Part 29 (1/2)
The m.u.f.fled response rose and fell in agitation.
Keeping his eyes averted, my nephew left the table and moved down the hall out of earshot.
I speared a green bean, chewed, swallowed. Mechanically, I repeated the action, but my appet.i.te had evaporated. After five forkfuls he was back.
The look on his face brought a feeling like physical pain to my chest. I wanted to put my arms around him, to brush back his hair and comfort him the way I had when he was a little boy. But whatever had happened was not a skinned knee, and I couldn't do that now. Even if he allowed it, I knew the gesture would only discomfort him. I sensed his distress, but was helpless to ease it.
He gave me a big smile, shrugged palms and shoulders, then sat and dived into his fish.
I stared at the top of his head. Finally, he looked up.
”This is great.” He swallowed and reached for his iced tea. ”Yes, that was one of them. And no, I'm not going.”
I was suddenly ravenous.
The next call came as we were finis.h.i.+ng cleanup. Kit answered, but I could hear nothing over the chugging and slos.h.i.+ng of the dishwasher. In a few minutes he reappeared at the kitchen door.
”It's Lyle. I guess I told him I like swap meets, so he's inviting us to an estate sale tomorrow.”
”An estate sale?”
”Well, it's a flea market in some place called Hudson. He thought if I called it an estate sale you might be more inclined to go.”
The doublespeak had little impact on my response. While I would have enjoyed a trek to Hudson, it was not worth the price of an afternoon with Crease.
”You go ahead, Kit. It's really very pretty out there. Horse country. I should stay and finish some things I've been putting off.”
”Like what?”
”Actually, I think I'm having my hair cut tomorrow.”
”Uh-huh.”
He returned to the living room and I finished wiping the counters. I couldn't believe I was feeling relief that my nephew would be with Lyle Crease. The guy was as smarmy as a snake-oil salesman from Matamoros.
And what was Crease's interest in a nineteen-year-old kid? I had no doubt that Kit could handle the little twerp, but I vowed to call Isabelle and ask a few questions.
Easy does it, I told myself. Brush your hair and go see the fiddlers.
Hurley's is the closest thing to an Irish pub that Montreal has to offer. Though I don't imbibe, my Gaelic genes still enjoy the atmosphere.
The place was as big a hit with Kit as it had been with his mother. But then, it's hard to be gloomy with a fiddle and mandolin belting out reels, and dancers jigging up and down like Nijinsky with a neurological disorder. We stayed until well past midnight.
When Lyle Crease showed up the next morning I was idly flipping through the photos Kit and I had left on the table the night before.
”How's it going?” Crease asked, as I let him into the entrance hall. He wore khakis, a long-sleeved white s.h.i.+rt, and a windbreaker with CTV News News printed on the left breast. His hair looked like molded plastic. printed on the left breast. His hair looked like molded plastic.
”Good. And yourself?” We spoke English.
”Can't complain.”
”Kit said he'd be just a minute. He overslept a bit.”
”No problem.” Crease chuckled, then gave me a knowing grin.
I did not return it.
”Can I offer you some coffee?”
”Oh no, thanks. I've already had three cups this morning.” He showed miles of capped teeth. ”It's a gorgeous day out there. Sure you won't change your mind?”
”No, no. I have things I have to do. But thanks. Really.”
”Maybe next time.”
When Moses does another bush, I thought.
We stood for a moment, unsure where to go from there. Crease's eyes roamed the hall, then came to rest on a framed photo of Katy.
”Your daughter?”
”Yes.”
He walked over and picked it up.
”She's lovely. Is she a student?”
”Yes.”
He replaced the portrait and his eyes moved on to the dining room.
”That's quite a bouquet. You must have a serious admirer.”
Nice try.
”May I?”
I nodded, though Crease was as welcome in my home as the Exorcist Exorcist demon. He crossed to the flowers and sniffed. demon. He crossed to the flowers and sniffed.
”I love daisies.” His eyes drifted to Kate's photos. ”I see you're doing some research.”
”Would you like to sit down?” I indicated the living room sofa.
Crease helped himself to a picture, replaced it, chose another.
”I understand you're involved in the Cherokee Desjardins investigation,” he said without looking up.
”Only peripherally,” I said, and moved quickly to stack the photos.