By the Time You Read This

17

DELORME ORGANIZED HER LIST of names geographically, and that put Frank Rowley at the top. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting from a man with his own plane—an oversized brick mansion high on Beaufort Hill, maybe. Or one of those old Victorian places down on Main West. But Frank Rowley, it turned out, lived in a plain little house of white brick just a couple of blocks from the bypass. Delorme pulled into the drive and parked behind a tan Ford Escort, a modest, unassuming vehicle that did not fit with her idea of a man who flew.

A small maple in the front yard had dropped all its leaves in a colourful circle, but a trim row of holly bushes against the front of the house was deep green. Even before she got out of her unmarked, she could hear the screech and wail of an electric guitar. It sounded as if some tormented ghost had broken loose in the neighbourhood.

The guitar screamed, halted, then started up again. A Beatles riff this time, but Delorme couldn’t have named the song.

In answer to her knock, a completely bald man of about forty opened the front door, still wearing his guitar. Men and their toys, Delorme thought.

“Mr. Rowley?”

“That’s me. Can I help you?”

She held up her ID. “Can I take up a few minutes of your time?”

The interior of the house smelled richly of something baking, and Delorme noted with approval a white scuff of flour on Rowley’s bald head.

She followed him into the living room, where dolls and stuffed animals were strewn across a colourful rug like victims of some benign catastrophe. There was a child’s scooter, and large gaudy books splayed open on the couch and chairs. Delorme tripped slightly on the edge of the rug.

“Sorry,” Rowley said. “It’s got a bad repair—only reason I could afford it.”

“You have kids, I see,” Delorme said. “How old are they?”

“We have one daughter—Tara. She’s seven. She’ll be home from school soon. Please, have a seat.”

Delorme sat in a deep armchair with split-log legs and arms. All of the furniture had a comfortable, country-style, lived-in look, lots of wood everywhere, and cushions and throw rugs, not to mention the larger rug with its deep blue and black chevrons. And the owner of all this, a middle-aged man with a guitar over his shoulder and a head that would not have been out of place on a billiard table. The man in the pictures had almost shoulder-length hair, and in any case Delorme had no reason to suspect Rowley, since his plane merely appeared in the background of one photograph. Also, his daughter was too young. But she sized him up anyway.

“Mr. Rowley, you have a pilot’s licence, is that correct?”

“That’s right. I work for Northwind,” he said, naming an airline that flew small planes out of Algonquin Bay to northern cities such as Timmins and Hearst.

“Business is slow these days?”

“No, I work four days on, four days off, which is why you find me here doing the house-husband thing.”

“And you keep a small plane at Lakeside Marina, right?” Delorme read him the tail number from her notebook.

“Why? Did something happen to it?”

“I just want to make sure I’m talking to the right person.”

“You are. Can I get you a coffee or something? I was just about to make a pot.”

“No, that’s all right. Thank you.”

“And I’ve got some pretty spectacular muffins that should be ready soon. Tara’s crazy about them.”

Rowley switched off a Vox amplifier and leaned his guitar against the wall. It was a big black instrument with lots of knobs and chrome, and Delorme thought it would be more suited to country music than the Beatles, but guitars were not her strong point.

“Are you down at the marina a lot, Mr. Rowley?”

“Depends what you consider a lot. If I go there, it’s just because I want to take Bessie up.”

“Bessie?”

“Bessie the Cessna.” He grinned. “That’s just her name, don’t ask me why. I take her up once or twice a week for maybe an hour or two at a time. Wendy—that’s my wife— wanted me to get rid of it. Too dangerous, she says. But I can’t give it up. I just love to fly, and it’s a lot more fun on your own than it is for work.”

“I can imagine,” Delorme said. Rowley looked like a man who enjoyed his life, baking muffins and playing guitar surrounded by scattered books and toys. “Do you know many of the people at the marina?”

“Well, I know Jeff Quigly, the manager.”

“Anybody else?”

Rowley shrugged. “Not really. I don’t hang out there. I don’t go to the bar afterwards or anything, like a lot of guys do. Place is kind of a clubhouse, when you get down to it. But it’s not a club I’d want to join—you know, guys whose idea of a good time is to get a case of two-four and go out on the lake to get absolutely rip-roaring drunk. Not something I enjoyed in my twenties, and I’m sure as hell not interested in my forties. Besides, I got a wife and kid. I don’t know where these guys find the time.”

“Tell me a little about them. I need to know more about the people who hang out at the marina.”

“Why? What are you investigating?”

“Assault,” Delorme said.

“Oh, wow. Well, when I was talking about beer parties, I certainly didn’t mean to imply that any of these people would be capable of violence.”

“No, of course not. It’s witnesses I’m looking for. Can you tell me anything at all?”

“The only one I know very well is Owen Glenn.”

Delorme wrote the name in her notebook. She had already come across it at the marina, where the records showed he did not rent any of the slots that interested her.

“Owen’s a fellow flier. Owns a little Piper he likes to take up about once a month. I bump into him a lot, especially in summer. But we’re not buddies or anything. He’s much more conservative than I am. The couple of times politics came up, I had to politely excuse myself, you know what I mean? He’s the kind of guy who thinks Mike Harris didn’t go far enough with the budget cuts and who wishes we were in Iraq.”

“So he doesn’t own one of those cabin cruisers you see parked out there all the time?”

“No, he just has a little skiff, same as me.”

“Do you know any of those people?”

“Just to say hi to.”

“Really? But you go right past them to get to your plane, no?”

“The skiffs are around the north side of the marina. Under the deck of the bar? I just row out from there to the plane, so it’s not really conducive to chatting with my neighbours, if you want to call them that.”

“Do you know any of them by name?”

“Sure. There’s Matt Morton. He owns a cruiser. I’ve known Matt since high school, although I wouldn’t exactly call us friends. He was kind of a sports guy, and I was more of a—nerd, I guess you could say.”

“An artistic type,” Delorme suggested.

“An artistic type!” Rowley grinned. “Exactly. That’s me. Now all I have to find is an art I can master.”

“You were doing a pretty good Beatles impression, from what I heard. You play professionally?”

“Just a hobby. I play in a Beatles tribute band. Sergeant Tripper? We play weddings and bar mitzvahs mostly.”

“Which slot is Mr. Morton in at the marina?” Delorme knew the answer, but detectives learn early always to confirm a fact when the opportunity presents itself.

“Matt’s moored at the end of number three, on the north side.”

“Which is where, in relation to you?”

“About as close as you can be. I mean, sometimes I can see right down into his cabin. Not that I want to, particularly.”

“Why? Have you ever seen anything disturbing?”

“In Matt’s boat? No, nothing at all.”

“How would you describe Mr. Morton?”

“Matt? I don’t know. Medium-sized kind of guy. Used to play football in high school. Brown hair going grey—like all of us. Not that I’ve got much to worry about.” He grinned and rubbed a hand over his pate, missing the flour.

“Any kids?”

“A boy and a girl, I think. I don’t remember their names.”

“What about the slot opposite to Mr. Morton?”

“The south side? I don’t know them. Huge boat, though.”

According to Jeff Quigly and the marina’s records, the slot was rented by one André Ferrier. The rent was always paid on time, but the marina hardly ever saw him.

Delorme took down the information, then snapped her notebook shut. “Like I said, Mr. Rowley, at this point I’m just looking for witnesses. You’ve been very helpful.”

She gave him her card. On her way to the front door she tried to catch glimpses of other rooms, but there were no walls, no objects, no furnishings—nothing obvious, anyway—that matched the settings in the photographs.

“If I think of anything else, I’ll give you a call,” Rowley said. “But I’ve sure as hell never met anybody out there who seemed capable of assault.”

“You might be surprised,” Delorme said. “I’m constantly amazed by who turns out to be capable of what.”