The Fields of Grief

‘I wish you wouldn’t. You know I don’t like to talk about stuff ahead of time.’

‘Sometimes you do.’

‘Not this time.’ She stood up and slung the camera bag, bulky and heavy, over her shoulder.

‘What a gorgeous night,’ Cardinal said when they were outside. He stood for a moment looking up at the stars, but the glow of the moon washed most of them out. He took a deep breath, inhaling smells of pine and fallen leaves. It was Catherine’s favourite time of year too, but she wasn’t paying attention at the moment. She got straight into her car, a maroon PT Cruiser she’d bought used a couple of years earlier, started the engine, and pulled out of the drive.

Cardinal followed her in the Camry along the dark, curving highway that took them into town. As they approached the lights at the Highway 11 bypass, Catherine signalled and shifted into the left lane. Cardinal continued on through the intersection, heading down Sumner toward the police station.

Catherine was headed toward the east end of town, and he briefly wondered where she was going. But it was always good to see her involved in her work, and she was taking her medication. If she was a little moody, that was okay. She’d been out of the psychiatric hospital for a year now. Last time, she had been out for nearly two years when she suddenly embarked on a manic episode that put her in hospital for three months. But as long as she was taking her medication, Cardinal didn’t let himself worry too much.

It was a Tuesday night, and there was not a lot going on in the criminal world. Cardinal spent the next couple of hours catching up on paperwork. They’d had the annual carpet cleaning done and the air was rich with flowery chemicals and the smell of wet carpet. The only other detective on duty was Ian McLeod, and even McLeod, the station loudmouth during the day, maintained a comparative solemnity at night.

Cardinal was putting a rubber band round a file he had just closed when McLeod’s florid face appeared over the acoustic divider that separated their desks.

‘Hey, Cardinal. I have to give you a head’s up. It’s about the mayor.’

‘What’s he want?’

‘Came in last night when you were off. He wanted to put in a missing-person report on his wife. Problem is, she’s not really missing. Everybody in town knows where she is except the goddamn mayor.’

‘She’s still having the affair with Reg Wilcox?’

‘Yeah. In fact she was seen last night with our esteemed director of sanitation. Szelagy’s on a stakeout at the Birches Motel, keeping an eye on the Porcini brothers. They got out of Kingston six months ago and seem to have the idea they can actually get back into business up here. Anyways, Szelagy’s reporting back and happens to mention he sees the mayor’s wife coming out of Room 12 with Reggie Wilcox. I was never keen on the jerk myself – I don’t know what women see in him.’

‘He’s a good-looking guy.’

‘Oh, come on. He looks like one of those Sears guys modelling the suits.’ By way of imitation, McLeod gave him a three-quarter profile with a fake-hearty grin.

‘Some people consider that handsome,’ Cardinal said. ‘Though not on you.’

‘Well, some people can kiss my – Anyway, I told His Worship last night, I said, look, your wife is not missing. She’s an adult. She’s been seen downtown. If she’s not coming home, that’s apparently her choice at this particular moment in time.’

‘What’d he say to that?’

‘“Who saw her? Where? What time?” Same questions anybody’d ask. I told him I wasn’t at liberty to say. She’d been seen in the vicinity of Worth and MacIntosh, and we could not file a missing-person report at this time. She’s at the Birches again with Wilcox. I told Feckworth to come on down, you’d be happy to talk to him.’

‘What the hell did you do that for?’

‘He’ll take it better from you. Him and me don’t get along so good.’

‘You don’t get along with anyone so good.’ ‘Now, that’s just hurtful.’

While he was waiting for the mayor to arrive, Cardinal made out an expense report for the previous month and wrote up the top sheet on a case he had just closed. He found his thoughts wandering to Catherine. She had been doing well for the past year, and was back teaching at the community college this semester. But she had seemed a little distant at dinner, a little impatient, in a way that might indicate some preoccupation other than her photographic project. Catherine was in her late forties and going through menopause, which played havoc with her moods and necessitated constant tweaking of her medication. If she seemed a little distant, well, there was no shortage of plausible reasons. On the other hand, how well do we really know the people we love? Just look at the mayor.

When His Worship Mayor Lance Feckworth arrived, Cardinal took him to one of the interview rooms so they could talk in private.

‘I want to get to the bottom of this,’ the mayor told him. ‘A full investigation.’ Feckworth was a lumpy little man, much given to bowties, and was perched uncomfortably on the edge of a plastic seat that was usually occupied by suspects. ‘I know I’m mayor, and that doesn’t give me the right to more attention than any other voter, but I don’t expect less, either. What if she’s had an accident of some kind?’

Feckworth was not much of a mayor. During his tenure, all the city council seemed to do was study problems endlessly and agree to let them drift. But he was usually an affable man, ready with a joke or a slap on the back. It was unsettling to see him in pain, as if a building one had grown used to over the years had suddenly been painted a garish colour.

As gently as possible, Cardinal pointed out that Mrs Feckworth had been seen in town the previous night, and there had been no major accidents that week.

‘Damn it, why is my entire police force telling me she’s been seen around town but you won’t say where or by who? How would you feel if it was your wife? You’d want to know the truth, right?’

‘Yes, I would.’

‘Then I suggest you explain to me exactly what is going on, Detective. Otherwise, I’ll just have to deal directly with Chief Kendall, and you can be sure I won’t have anything good to say about you or that lunkhead McLeod.’

Which was how Cardinal came to be sitting in his car with the mayor of Algonquin Bay in the courtyard of the Birches Motel. Despite its name, the Birches was nowhere near a birch tree. It was not near a tree of any kind, being located in the heart of downtown on MacIntosh Street. In fact, it was no longer even the Birches Motel, having been taken over by Sunset Inns at least two years previously, but everybody still called it the Birches.

Cardinal was parked a dozen paces from Room 12. Szelagy was parked across the lot, but they didn’t acknowledge one another. Cardinal rolled the window down a little to keep the glass from fogging up. Even here in the middle of downtown, you could smell fallen leaves and from someone’s fireplace the comforting smell of wood smoke.

‘You’re telling me she’s in there?’ the mayor said. ‘My wife’s in that room?’

Surely he must know, Cardinal thought. How could it get to this stage – his wife staying out for days at a time and renting motel rooms – without his knowing?

‘I don’t believe it,’ Feckworth said. ‘It’s too tawdry.’ But there was less conviction in his voice now, as if seeing the actual motel-room door was beginning to shatter his faith. ‘Cynthia’s a loyal person,’ he added. ‘She prides herself on it.’

Cynthia Feckworth had in fact been sleeping her way around Algonquin Bay for at least the past four years; the mayor was the only one who didn’t know it. And who am I to tear off his blinders? Cardinal asked himself. Who am I to refuse anyone the sweet anaesthetic of denial?

‘Oh, she couldn’t be screwing someone else. That would be – if she’s letting another man … that’s it. I’ll dump her. You watch me. Oh, God, if she’s doing those things …’ Feckworth groaned and hid his face in his hands.

As if summoned by his anguish, the door to Room 12 opened and a man stepped out. He had the perfectly groomed look of a catalogue model: take advantage of our mid-autumn sale on men’s windbreakers.

‘It’s Reg Wilcox,’ the mayor said. ‘Sanitation. What would Reg be doing here?’

Wilcox ambled to his Ford Explorer with the slouchy, smug air of the well laid. Then he backed out of his space and drove off.

‘Well, at least Cynthia wasn’t in there. That’s something,’ Feckworth said. ‘Maybe I should just head home now and hope for the best.’

The door to Room 12 opened again and an attractive woman peered out for a moment before closing the door behind her. She buttoned up her coat against the chill night air and headed toward the exit.

The mayor jumped out of the car and ran to block her path. Cardinal rolled up his window, not wanting to hear. His cell phone buzzed.

‘Cardinal, why the hell don’t you answer your bloody radio?’

‘I’m in my own car, Sergeant Flower. It’s too boring to explain.’

‘All right, listen. We got a caller says there’s a dead one behind Gateway condos. You know the new building?’

‘The Gateway? Just off the bypass? I didn’t even realize it was finished yet. Are we sure it isn’t a drunk sleeping it off?’

‘We’re sure. Patrol on the scene already confirmed.’

‘All right. I’m just a few blocks away.’

The mayor and his wife were quarrelling. Cynthia Feckworth had her arms folded across her chest, head bowed. Her husband faced her, hands extended, palms out, in the classic gesture of the pleading mate. An employee was outlined in the doorway of the motel office, watching.