Part 33 (1/2)
Stacy didn't look sad at all. She leaned forward, her eyes bright and her head lifted, a hunting animal, testing the wind. ”Any chance Del and I can take another run at that one?”
Adele liked the sound of that.
Orwell looked at the two of them. ”I don't suppose you two have ever heard of a Buff Orpington?” He held open his most recent copy of Fancy Fowl to a colour photograph. ”Handsome creature, don't you think?”
”Is that supper, Chief?” Stacy asked.
”Retirement. Something to look forward to after I'm kicked out of this office by a new administration. I figure it'll be around the same time Captain Rosebart chains you to your desk for a year, and around the time Emmett Paynter teams you up with Randy Vogt for the duration of your career.”
Stacy smiled. ”We're either doomed, or bound for glory.”
He shook his head. ”Tell you what. I'll give you twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours that you can use any way you like.” He held up an admonis.h.i.+ng finger. ”But without going anywhere near Lorna Ruth, or her newly released husband, Harold. Got me?”
Stacy grinned. ”Twenty-four hours.”
”Unless you want to wait for Lacsamana and Heatley to get back up here and do their jobs properly.”
”And if we pull it off?”
”Well then, I guess I'd have to let you take another run at Yevgeni Grenkov and Sergei Siziva.”
Adele picked up the magazine and looked at the cover. ”Seriously, you gonna be eating these chickens, Chief?”
The landscape had changed since their first drive to Omemee; the snow was gone, green was starting to show in fields and hedgerows, winter wheat waking up, gra.s.ses springing, branches budding. Adele wasn't soothed by the change. ”Do those cows ever get washed?”
”They will. Next time it rains, I think.”
Adele shook her head at a mob of muddy Herefords. ”Need a power-washer on some of them.” She was glum and edgy at the same time. ”We might as well eat,” she said.
”Where? Lemongra.s.s?”
”While we're there. Did you check out the menu last time?”
”I know they have tom yum soup.”
”Whateverthef.u.c.k that is.”
Reading the bill of fare didn't lighten Adele's mood. What she craved was something bad for her. A burger, or a medium pizza with too many toppings. The bartender was the same young man as last time and one of the servers had a familiar face. Stacy had them neatly gathered at the end of the bar under a flatscreen TV showing a glimpse of Florida and someone in a batting cage sending long flies toward a bright centerfield. Adele was trying to find something recognizable on the menu while listening with one ear to Stacy work her way through the preliminaries.
”. . . week ago,” Stacy said, ”asking about the tall red-headed man.”
”The basketball player. The one who got killed.”
Adele turned a page. The menu totalled six pages and absolutely nothing decent to eat.
”You're Lara, right?” Stacy said. ”You remember anyone else who was here or left around the same time?”
”I don't know. It got pretty busy.”
”How about you, sir? You said you were watching basketball. Was there anyone else at the bar watching the game at the same time?”
”Yeah, couple of guys.”
”Names?”
”The only one I know is Ed.”
”Last name?”
”Ed Kewell. He drives a cab. Sometimes he comes in after his s.h.i.+ft. Or maybe during his s.h.i.+ft. Only ever has one.”
Adele lifted her head to look at Stacy. ”He's in the notes.”
”He is?”
”Yep. Dancer lady's cabbie. Drove her home. Went off to look after his dying mother . . .”
”Sick sister,” Stacy said.
”That's the guy.”
”He's a regular?”
”Not really. Drops in once in a while,” said the bartender.
”Doesn't eat,” Lara said.
”At these prices, I'm not surprised,” said Adele.
”Would you know where we could find him?” asked Stacy.
”Lives just up the road.”
Adele closed the menu. ”Any chance we pa.s.s a McDonald's getting there?”
A phone call and the onboard computer gave them the necessary details. Edwin Kewell lived with his father, Lucian Simon Kewell, in a trailer park. The sign at the gate said ”Rosteen's Haven ~ water, power, cable, gas, garbage, security.” The park manager directed them to pad 23 where two mismatched units faced each other across a concrete patio. A Kropf double-wide with awnings and a barren flower bed, stood opposite a distressed twenty-eight-foot Prowler Travel Trailer sitting on cinder blocks, but still wearing tires and a towing hitch. A gas barbecue, Muskoka chairs, planters and other necessities for summer living were parked under a roofed walkway that ran between the two units.
”You figure Edwin bunks in the guest house?” The Prowler had a rack of antlers hanging over the door. ”See?” Adele pointed. ”Now that's romantic.”
”Joe has a cowbell over his door.”
”He shoots cows?”
That got a laugh from Stacy. ”Swap meet.” She knocked. ”Mr. Kewell? Edwin?” She tried the latch and the door swung open. ”It's Detective Crean, Dockerty PD.” She stuck her head inside. ”Edwin? Dockerty PD. Like to talk to you for a minute.”
A small dog started yapping inside the double-wide followed by a man's voice. ”Hugo! Shut it! He's not home.”
”Then could we talk to you for a moment, sir?”
The door opened and a man looked them over. He was in his sixties, dressed for an afternoon of nothing much. A Yorks.h.i.+re terrier bristled between the man's feet, growling and yapping. ”Hugo. Shut it. Shut it.” The dog refused to shut it and the man shoved him back into the room with his slippered foot and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The dog continued yapping, but with less enthusiasm.