do
it now. Do it in the fall, when they've finished flowering.” He
moved on. "Now these, these are roses. Climbers. They grow up
along the fence, you see that? You've got to tie them, though."

"I've got some of those, too," said Alberg.
"I cut them back last week. Flowers and all, I'm afraid. They
were about twelve feet high."

"Climbers are a bit tricky,” said George,
inspecting the leaves. "See this?" Alberg leaned closer.
"Aphids.” He wiped them off with a gnarled thumb, stooped to
wipe his thumb on the grass. "Climbers are tricky. Some of them
like to be pruned and some don't. If yours grow back and bloom again
this summer, then they're the kind that like to be pruned. If they
just show you a lot of leaves, then you did the wrong thing. You did
it at the wrong time, anyway, that's for sure. It's too late in the
year. You can't go hacking things down when the flowering season's
under way. It's not natural."

"I'll remember that,” said Alberg.

"
Instead of pruning them, you could have bent
them down and tied them to the top of your fence." He had begun
walking across the grass toward the stone fence; he stopped and threw
Alberg a curious glance. "You ought to get some books out of the
library," he said.

"I just got my card the other day," said
Alberg.

The sun was low and saffron in the cloudless sky. The
sea had darkened almost to violet, and the air was golden. It was as
though the scene had been lit for a photograph, Alberg thought,
looking at the bent old man leaning over his vegetables and Cassandra
leaning next to him, holding back her chestnut hair. They were
absorbed in the plants which grew in the shade of the low stone wall.
Yes, thought Alberg, the scene looks lit, for a family photograph or
a sentimental movie; there was an artful glow about it. The lawn
beneath his feet was soft, springy, fragrant.

"I"ve got a couple more chairs around
somewhere," said George. "Probably in the toolshed. Why
don't you dig them out?" he said to Alberg. "I'll go get us
some lemonade."

The toolshed was small and weatherbeaten, standing on
the lawn between the stone wall and the beach, under a windtwisted
arbutus tree. Inside, gardening supplies were arranged on shelves,
gardening tools hung from large nails, a ladder leaned against the
wall. There were also a small push lawnmower, a wheelbarrow, a large
half-empty bag of lime, another of fertilizer, and a lot of odds and
ends. Pushed into a dusty corner, Alberg found three canvas chairs
like the one outside. He set up two of them in a semicircle with
George's, out on the grass, and placed the small table handy to them
all.

Cassandra had gone indoors to help George. Karl stood
on the lawn looking at the garden. He wondered how difficult it was
to keep flowers blooming serenely against the side of the house; he
liked their vivid colors. Behind him the sea washed upon the beach
with a rhythmic, whooshing sound.

George came out bearing, incongruously, an elegant
crystal pitcher. Cassandra brought three ordinary glasses on a tray.
George poured, a bit unsteadily, holding each glass over the grass so
the spillage wouldn't get on the tabletop. He was careful to pour the
same amount of lemonade into each glass. He put the pitcher down
carefully and sat, gripping the wooden  arms of the canvas
chair, and then rested his hands on his thighs.

He had told Cassandra in the kitchen that the crystal
pitcher was forty-five years old, a wedding gift. She thought he
looked weary and more stooped than usual, and wondered how long his
strength could endure in the face of his loneliness. She wanted to
touch his hand as it lay upon his thigh, but she didn't.

"My mother grew a lot of geraniums,” said
George. "And sunflowers, and hollyhocks. She probably grew more
than that, but that's all I can remember."

They listened to the sea and welcomed the cooling
brought by evening.

"
Was your father a gardener too?” said Alberg,
stretching out his long legs, crossing his sneakered feet at the
ankles. George looked at him for a moment. Alberg couldn't read his
expression. Then he looked away, and for a while there was silence,
and then George began to speak. He looked at the grass as he talked,
or at the white-cord tepee upon which the peas were climbing, and
sometimes he shaded his eyes with a hand and looked out at the sun,
still glinting from behind the hazy mountains on the horizon.

"
There's a lot of peace to be found in
gardening. I didn't diseover that myself for years and years; just
watched other people do it and wondered why they bothered. But I
found out there's a lot of peace in it. That might be something
you'd  appreciate, Mr. Alberg.”