A Killing Frost. Margaret Haffner
before to visit her old colleague Martha Morin, and had found the atmosphere both intellectually stimulating and emotionally soothing. Must be the pastoral setting, she mused, hoping the murder of Tracy Tomachuk was a one-time intrusion from the big bad world.
Every day, Catherine expected Morgan to burst out with the murder story but a whole week passed and the bomb still hadn’t exploded. She considered saying something herself but decided not to break her daughter’s fragile bubble of peace.
‘Have you made any friends yet?’ she asked Morgan at the end of their first week in Atawan as she threw together a tuna salad for dinner.
Morgan shrugged. ‘I’ve talked to a few kids … they’re nice but they’ve got their own circle.’ She ran her fingers through her bangs and pushed her hair back over her shoulder. ‘I don’t mind.’
Catherine knew how reserved her daughter had become. It was a protective measure they’d both invoked. ‘Any other new students?’ she asked.
Morgan’s smooth forehead creased. ‘I’m not sure … There’s this guy, Jason somebody, who’s always alone like me, but I get the feeling the others know him. It’s weird … he seems OK. He’s not a nerd or anything.’
Catherine rinsed the lettuce under cold water. ‘Will you set the table, honey?’ she asked before continuing the conversation. ‘Maybe you should talk to him. Is Jason in many of your classes?’
‘French and maths.’ Morgan folded the napkins and slipped them under the forks. ‘Oh, and I think he’s in my art class. I’m not sure – he always sits at the back of the room.’
‘It might be worth saying hello,’ her mother encouraged but she didn’t push it. Only Morgan herself knew if she was ready to let her barriers drop a little.
After the dishes were done, Catherine strolled outside into the lengthening shadows. The heat and humidity had been blown away by some cool north winds and it was pleasant in the back garden. She breathed the clean air and enjoyed the caress of the breeze in her hair. If only the wind could blow away the cobwebs of tension and sorrow which had lodged in her mind. She bent to pull a stout weed from the midst of the late blooming roses. The stem of the velvet-leaf – that’s what they called it around here – was as thick as her thumb and it took both hands to uproot it. She tossed the corpse behind a climbing rose. She could see that in the past the flowers had been well tended but a whole season of neglect had taken its toll and now the garden exuded a tangled, unkempt atmosphere. Already the wild things were reclaiming their ancient territory.
She paused to pick a sprig of bright gold chrysanthemums almost smothered in a bed of weeds by the fence. Holding them up in the last rays of the sun, she admired the effect of their brilliant colour against the dark green of the shadowy wood at the end of the yard.
‘Purty, ain’t they?’
Catherine jumped, dropping the flowers. She searched anxiously for the speaker. She found him close beside a lilac bush in the overgrown yard next door.
‘Didn’t mean to scare ya,’ said the voice, crackling with age.
Peering into the gloom, Catherine made out a bent and wizened figure detaching itself from the lilac and shuffling into the open.
‘Oh … I … I didn’t notice you.’ Catherine’s hand went to her neck as if to protect it.
Two sapphire eyes glowed from a dried-apple doll face hatched by a road map of wrinkles. ‘Better pick up them flowers before you trample ‘em.’
Obediently she stooped and retrieved the blooms. ‘I don’t think we’ve met …’
‘Axel Steimann, your neighbour. Lived here purty near all my life and I’ll be eighty-three come November.’ The old man cleared his throat with the sound of a drain unclogging and spat with practised aim at a grasshopper near his feet. ‘Got ‘im,’ he wheezed.
Catherine’s stomach churned. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she murmured, backing off.
‘Hope you ain’t afeared of ghosts,’ Axel said, leaning against the fence. The ancient, wooden structure bowed under his light weight.
‘Why’s that?’ she asked despite herself.
‘Cause the spirits of them that’s died violent don’t rest till their murder’s avenged. An’ Tracy Tomachuk, she died violent … right in that there house.’ He coughed and pointed to the window of Catherine’s bedroom. ‘In that there room she had the breath squeezed out of her.’
‘Oh really …’ she said faintly.
The apple doll tilted his head to one side. ‘Not meanin’ to scare ya. You didn’t kill her. She ain’t out to get you …’
As Catherine distractedly twirled the stem of chrysanthemums in her fingers, she knew she should let the matter rest. ‘I hear they didn’t find who did it,’ she said instead.
But Mr Steimann’s erratic mind had wandered to a new subject. ‘Like cats?’ he asked abruptly.
‘I suppose so …’
‘Good. I got cats. Five of ‘em. An’ a dog. You seen my dog?’
‘That little brown and black one?’ The one that does its business on my lawn she added silently.
‘Yep.’ Axel leaned harder on the dividing fence and the weather-beaten slats tilted even farther. ‘His name’s Duke.’ The man stuck two fingers in the gaps in his teeth and whistled a peculiar three-note sequence. Catherine heard a rustle and Duke emerged from the mass of unpruned berry bushes in Steimann’s yard. The dog danced up beside his master who petted his head with a knotted hand. ‘Duke an’ me, we’re buddies.’
‘Nice dog. Obedient.’ She eyed the animal unenthusiastically. ‘He seems full of energy.’
‘Yep. He’s only a year old.’ Axel gave his hand to the dog to lick. The dog rubbed his head against his master’s leg. ‘I’ve always had a dog named Duke – only fit name for a dog even if it’s a bitch. Always been a Duke to help me on my rounds.’
‘Rounds?’ Catherine asked. She wasn’t really interested, but didn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings. He seemed to have weeks of conversation pent up inside just waiting to burble out. Leaning against the trunk of the nearby maple tree she resigned herself to a long story.
‘I’m the caretaker of the land back of our yards here.’ He frowned. ‘Leastways I was till ‘bout a year ago.’ He waved at the band of trees and the vacant land beyond. ‘Belonged to Ms Tomachuk last but afore that her dad and his dad afore him owned it.’ Steimann pulled a ripped and stained handkerchief from his overalls pocket and blew his nose with a noise resembling a duck call. Catherine swallowed hard.
‘The Tomachuks weren’t no farmers so they leased the land to Connolly Chemical – that big company what owns the plant down the road. ConChem – that’s what we folks call it – paid me to keep an eye on it.’ Steimann swaggered with pride. ‘Me and my Duke, we walked the whole way round every day of the year.’
Catherine hadn’t seen any activity there since she moved in. ‘What do they use it for?’
‘Nothin’.’ Steimann spat at another grasshopper, missing only by inches. ‘They always said they was going to open a gravel pit but they never did. Seems a waste to pay good money to rent land they was never going to use, ‘cept maybe as a dump, but that’s big business for ya.’
A yowling screeching like violins in a garbage disposal split the calm, interrupting Steimann’s monologue. He turned and stared at his back porch. ‘Dang cats. Must be fightin’ over a bird again.’ He flapped his hand at Catherine. ‘Gotta go kick some sense into them cats.’