From Chapter Two, Death by Triangulation
That was enough research. My head was starting to ache, and there's nothing like a long motorcycle ride in the crisp, lambent air of October to clear it. I packed up my notebooks and camera, threw some spare clothes and a toothbrush into my saddlebags, and called the few friends who'd miss me, letting them know I'd be out of town for a few days. The last one was Sarah, my favourite red-haired librarian and sometimes girlfriend … well, she's a woman, but "woman friend" grates on the ear. Maybe I could con her into doing the Owens research.
"You won't believe this," I told her, "but I have a case and money, too. In fact, I've already been paid for a week's work."
"You mean an actual job? Be still, my beating heart," she laughed. "Does this mean you can pay me back the last loan?"
"That and more," I said. "My crystal ball shows champagne, lobster and bouquets for you as soon as I'm back from a road trip to Prince Edward County."
"That's good," she said. "I'll keep myself warm for your return, then."
"Especially my favourite parts, I hope," I said. "Could you do one little favour for me?"
"As long as it's not another loan," she teased.
"Find out what you can about Gavin Owen, the writer, and dump it in an e-mail to me."
"Whaddya think I am, a librarian? Oh, I am. I will," she promised. "But you owe me … and not just for the loan and Owen,"
she said.
"I always owe you, just for associating with me. See you in a few days. Love ya."
"Ya back," she whispered, and broke the connection.
There's not much to tell about the ride along the 401 East. I was too busy with the usual biking business – the secret to staying alive on the road – keeping well clear of big trucks that not only leave turbulent wakes but also chuck parts of their tires, or loads, at unwary riders. I had to watch for the many terrible drivers who tailgate at high speed, drift across lanes, text or talk while ignoring the scenery whizzing past at 120 kph, suddenly slow down or speed up for no apparent reason, and never figure out what turn signals are for. I used my old bike's instant power to pull away from these accidents-waiting-to-happen. I would rather stay ahead of trouble than have it bite me in the butt.
Then there are the front-wheel-eating pot holes, badly-filled cracks that force sudden steering changes, stretches of grooved surface, and the random surprises of dropped oil and loose gravel on the pavement. To live past your twenties and still ride bikes means achieving a kind of moving meditation, in which you watch everything around you, consider scenarios for the stupidest things drivers could do – because once in a while, they meet expectations – and check the bike’s engine sound and stability.
Even so, a steady blast at 120 had my face in a permanent smile and my ears ringing by the time I exited at Wooler Road, just before Trenton. I didn't see one sheep, though.
I stopped in at a service station cafe – always a place for fine dining. The locals suddenly went quiet in that eerie way country people do when a stranger appears. The fact that I was wearing an orange leather jacket and carrying a full-face purple helmet probably didn't help either. I scanned the menu, with its variations on the thousand things to make with fried meat, and opted for pie and coffee.
Then, I spread out the map Richard had given me and checked my turns again. OK, over the bridge and into The County. I wonder when it became "The", instead of just "a", County. Anyway, my route turned left on County Road 18, through Ameliasburg, onto Hwy. 62 below the Mountainvew airport, then cut east again on 14 to a hamlet with the unlikely name of Demorestville. DEMorestville? DeMORestville? I'd have to ask someone the right pronunciation. The patrons here looked more inclined to rope me onto the hoods of their pick-up trucks, though, so I left.
Once over the bridge to the County, the landscape was subtly different. Gently rolling, it revealed prosperous-looking farms, frame houses set back in the woods, and a lake reflecting the cumulus clouds. The road to Ameliasburg was a delight, fast and straight past farms and stables, and then suddenly pitching a series of sharp 90-degree turns that seemed to be there for the hell of it, or to follow some wandering boundaries. I remembered that a better poet than Gavin Owen had lived here a long time, and might be buried here: Al Purdy, poet laureate of beer halls, wandering, and northern landscapes. I found a road down to a cemetery dotted with weeping willows, and there it was, a marble slab commemorating the "Voice of the Land."
I communed with a few of his lines in my head for a moment:
"The worth of life being not necessarily noise
we kept unusual silence, and then cried out
one word which has never yet been said…"
I rumbled on through the sleepy, vaguely depressing hamlet of De-whatever-ville, cut north toward Big Island and its wide marsh, and soon was arcing onto Gematria Road. Richard was right about it being easy to find; even without the new 9-1-1-friendly numbering system, it was the only bright yellow house. I pulled up, cut the engine, and pulled off my helmet. As my ears began to return to normal, I could hear a few birds calling, a chainsaw somewhere nearby, and then nothing. You don't often get to hear nothing in the Big Smoke. I savoured it.
Owen's house was a rambling affair, two stories in the middle, with a single-story addition tacked onto one side. A fieldstone chimney poked out of the cedar shake roof.
Yellow police tape across the front door rustled in the breeze. I walked around the place, admiring the collection of rusted bicycles, stacks of firewood, broken-down washing machines, and a dented lawn tractor sitting under a lean-to. A brown smear across its hood suggested blood. I looked at the distant fence that probably marked the back of his property, with a stand of maples behind it.
I heard a car pull up, and when I returned to the front of the house, a blonde and businesslike OPP officer was surveying me through the open driver's window. A German Shepherd, almost as large as the officer, sat alert in the passenger seat.
"Help you?" she asked, in a tone that suggested help could extend to dog bites, cuffs, and a rear-seat ride if she didn't like the answer.
"Umm, maybe," I said, and started to reach inside my jacket for the letter Richard had given me.
They must be training officers in quick-draw technique, because I found myself looking at a semi-automatic handgun next.
"How about you slowly open that jacket, show me what you're so anxious to grab, and then we'll start over?" she suggested.
Shootings really ruin a new relationship. I complied. I drew Richard's letter out with my left thumb and finger, keeping my right hand in the air, and gave it to her.
After she'd read the letter and checked my PI licence from the Ministry of the Solicitor General and Correctional Services, she stepped out of her cruiser.
"I'm Constable Lemieux. Sorry to be a little jumpy there," she apologized, offering me a firm handshake. "After Mr. Owen's death, we had a break-in reported, so you can understand my caution."
I looked down the road, and an elderly lady scrutinizing me with impressive binoculars from the verandah of her tiny pink house gave me a little wave. No wonder I'd been busted as soon as I arrived.
"No problem," I answered. "Plus you probably don't get many private investigators here."
"Nope," she said. "Private inebriators are more of a problem."
I smiled at that. Police officers with a sense of humour are pretty rare, from my jaundiced two-wheeler’s viewpoint.
"I'm not a PI full-time," I said. "I'm also a poet."
She smiled in return and said, "I don't suppose you're carrying your poetic license, too?"
"Nope." There must be a snappy comeback to that, but I’d have to work on it later. "Was anything taken during the break-in?",
I asked.
"We don't know," Lemieux answered. "Some of the place had been tossed, but not destroyed. The odd thing is more what wasn't taken. He had a case of good Scotch, a newish TV set, a collectible samurai sword, and a few hundred bucks stuffed behind a couch cushion. All the things you'd expect a burglar to go for were left behind."
I was about to ask who called it in when I realized I'd probably seen the good citizen already. "Let me guess," I said. "It was reported by a nice little old lady with binoculars."
"You got it," Constable Lemieux replied. "I don't think the perp had long here. Mrs. Bailey is pretty vigilant."
"I couldn't help but notice your four-legged friend there," I said. "Are you a – what's the right term – canine-assisted officer?"
"No, Scout's regular partner's away, so I'm just entertaining him. But I like dogs."
I pulled Owen's ditty out of my saddlebag and checked it again. "Ever hear of a Flanders Dog?"
She reached a finger under the sweat brim of her hat and scratched. "Ummm… I don’t know a breed called Flanders. You mean a Bouvier? They were bred in Flanders to herd cows and do other farm work."
Well, that sounded helpful. But decoding the whole poem was going to require more than just a dog breed name.
"I'll leave you to it," Constable Lemieux said, watching my thoughtful expression with interest. "If anyone else tries to break in while you're here, call us."
"How about if I get scared of the dark?" I replied.
"Then call your mommy. Remember, flirting with a provincial officer is a felony," she said sternly, then winked and drove away.
What is about me and women in authority? First librarians – who can quiet anyone – and now a cop with a gun and large dog. What’s next? A heavy date with a dominatrix?
I stepped over the yellow tape, checked the faded welcome sign over the door ("Abandon Pope All Ye Who Enter Here"), unlocked the heavy front door, and stepped into musty darkness.