Old Flames, Burned Hands Read online

  There was nothing to be learned from the search results. Nothing useful anyway. She ticked off a few points she knew about the subject; avoiding sunlight, sleeping in coffins, turning into bats. Hokum. She killed the search and turned away from the computer. The banking needed to be done and a fresh stack of bills needed sorting before her eleven-thirty appointment arrived. Yet no matter how hard she threw herself into the task, that one little word kept nibbling the edges of her consciousness, clawing its way back to the center.

  Sarah blew into the clinic an hour later and a steady rotation of clients kept everyone busy until the late afternoon. Sarah stole Tilda away to get something cold at a nearby cafe.

  “How’s your mom?” Tilda asked once they settled onto a picnic table that overlooked the street.

  “Getting worse.” Sarah stirred the straw in her glass. “It’s hard watching her drift away like this.”

  “I can’t imagine how hard that must be.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be easier if she had a stroke and passed quickly, rather than this slow fade.”

  “That’s an awful dilemma to face.”

  Sarah’s eyes glassed over, faraway and lost. “I’m tired of thinking about it. About death, what comes after.”

  Tilda patted her friend’s hand but said nothing. Sarah looked at her. “Do you ever wonder about it? About what happens after death?”

  Despite a Catholic upbringing, none of the spookshow stuff ever clung to Tilda. She understood the need to believe in an afterlife but had always considered it a pleasant fantasy. Recent events had spun that certainty on its head. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. I guess anything’s possible. What about you?”

  “I want to believe in it,” Sarah said. “I honestly do. If only for her sake.”

  They settled into silence and watched the seagulls float over the meatpacking yard. Sarah squinted across the table, as if trying to solve a riddle. “Did you cut your hair?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You look different. Kind of radiant actually but I can’t figure it out. Did you colour your hair?”

  Tilda took hold of her white streak of hair and flapped it. “I think I would have covered this up if I had.”

  “Then I give up. What is it?”

  Tilda shrugged. Her clothes were old, her hair unchanged and, if anything, needed washing. There was nothing new. “Maybe you finally need glasses, girl.”

  Unwilling to give up, Sarah tilted her head. “Did you get lucky last night?”

  Tilda felt her cheeks burn hot but tried to mask it under a laugh. “You’re hilarious. I played a show last night.”

  “I thought you quit.”

  “I did,” Tilda said. “This was just spur of the moment.”

  “Maybe that’s your secret; playing gigs. You shoulda told me. I would have gone.”

  Tilda reached for her drink but the glass was empty. Her insides steamed at having to keep it all bottled up. She wanted to blurt it all out and glush over every detail. To admit to Sarah that her guess was correct and that she had gotten lucky last night. More than that, she needed to talk through the predicament she was in, this moral and ethical corner she had painted herself into. About Gil and about Shane. It was too much to hold inside, to keep to herself. Tilda looked at her friend across the table. Maybe Sarah would understand.

  No. There was simply no sane way to explain it. Or, she rued, she was just too ashamed to try. Would her friend pat her hand in empathy or would Sarah recoil at her actions and wag an accusatory finger in her direction?

  They went inside to settle up and when Tilda reached for her bag, Sarah insisted she put it away. Playing hooky had been her idea. The television over the bar was blaring the midday news. Sarah nudged Tilda’s ribs and nodded at the screen. “Did you hear about this?”

  The news footage showed a police cruiser on a narrow street, a few onlookers hovering beyond the yellow caution tape. A uniformed officer standing before a broken storefront window. It took a moment before Tilda recognized the scene as the Porthole on Baldwin.

  The flat voice of the newscaster reported that an assault in Kensington Market had been upgraded to a murder investigation. The victim, who had been thrown through a window during the assault, later died in hospital. Police were continuing their investigation, urging anyone with information to come forward.

  “Holy moly,” Sarah sputtered. “The Porthole? How many times have we played there?”

  Cold ice sluiced down Tilda’s spine. All she could muster was a hushed blasphemy.

  “That’s just effed-up.” Sarah shook her head and turned for the door. “The Port isn’t like that. Dope-smokers and dealers, yeah. But violent dudes? What’s the world coming to?”

  Tilda stammered, as if her friend had suddenly twigged to the fact that she was involved. She set her jaw and outright lied that she had no idea what the world was coming to.

  SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE THE MAN was dead.

  It didn’t seem real or even possible. It was all she could think about on the walk home, trudging through a humid soup as the heat of the day rippled up from the sidewalks. The park offered little relief and when she emerged from the footpath onto Dundas, her shirt was sweat-plastered to her back.

  The sound of shattering glass kept exploding in her mind, the sight of the man hurtling through the window. He didn’t seem badly injured at the time. How could he have died? Then she remembered Gil stomping the man’s neck. There was nothing accidental about that. The thought of it, mixed with the sticky humidity, made her feel sick.

  Molly was in the kitchen when she arrived home, her friend Zoe beside her. The two of them were eating popsicles, dripping sticky juice all over the floor.

  “Hi Mrs. P” Zoe said, a wide toothy smile on her face. Unlike Molly, Zoe was always cheerful and chatty with adults. She was so much the opposite of her sullen daughter that Tilda wondered how the two of them got along so well.

  “Hi Zoe.” Tilda beamed, genuinely pleased to see the girl. “How have you been?”

  “Scorched.” The girl raised the popsicle in her hand. “Sorry about the mess. We’ll clean it up.”

  “Why don’t you girls set up the sprinkler in the backyard and cool off.”

  Molly rolled her eyes. “We’re not six, mom.”

  “Ah, come on.” Zoe nudged Molly’s ribs. “It’d be fun.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” Molly spat back.

  Tilda ducked out of the conversation, making for the stairs. “Do what you want. I’m going to rinse off.”

  Standing under the shower, Tilda let the jets punish her shoulders. A bone-deep exhaustion set in and she wanted nothing more than to flop onto her bed and just lie still. To cool her brain from a hot and endless loop of questions and worries. The window was notched open at the top to vent the steam and she watched a seagull float by in a cloudless patch of blue sky. The sun would set in a few hours. When it was dark, Gil would come back.

  She turned the water off, flung back the shower curtain and startled. Shane stood at the toilet. “Hey sweetie.”

  “What are you doing?” She hid behind the curtain.

  “Sorry. My teeth were floating. Couldn’t wait.”

  She stretched to get the towel without stepping out from the curtain. “You couldn’t use the downstairs bathroom?”

  “The girls are using it. God knows what they’re doing.” Seeing her groping, he scooped the towel up and passed it to her. “Here.”

  She snatched it up and flung the curtain closed as she dried off. Shane watched her blurry figure through the plastic screen, surprised at the sudden modesty. Tilda would often dry off by parading around naked after her shower and Shane rarely missed an opportunity to see her in the raw. It didn’t matter that they’d been married for fourteen years and he had seen her body a million times over, it still entranced him. He felt robbed when Tilda stepped out of the shower with a towel cinched under her arms and another coiled up over her wet hair.

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nbsp; She fanned the fog from the mirror. “Why are you home so early?”

  “Knocked off early.” A sly grin creased his mouth. “Hoping to catch you in the altogether.”

  “Too late, mister.”

  His hand slid round her waist. “Least you can do is flash me. It’d be like, the highlight of my day.”

  “You’re sweet but I’m bushed. Can you start dinner tonight? I just need to lie down for a while.” He didn’t answer. She turned. “Ten minutes. That’s all I need.”

  Shane’s eyes bored into the back of her bare shoulder. “Where’d this nasty bruise come from? Looks painful.”

  “What? Oh it’s nothing.”

  He touched her arm. “There’s another one here. What happened?”

  Her cheeks flushed hot. “Nothing. I took a spill last night. Tripped over some cable.”

  He blanched. “How high was the stage? Look, there’s one on your leg too. Jesus, you look like you got beat up.”

  “It looks worse than it is. Really.” She brushed her hair vigorously, hoping to shoo him from the narrow bathroom. Watching him in the mirror, she saw his eyes darken with something she could only guess was doubt. Suspicion maybe. It hurt to see it, whatever it was.

  The ring of the doorbell broke the spell. Shane stepped out into the hallway. “What now?”

  “Probably one of Molly’s friends.” She hoped he would go see, so she could dress in private.

  He hollered down the railing. “Who is it, Molly?”

  Tilda stopped brushing, listening for the reply.

  Molly’s voice echoed up the stairs. “It’s the police. They want to talk to mom.”

  THERE were two of them, plainclothes detectives with neutral faces and chill manners. Detective Rowe was puffy-faced with sweat beading his upper lip. Invited to have a seat at the kitchen table, he thanked Shane and then asked if he could trouble them for a glass of water. Detective Crippen declined a seat and hung back. He was lanky and tall, leaning back against the countertop with a bored air like he had someplace better to be.

  Tilda wanted to bolt for the door but she took a seat and forced a smile like she couldn’t be happier than to chat with two policemen.

  Shane placed a glass of ice water before Detective Rowe. “What’s this about?”

  “Thank you,” Rowe said. “There was an incident on Baldwin Street last night. We just have a few questions that Mrs. Parrish might help us with.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  Rowe wiped his lip. “A bar fight. Turned ugly and one poor man died.”

  “Died?” Shane shot a look at Tilda, then back to the policemen. “Why do you want to talk to Tilda about that?”

  “Sir?” Detective Crippen’s voice boomed off the tile, impatient and to the point. “Could you let your wife answer the questions.”

  Tilda bristled at his tone. “I’m sorry. Was there a question?”

  Rowe smiled at her. “Did you see anything that night? The fight or anything afterward?”

  “No.”

  “You were at the Porthole Club that night?” Crippen cut in. “You played a show, yes?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t see any fight. Or see anyone die, thank God.”

  “Was it a shooting?” Shane’s face lost colour. “How did it happen?”

  “The victim was thrown through a plate glass window.” Rowe shook his head in mournful dismay. “Piece of glass severed an artery in his spine. He bled out onto the sidewalk.”

  Tilda felt the tall detective’s eyes fix on her, watching for a reaction. He folded his hands. “What time did you play?”

  “About ten. I was supposed to play later but the first band bailed. So I opened.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “I didn’t notice the time. An hour after that. Maybe a little longer.”

  “So eleven, eleven-thirty.” Rowe unfolded a notebook and consulted a page. “But you spoke with the assailant?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You were seen talking to the assailant.”

  “I was? Good God. I had no idea.”

  Crippen almost sneered. “You don’t remember talking to him?”

  “I talked to a lot of people that night. But I didn’t see the fight so I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Well who is this guy?” Shane blurted out.

  “We don’t know. That’s why we’re here.”

  Shane darted his eyes from one detective to the other. “Then how do you know Tilda talked to the guy?”

  Rowe dipped his shoulders. “Some of the people there said you spoke to him, Mrs. Parish. Do you remember everyone you talked to that night?”

  “Most,” she said. Then her eyes narrowed. “What did he look like?”

  “White male,” Crippen said, without consulting any notes. “Six feet, dark hair. Twenty to thirty years of age.”

  “That could have been anyone,” she said. “Anything more specific?”

  “Not at this time. The people we spoke to all gave contrary accounts of what he looked like. Some said he was ugly or deformed, others said he was attractive.”

  “Were they talking about the same person?” Tilda looked at one officer, then the other. “If that’s the description, then I may well have talked to the guy. Or assailant, whatever.”

  Detective Rowe gave an apologetic shrug. “It happens. People remember what they want to remember.”

  “Of the men you spoke to,” Crippen asked, “did any of them seem aggressive or angry? Anyone spoiling for a fight?”

  “No.”

  The tall detective’s face soured, as if personally insulted by her answer. Tilda guessed that Crippen was the tough cop to Rowe’s friendly one. It was easy to see how that routine would work. The harsh grimace of disappointment in Crippen’s eyes made Tilda want to sit up and tell him anything he wanted to hear. She didn’t know why, she just did.

  Be careful, she thought. Take it slow, don’t blurt anything out.

  “So you didn’t see the fight, is that right?” Crippen laced his tone with a dose of scepticism. “Didn’t see or hear anything?”

  “I packed up my gear and went out to the car.” Panic was swelling up inside. She pushed it back down, fighting to keep her own tone even. “I must have missed it.”

  Detective Rowe gave her a tired smile, seemingly satisfied with her answer. Crippen was like a dog with a bone. “And then what? You drove straight home?”

  “Yes. Well, no…” She scrambled, not anticipating this.

  Shane leaned forward. “You didn’t get home till late.”

  She fired a lethal look at him. Shane stammered, confused at her frostiness.

  “Where did you go?” Rowe asked. Crippen leaned in, straining his ear in her direction.

  The eyes of the three men fixed Tilda to the spot. Despite having just showered, a bead of sweat trickled its way down the small of her back. “I went for a drive. Down to the lake.”

  “A drive?” Crippen leered, as if he’d found the thin edge of the wedge.

  “It was hot. And the market stank. You know how it gets in the summer. I wanted to cool off.”

  “Where along the lake did you go?”

  “Ireland Park. Bottom of Bathurst. You know the one?”

  Detective Crippen looked ready to pounce, call bullshit on the whole thing but his partner stood, squeaking his chair back.

  “Okay. I think that’s all for now,” Rowe said. He produced a card and placed it on the table. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything, anything at all, give us a call.”

  The officers went out the front door, Crippen stealing one last look back at Tilda before climbing into an unmarked Crown Vic.

  THE hollering started as soon as the officers were out the door. The lies followed.

  Shane stood in the kitchen, eyes goggled wide. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Someone got hurt.” Tilda lingered at the front door, watching the police unit drive away. She was in no hurry t
o face what was coming.

  “Hurt? Some guy gets killed where you’re at and you don’t think to mention it? What the hell?”

  “Stop yelling.” She turned and scanned the living room, the hallway. Molly and her friend must have fled upstairs. “I didn’t know about it.”

  His voice grew louder. “Look at you. You don’t even care—”

  “Lower your voice, damn it.” She turned and fled into the kitchen. “The whole neighbourhood will hear.”

  “That you’re worried about? Tilda, we just had two cops here. Questioning you. And that one cop didn’t believe a word you said. How can you brush that off so easily?”

  She dropped a pot into the sink and ran water into it. “What do you want me to do, cry?”

  “Yes! Some reaction,” he spat. “Jesus. You have a fit over the stupidest things, like an overdue bill or the lawn needing mowing. But this, being grilled by cops over someone’s death you shrug off like it’s nothing?”

  “Don’t get so dramatic, Shane.” She pulled up the notched cutting board, the big knife. She wanted something to keep her hands busy, keep her back to him. “You make it sound like I had something to do with it.”

  Shane dropped the volume, exasperation supplanting anger. “Who are you? And what have you done with my wife?”

  She ignored the sarcasm, staring into the contents of the refrigerator but seeing nothing. The neverending question of what to fix for dinner. She felt his grip on her elbow.

  “What happened last night?”

  She shook his hand off. “I told you.”

  “Some guy gets killed where you had a gig. You show up full of bruises like you got beat up? Tilda, tell me what happened.”

  “I did!” She hurled the celery onto the counter. A cup rattled. “What do you want? Some drama? A good story?”

  “I want you to be honest with me.”