The Body on the Beach, page 7
Going up Kitchen’s Hill was always challenging with a standard shift. This was particularly true of his car, as the gears weren’t easy to shift. The trick was to gain enough momentum to make the hill, keeping in mind that he had to manage a sharp right turn.
Thankfully, Frank Fallon was not big on luxuries. That was a good thing, given his living conditions in Harbour Grace. The decision to reopen the old homestead resulted in his having to accept certain domestic challenges. A leaky roof, faded cladding, and a couple of cracked windowpanes could all be remedied if his transfer to Harbour Grace lasted for any length of time. But there were other more serious deficiencies, such as poor water pressure, a faulty water heater that often didn’t kick in, and a slow sewage system. However, he reasoned there was nothing that couldn’t be righted before the fall. For now, Kitchen’s Hill was his home. He intended to make the best of it while he was there.
He tossed his newspaper on the table and reached beneath the sink cabinet where he had stashed a recently purchased bottle of ’shine, still wrapped in paper. Finding a shot glass on the counter, he tore the paper away from the bottle to discover it was Canadian Club, the very same whiskey he had found at Marie’s apartment. He poured himself a drink and downed it in one motion. This liquor had a very different taste than the hooch that came from George’s still. It was smoother and more refined than George’s usual bitter rum-flavoured drink. After pouring another shot into the glass, he sat back in his father’s old rocker. Perhaps Marie had been buying her liquor from George Snow as well.
Looking around the kitchen, he saw items everywhere that reminded him of his father. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father didn’t remarry. Frank couldn’t recall his father ever taking notice of other women, remaining a widower for the rest of his life. His old salt-and-pepper cap still hung on a nail behind the door, a crooked smoke pipe rested in an ashtray atop the stove mantel, and a worn King James Bible wrapped in an Orange Lodge sash lay beside it. He knelt by the daybed each night, whispering his prayers, covering his face with his callused fingers.
His father was a kind, loving, hard-working man who was always patient, a thoughtful person satisfied with his lot in life, and would have been tormented if he knew that his son had an unsettled mind and was captive to the drink. Frank had heard from others that, as a young man, his father had trouble with the bottle himself, but had sworn off his demons when faced with having to raise a child on his own. It wasn’t often spoken about, but he once admitted to Frank about his younger years, his drinking days, and his association with other young men on the wrong side of the law. Frank thought his words to be a confession, perhaps a warning to him not to travel the same rough road. He was content with the knowledge that his father would not know that his son did not practise his faith and religious beliefs.
He reached into his pocket for Marie’s letter. He lay back on the old daybed where his father had taken many naps. Clenching the letter tightly, he placed it over his heart and whispered a prayer, not to God, but to Marie.
“Why, Marie? Why?”
9
Fallon didn’t think of it as routine, but getting up early always gave him a sense of being in control of the day ahead. He felt more efficient compared to days when he squeezed through the door just at the beginning of his shift. Early this July morning, he pulled in at Ugly Head Point, a well-known bluff he and Marie would sometimes visit and spend much time talking and gazing at local beauty. Looking out over the bay, he watched several fishing boats slowly make their way out to the fishing grounds.
The sun had just risen above the Southside Hills and glistened from their easternmost point, reflecting off the uncharacteristically still water. This was a “pet” morning, he mumbled to himself: a local proverb his grandfather, a lifelong fisherman, used on rare occasions like this, when the wind was calm and the water flat like glass. The unusual stillness in this rugged North Atlantic climate warned the hardened fishermen that a storm was imminent. He hadn’t used that phrase since he departed this old town years ago. It was only a morning like this while viewing such a spectacular setting that could trigger such a warm memory.
The tiny skiffs, each leaving its own flawless wake, putt-putted their way eastward toward Sow Point, where the crews would tow and pull their trawls until their callused hands had successfully hauled their morning’s catch. He opened the car window and listened to the distinctive echoes of the “make and break” engines gradually fade away as the boats became just tiny specks, patiently manoeuvring themselves to their respective berths near the base of the towering cliffs of Red Cove Beach.
He decided to make some personal visits before checking in at the police station. Head Constable Jack Roberts had given him the green light to move ahead with the investigation to find the source of the cocaine, and his quest to locate the supplier of the cocaine would also uncover the reason for Marie’s death.
Frank drove eastward along Water Street to take a look at Marie’s old homestead before heading back to Victoria Street, where the Thomeys lived and worked. Away from downtown, Water Street hugged the shoreline, snaking its way as far west as Riverhead. The Main Path, as it was called, crossed through one of the oldest parts of town. For centuries, this was the only way to enter and exit the town from the west. A very old part of town, Courage’s Beach retained its character. Wrought-iron fences, perfectly aligned stone walls, and older, well-kept homes graced the area.
He always loved Callahan’s old homestead. The farmhouse was situated in a garden directly off the road, with a large rolling field directly behind it that eventually reached the ocean. For many years, the beautiful many-acred rectangular piece of oceanfront property, called Ship Head, was farmed by the Callahan family. It was a Catholic-owned property in the middle of a Protestant working-class community. It was obvious the farmland had been left fallow in recent years.
Marie Callahan’s old homestead came into sight. Frank was shocked. The once magnificent three-storey saltbox stood abandoned, shuttered, and weather-beaten. Sadly, the wraparound veranda sagged due to neglect. No doubt its supporting framework had weakened. A double swing that used to hang from the covered veranda had fallen. This was where he and Marie would sit for hours, talking about books and their dreams of a promising future. Yellowed moss now grew in patches on the gabled ends of the roof, having taken root in the shaded corners of the dormer windows.
He and Marie had spent endless hours inside this once-beautiful house. It had the very best of everything when it came to furniture. The amenities were far beyond those to which Frank was accustomed. The Callahans had hot and cold running water, flushing indoor toilets, and well-adorned rooms. Frank’s humble abode on Kitchen’s Hill was always clean and tidy, but Marie’s house was majestic and spotless.
When she was much younger and Mr. Callahan wasn’t around, Marie would lead him into the den, where she would pretend to be a tycoon. The spacious rooms made great places for play areas. He remembered her showing him a secret hiding place in the floor of Mr. Callahan’s office that she said could be exposed by removing a small section of the floorboards directly behind his desk. Marie said it was where her father kept some of his important papers. They resisted the temptation to open it, and now Frank wondered if it actually existed or if it was just a childhood fantasy.
Recalling how proud Mr. Callahan was over his manicured lawn, Frank was disappointed to see it overgrown with grass so high that walkways were indiscernible. An unpruned hedge reached out into the driveway. The huge oak trees were much higher than Frank remembered. Now they towered over the front of the house. Some of the larger branches had fallen to the ground, and others lay discarded on the roof. Multiple piles of dead leaves driven by the wind had gathered together indiscriminately in mounds throughout the garden. Marie’s father used to take such care of his property, maybe thinking he would pass it along to his daughter. When Frank heard from Head Constable Roberts that there was no next of kin, it saddened him to think the Callahan lineage had reached its end with Marie’s tragic death.
Over the years, Frank had been relieved from the pain of old personal connections to Harbour Grace. Now, that accursed Sullivan had forced him to come full circle. Having seen enough, Frank turned his vehicle toward downtown to begin his investigation.
Since Marie had worked with Susan and Allan Thomey, he thought it best to begin with them. He hadn’t seen them since his exodus in 1905. The previous night, he had tried to mentally plan his approach. Since the Thomeys knew just how his relationship with Marie had ended, he felt awkward commencing the investigation there. Both were well aware of his earlier heartache.
Searching the deep recesses of his mind served no purpose the night before, leaving him unable to come up with a comfortable approach. Unlike Frank’s usual well-thought-out strategies, he was now forced to improvise and make decisions on the fly.
Frank did know that Marie and the Thomeys remained close over the past decade and a half. He had to remember to keep an open mind. At a time like this, in the case of a suspicious death, everyone was under a microscope. So as not to compromise the case, Frank would be selective with the information he chose to share with the Thomeys.
Victoria Street housed the richest families in town. Everyone on this street took pride in their homes, some with architectural designs from the early to mid-nineteenth century. Several were Tudor-styled structures with multi-gabled roofs, while others were fancy three-storey saltbox-styled homes with less than average slopes, unlike the high-peaked stand-alone houses that were evident elsewhere. Bordering the street, the dwellings had little or no grass frontage. Nonetheless, Frank recalled, the rear gardens were sights to behold.
He pulled into the narrow driveway, barely wide enough for a motor car. Allan and Susan lived and worked in Allan’s father’s house, where the business was located. The senior Thomeys had retired to England, from where they had emigrated during the mid-1800s. Mr. Thomey printed the Harbour Grace Standard for years. Allan apprenticed with his father and carried on the family business, printing the paper until the Standard’s publisher switched printers. From what he had heard, Allan and Susan had adapted and modified their presses to carry out general printing. Apparently, now they catered to local retail and other commercial printing needs.
The Thomey house, a modified Victorian mansion, stood in all its glory, just as it had when Frank hung around with Allan. Its two full-length dormers and double entrances, adorned with ornate, wide facings, made the house stand out from its neighbours. The stand-alone carriage house was now a modern garage. The long, front end of a brand new 1920 shiny black Talbot poked out from the garage. To afford this import, Allan and Susan had done quite well.
Frank was a nervous wreck. His hands began to tremble. He needed a shot of courage. Applying the parking brake, he made certain nobody was watching. Reaching below the seat, he found his small flask. He needed just a mouthful. As the bitter alcohol raced down his throat, it calmed his nerves, and within seconds, the shaking ceased.
Rather than approach the front door of the house, he decided to enter the print shop. The business sign, a stylized image of a lighthouse, hadn’t changed. Although calmed by the effects of the liquor, he still felt uneasy as he stood in front of the counter.
Oblivious to any visitor, Allan and Susan worked busily, loading multiple trays and feeders with stacks of paper. Several machines vigorously click-clacked as the printers spewed out leaflet after leaflet. Unnoticed, Fallon continued to wait several minutes as the Thomeys, in full-length leather aprons, busily dodged and darted around the machinery, tinkering and adjusting the various levers and checking ink reservoirs. As he leaned on the counter, he noticed a tiny bell and rang it.
Allan was the first to spot Frank. Dropping his hands to his sides, he froze, standing at the press. In surprise and disbelief, he slowly shook his head, then squinted to make certain it truly was his old friend. Seeing that Allan was still a little unsure, Frank promptly removed his cap. As Allan limped to the counter, he turned to call out to his wife.
“Christ, Susan. Look who’s here.” He had to shout, as she was working in the far end of the shop. Ignoring Allan’s cry, she continued to probe and poke a long-nosed thumb-oiler here and there, pumping lubricant into the various rollers and wheels, an endless requirement for all printing presses. When she turned around, she screamed. “Oh my God. It’s Frank Fallon. I can’t believe my eyes.”
Allan stood by as Susan rushed to Frank, throwing her arms around him. She had to shout. “We only spoke about you yesterday, didn’t we, Allan? Somebody told us that they thought they saw you. Welcome home.”
Like most men, Allan remained a little more reserved and reached out his hand to offer a greeting. He continued to shake Frank’s hand, leaning back a little to get a better look at his long-time friend. He also raised his voice to speak. “Well done, Frank. You are a policeman, indeed. And in our hometown. It’s so good to see you. Susan and I are so proud.”
“Great seeing you folks, too. You haven’t changed a bit,” said Frank. There it was again, another white lie. They, in fact, had aged. Standing in his ink-stained apron, Allan looked more like his father than ever. When he removed his visor, Frank took notice of Allan’s receding hairline. Susan’s hair was short, unlike the long black hair she sported as a teenager. She had aged well, although she looked rather pale.
Allan and Susan stopped feeding the trays of paper, and the presses began to wind down. The noises faded as the presses rested, making it comfortable to talk.
“Let’s go to the greenhouse. Allan has made some delicious fruit juice. No alcohol content, of course, for medicinal purposes only.” She winked and smiled. “I’ll put a sign on the door. I’m certain the print jobs will be there when we get back.”
“I’ll pass on the drink, but I’ll take a cup of tea.” Frank would have loved to have the wine. He thought it best not to accept a drink, lest it put him in a compromising situation, regardless of how innocent it might be. The flask stashed under the seat of his Model T was a different matter. It was well hidden. Certainly no harm in a little private nip from time to time to get him out of a pinch.
10
As they strolled out the rear with Susan leading the way, he wondered who would be the first to bring up Marie. It wouldn’t be him. Frank was even more impressed when he saw the backyard from their veranda, which gave a sweeping view of it. Having a greenhouse certainly permitted the Thomeys to do much more with their garden than most. Already, the mature trees were blossoming or beginning to yield sizable pears, plums, and other fruit. Multicoloured flowers surrounded a crafted pond with blooming lily pads. A well-fashioned wooden bridge reached across its full breadth. There were dozens of variations of flowers, many of them in full bloom. A cobblestone walkway led them to the greenhouse, which had sheltered the garden flora before being transplanted. It was evident that Susan and Allan spent much time cultivating, weeding, and pruning.
He spied two cricket bats leaning against a bench, with a pair of neatly folded leather batting gloves resting atop a helmet. Frank was surprised Allan would still have his cricket equipment, especially with his obvious injury. They each slid into comfortable wooden crafted chairs strategically placed to take in the view. Frank thought of his own modest place on Kitchen’s Hill. A long time ago, he learned to resist comparing himself to others, knowing that trying to measure himself against them would only serve to make him long for things out of his reach. A lush garden was one of them.
Allan hardly spoke. On the other hand, Susan was full of questions, probing Frank about his past, while she filled him in on their lives. Their story, as presented, was predictable. Married and being well-to-do, they seemed very happy. Frank was envious that his old friends had found happiness living normal lives. For an instant, he questioned why he found himself alone in this world. He quickly suppressed the thought, realizing that self-pity served no purpose. While Susan rattled on with small talk, Frank was puzzled why Allan was so subdued. He just kept nodding his head in agreement with whatever his wife gushed about. He seemed to be there for affirmation purposes only, not once adding a comment of his own accord. Years past, Allan was outgoing, a risk taker, and a hell of a lot of fun. Frank couldn’t recall him being so serious and agreeable.
After some time, Allan finally interrupted. “I’ll run in and get another tea for Frank, honey. I would love to have another glass of fruit wine, but I’d be challenged to go back to work. Maybe I’ll have tea with him.” Allan picked up his glass and coaxed down the last droplet of wine clinging to the rim. As he stood, he excused himself. Allan has grown to be so goddamned formal, Frank thought as Allan limped into the house.
Susan shuffled her feet and squirmed a little. Frank thought her subtle movements exposed some awkwardness. She seemed eager to share something he needed to hear.
She spoke in a hushed tone. “He’s different, isn’t he? Very quiet and pensive now. Ever since that damn war. During his last year, he was a prisoner of war, Frank. God knows what he went through. They say he had completely lost his memory until he recovered in a London hospital. I was afraid he had been killed in action. When Allan returned, he wouldn’t speak to anyone for weeks, including me. Shrapnel in his leg, too, you know.”
Frank had wondered about the limp. Susan’s expression became even more subdued. “Dr. Lambert saw to him at first, but to no avail. Then we followed up with doctors in St. John’s. We actually lived there until he was able to walk with a cane, but the pain was excruciating. At times he cried so loudly you could hear him outside our rental. Eventually, that settled somewhat. But the thoughts of war continued to wear him down. The only thing that brought him around was his father’s retirement. For some reason, this printing business had given him renewed purpose.”
