Grave Deeds Read online

  GRAVE DEEDS

  Books by Betsy Struthers

  Fiction:

  Found: A Body. Toronto: Simon Sc Pierre, 1992

  Poetry:

  Running Out Of Time. Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1993

  Saying So Out Loud. Oakville: Mosaic, 1988

  Censored Letters. Oakville: Mosaic, 1984

  GRAVE DEEDS

  BETSY STRUTHERS

  Copyright © 1994 by Betsy Struthers. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Simon & Pierre Publishing Co. Ltd., a subsidiary of Dundurn Press Limited. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Reprography Collective.

  Editor: Marian M. Wilson

  Cover Illustration: Steve Raetsen

  Printed and bound in Canada by Metrolitho Inc., Quebec

  The writing of this manuscript and the publication of this book were made possible by support from several sources. We would like to acknowledge the generous assistance and ongoing support of The Canada Council, The Book Publishing Industry Development Program of the Department of Canadian Heritage, The Ontario Arts Council, and The Ontario Publishing Centre of the Ministry of Culture, Tourism and Recreation.

  Kirk Howard, President; Marian M. Wilson, Publisher

  Simon & Pierre Publishing Co. Ltd., a subsidiary of Dundurn Press

  1 2 3 4 5 • 9 8 7 6 5

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Struthers, Betsy, 1951-

  Grave deeds

  ISBN 0-88924-257-7

  I. Title.

  PS8587.T298G7 1993 C813’.54 C93-095037-2

  PR9199.3.S77G7 1994

  Order from Simon & Pierre Publishing Co. Ltd., care of

  Dundurn Press Limited Dundurn Distribution Dundurn Press Limited

  2181 Queen Street East 73 Lime Walk 1823 Maryland Avenue

  Suite 301 Headington, Oxford P.O. Box 1000

  Toronto, Canada England Niagara Falls, N.Y.

  M4E 1E5 0X3 7AD U.S.A. 14302-1000

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For their advice and assistance, I thank Constable Lynne Buehler, Peterborough Community Police Service; Kenneth Doherty, Manager, Peterborough Centennial Museum and Archives; and Dr. Susan Jamieson, Department of Anthropology, Trent University. Any errors are, of course, my own.

  And as always, I thank Jim Struthers, my first best reader.

  for my parents, L.H. Porter and Susanne E. Porter,

  with love

  ONE

  The moment I turned the corner, I saw the crowd. About twenty people huddled together on the sidewalk halfway down the block, mostly women holding small children by the hand. In spite of the breeze blowing up from the lake, chilling the brightness of the spring sun, only a few wore jackets over casual sweatshirts and jeans. Their chatter competed with the squabble of starlings nesting among the new leaves of the maples that lined the street. A couple of elderly men stood in the centre of the road, one of them clutching the leash of a small fat terrier. Its high-pitched yaps were echoed by the excited barking of a Doberman whose head popped up periodically, as it threw itself against the tall wooden fence next door. Two boys on bicycles sped down the hill and screeched to a stop by the women. Voices rose and fingers pointed. A baby cried.

  I stopped to consult the letterhead printed at the top of the thick creamy paper on which my aunt had sent me an invitation to visit. I hadn’t known until she wrote that I had an aunt. My father left when I was still a baby; my mother died shortly after my marriage. I never met his relatives and hers were far away in England. As for my husband’s family, well, you know how in-laws are. My lack of relations is only one of the things Will’s mother holds against me. One of the smaller things at that.

  The address matched the house; the letter didn’t. Written in beautiful flowing script, the formal note of introduction and invitation induced those fantasies so familiar to my lonely childhood: that I had been exchanged in the hospital at birth and that my real family were rich and loving and looking for me. Not that I didn’t love my mother, but she worked long hours as a lawyer’s secretary. I spent many dark winter afternoons sitting in the front windowseat of our apartment waiting for her to come home, and imagining a different life in a house full of siblings and grandparents.

  This house was in a neighbourhood developed at the beginning of the century as a summer residence for the bourgeois of the city, those who wanted and could afford to escape the smell and congestion of downtown in exchange for the long white beaches at the end of a thirty-minute streetcar ride. It dated from that era: a frame cottage with gabled windows overlooking the roof of a verandah that wrapped around three of its sides. Once it had been painted white with dark green trim. What could be seen through the mass of ivy and overgrown bushes that pressed against the walls was gray weathered wood and boarded windows.

  I joined the group of watchers, choosing to stand beside a woman my age who stood a little apart from the others, her feet still on the brick path that led to her own front door. She wore a faded pink track suit and new white running shoes; her graying hair was cut short. She didn’t join in the excited speculation of her neighbours, but stared fiercely across at my aunt’s house, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts, her eyes squinting against the sunlight or against tears — it was hard to tell which.

  A hearse backed up the drive, crowding a police car onto a lawn of tall grass and dandelions. A white sedan was pulled up on the sidewalk. Red and white rooftop lights flickered in the brilliant spring sun. The crackle of radio static and the urgent repetition of a coded call echoed beneath the twittering of robins and the soothing coo of pigeons that strutted across the roof ridge between chimneys, craning their necks to see if anyone down below was about to throw them food. No one was.

  A uniformed policeman stood on the verandah at the top of a flight of four steps. Two men in suits conferred on the threshold. They moved aside as the door swung open. For a moment, the attendant’s back hid the gurney he was manoeuvring down the stairs.

  A quiet groan rose when the body, wrapped in a blanket, came into view. The woman next to me sighed heavily and muttered half aloud, “So. That’s that.”

  “Excuse me,” I said. “What’s happened here?”

  My voice startled her. Her hands dropped to her sides, forming fists. She glared at me and, without answering, turned her back. I watched her stride into her house and winced at the crash of the slammed door.

  A small gnarled and liver-spotted hand patted my own. “Don’t worry about her none,” an old man said. He tugged at the terrier’s leash. “You keep away from them flowers,” he commanded. And turning to me he added, “She can’t stand dogs or cats, or kids for that matter. She hated the old lady,” he nodded toward the hearse as it made its quiet retreat down the street under the arching maples. “Tried to get the city to make her clean up her yard, complained that the seeds blew across into her garden, messed up her pretty arrangements. And the number of times she had the Humane Society here looking out for them cats!” His cackle degenerated into a shaky cough. After some fumbling, he found a shred of tissue which he used for both his nose and his eyes. “’Scuse me,” he said. “But I was kind of fond of the old witch.”

  “Who?”

  “Mother Baker.” He nodded at the little house across the street. “That’s what we all called her, anyways. Not to her face, mind. She used to tell fortunes in the old days, reading tea leaves. Didn’t always hear what you wanted neither, but she was right more times than not. Old as the devil she was. Older’n me, anyways, and I won’t
see seventy again. Guess how old I am, young lady. Go ahead — guess.”

  “I don’t know. Seventy-two?”

  That got him laughing again. “Eighty,” he hooted. “Eighty years old and lived here all my life. Born in that house right there” — he pointed to an immaculate Victorian house on the corner, complete with tower and gingerbread fretwork — “and I’m going to die there, too. Got my granddaughter living with me now. Her and her kids. She needs a place to live and I need the company. Whereabouts do you live, eh? Don’t recall seeing you round about, and I know everybody on this street.”

  Before I could answer him, another stir swept through the crowd as a small van came up to the curb. A policeman hurried over to talk to the driver. The back opened and a young woman climbed down, carrying two pet carriers and a long pole with a loop of rope at its end.

  “They’re going to catch the cats,” the old man said. “I gotta watch this.”

  He tugged his dog back across the street and took up a station under one of the big maples that lined the sidewalk. I followed.

  The police car pulled out of the drive and passed us. Its driver was intent on weaving a safe path through the crowd; her passenger was scribbling in a notebook with one hand while talking into a radio mike he held in the other. On the street, a uniformed officer was talking to various onlookers, taking notes as they answered his questions. The boys rode their bikes back and forth, craning their necks to peer inside the house through the open door.

  An unholy screech erupted from inside. One of the men I’d noticed earlier stumbled out on to the porch, blood dripping from a hand he held so that it wouldn’t stain his pale linen suit. “Damned cats,” he snarled. “I hate cats.”

  “Take it easy, Joe.” The second, younger man joined him. He was trying not to smile, but I could see that he privately enjoyed the other’s distress. “It’s just a little scratch.”

  “Did you see the one that bit me? Big as a lion it was.”

  “Scared of a little pussy, are you?”

  “I didn’t see you trying to catch it.” Joe pulled a starched handkerchief from his vest pocket and wrapped it around his palm. “Probably has rabies,” he grumbled. “I’ll have to get those shots. Have you got any idea how bad those shots are? I heard they give you about forty of them, right in the belly. I hate needles.”

  “You think Workmen’s Compensation will cover this? Cat scratch in the line of duty?” the other man ribbed him.

  Joe muttered another curse, turning his back on his partner to survey the street. I didn’t look away quickly enough. We stared at each other for a long moment. Without dropping his eyes, Joe whispered something to the younger man. He too looked at me. I decided it was time to leave.

  The cat catchers came out, staggering with the weight of two boxes each, boxes that snarled and shook as the cats inside fought to escape. They slid them into the van and brought out four more empty cases. The woman sighed heavily before turning back to the house.

  “They’ll be bringing them out for hours.” My old friend was back beside me again. He was carrying the little dog, which had become bored with all the action and fallen asleep.

  “She had a lot of cats?”

  “You bet. It was all the grocery ever delivered, cat food and milk.”

  “What about her? What did she eat?”

  “Regular food, I guess. She walked down to the corner every other day of the week, ’cept Sunday, rain or shine, pulling that little bundle buggy of hers. It was company for her, going to the store.”

  “But the cat food got delivered?”

  “Bags of it, yeah.” He nodded. “Every stray for miles around knew to come to Mother Baker’s come October. Most of ’em had kittens and most of the little ones stayed. They just burst out of that house in the evening. Mrs. Robinson,” and he nodded toward the home of the first woman I’d approached, “she used to complain all the time. But the old lady was clever. She had them all named and had the vet come and give them their shots. She even had the papers to prove it. Fifty cats she had. I know — the vet told me when she came to see Winny here, the last time Winny ate something he shouldn’t.” He rubbed his cheek against the dog’s head. Its tail thumped against his chest, but its eyes stayed closed. “Garbage mouths, dogs are! You have to love them, though. Not like cats. Can’t say I like them either, but they were company to the old woman. Only family she had, I’d say. Look,” and he nodded to the other house. “Here she comes.”

  Mrs. Robinson stalked down her sidewalk and right across the street to the van. She waited for the next load of cats to be dumped inside. “They killed her, didn’t they?” she demanded. “Those cats ganged up on her, right? She fell and couldn’t feed them, right? They ate her. I told you and told you they were dangerous. I knew something like this would happen, I just knew.” Her voice cracked.

  The uniformed officer had finished speaking to the last of the group on the far sidewalk, and waved them off to their homes. He hurried across to the driveway, but the scratched detective beat him to her. He put his hand on her arm and drew her away from the van. The two Humane Society officers grinned at each other. One drew circles in the air around his ear. The other shrugged and picked up two more empty cases.

  “Guilt,” the old man hissed.

  “What?” I was trying to hear what Joe was telling the woman, but they were too far off, their voices lowered in intimate whispers.

  “Guilt,” he repeated. “She always said she wished the old lady would die and take her cats with her. She can’t stand it now that it’s happened.”

  “The cats really didn’t eat her?” I shuddered at the vision.

  “No. Mrs. Robinson watches too much TV. You know, those American crime shows, rescue squads, whatever. Bunch of baloney, if you ask me. Pets wouldn’t do such a thing. Not ’less they were really starving, and it couldn’t be more’n a day since the old lady died.”

  “What happened to her?”

  He shook his head. “Ah, it’s a sad story, sad indeed. Mr. Iannou was telling me.” He nodded toward the other old man who was now arguing with Mrs. Robinson and the cop. “He found her, you know. Lives next door, has lived there fifty years, and I daresay she’s never said more’n two words at a stretch to him. ’Good day’ — you know. Or Tine evening.’ But he kept an eye out for her, specially once that woman moved in and started on about the cats. Anyways, he realized he hadn’t seen her for two days. Regular as clockwork she was, letting the cats in and out, once in the morning, once in the evening. And today was her church morning. She never missed a morning service, not even in winter. But today, nothing. So he knocks on the door and all he hears is them cats squalling. So he calls the cops.”

  Mrs. Robinson stamped past us back to her house. She was muttering, but I couldn’t quite hear what she said. I didn’t want to hear it.

  “And?” I prompted the old fellow.

  “And they break down the door. And they find her, at the bottom of the stairs. Fell she had, and died. Funny, though.”

  “What?”

  “Them stairs. Been years since those windows on the top floor been boarded up. Can’t imagine what she’d been doing going up there. Even I have some trouble with stairs these days. Moved my bed down to the dining room. Granddaughter says it’s a good thing I put in that first floor toilet when Martha took ill. Martha was my wife. Fifty-two years together we had. Fifty-two wonderful years. Are you married?”

  “Granddad, what are you doing?” A young woman thrust herself in between me and the old man. In spite of her designer jeans and tailored cotton shirt, she was disheveled, almost frumpy. “It’s not just the boys I have to watch, but you too, is it?” she whined. “I go to lie down for just five minutes, and off you go. I’ve been looking all over the house. I should have realized you’d be out here with all the ghouls.” She sniffed angrily and glared at me. “Who are you? What do you want with my grandfather?”

  “We were just talking,” I said.

  “That’s
no way to be speaking to a stranger, a lady at that,” the old man grumbled. “Didn’t your mother teach you better manners, girl?”

  “Spare me the lecture.” She tugged at his arm. “And put that damn dog down. You’ll strain your back carrying him around.”

  “He don’t weigh hardly anything,” the old man protested. He sighed, then did as she said.

  “You’re coming home with me this minute. I bet you forgot your pills again, too, didn’t you? You know you’re supposed to take them at exactly three p.m., and it’s half-past already. You’re worse than the boys. A grown man you are, you ought to know better.”

  “Don’t worry, girl, I’ll be all right this once. I had to say good-bye to Mrs. Baker now, didn’t I? She’s the last of the old ones to go. ’Cept me, of course, and with you looking out for me, I got no worries about that happening too soon, eh?” He chuckled, and gently patted her shoulder.

  She flushed. “Oh, you.” She pushed his hand away and then clutched it. “You’ll be the death of me, you know.”

  “Come on, then, let’s go take those pills. See what those scallywags of yours are up to.”

  “Oh my god, the boys.” She dropped his hand and ran off, her sandals slapping the pavement.

  “Your granddaughter?” I asked.

  “She loves me.” The old man shook his head. “Don’t know why, but there it is. I let her boss me round some, but don’t take much notice of her tone. She can’t help it. She had bad luck with that man of hers, left her with two little ones and a third on the way. The baby’s two now, sweet little thing. She needed a home and I had that big old place, too big for me to keep up myself after the wife died. Family should stick together, eh? Well, I best be going before she’s out here after me with a frying pan.” He chuckled. “Got a temper that one has, just like her grandma. Come on then, Winston, old boy. Time to go home. Good-day.”

  I was ready to leave as well. I turned to find my way blocked by the plainclothes officer with the scratched palm.