Chapter 59

There’s no more pathetic a sight than watching a possibly-sick pitbull take a crap in the freezing rain of a Nova Scotia winter.
Rawle stood at the kitchen window watchinghis dog. It was the morning after he had loosely connected Matt Pye with Darroll Missions’ mother, Darlene.
Porkbutt was meant to be living in Texas or California or somewhere. His paint-coat of white fur was no thicker than the velvet of a cariboo’s antler. His fur was even non-existant in some places, under his arms and legs.
The dog crouched in the icy grass looking mournfully up at the window and Rawle. Why do you make me do this? His almost human eyes were squinting in the rain. His wet ears hung beside his head like rotten banana peels.
Rawle stared out the window through the streaks of ice.
He had a name, Matt Pye- and a theory that connected the hospital security guard with Darlene Missions, the woman who had sworn a bitter grudge against Rawle, days before the poisoning.
Rawle was certain he was on the right track. There were no excuses. Either he acted on the information, or he didn’t. Either he protected his family, or failed to. One or the other.
His first thought was to dutifully phone in the name and theory to Cst. Bearsto with Kentville police, but he knew that wouldn’t fly.
Fiona’s theory of the crime and a picture of Pye’s father didn’t prove anything, not in the slightest.
Police could perhaps talk to Matt Pye, but there was certainly no leverage to use against him.
A lot of times, people admitted what they did under police questioning, Rawle knew, but not people like Matt Pye.
Porkbutt spent all of 60 seconds outside and was back scratching at the door like a cat.
Rawle felt so paralyzed. He hadn’t even taken the dog to the vet yet.
He let the dog in and stuck the cordless into his back pocket.
Kelloway was in the living room watching that awful Canadian design show.
Athan was at daycare. Since the poisoning, the little guy was at daycare a lot, but it was probably a good thing. He needed little kids to play with, and cheerful adults to be around.
Rawle leaned his ass against the sink and felt the cordless phone dig into his back. He pulled the phone out, then dialed Jack Lee’s number.
“Hello?”
“Hi.”
“Rawle, how’s it going? You horny?” Jack sounded wide awake. Rawle wondered if he ever slept.
“Jacky. I need to talk.” Rawle’s voice cracked a little. “Can you meet me for coffee? I need help.”
They agreed to meet at Just Us! Coffee Roasters Co-op where Jack’s friend Frank was manager.
The café had been built inside an old movie theatre right in the centre of Wolfville’s Main Street. A big, lime green neon Acadia Cinema sign jutted out above the sidewalk like a slab of cheesecake.
Rawle arrived first, ordered a double espresso and fixed it with cream and sugar, until it was like a double-double.
He sat by the window overlooking Main Street.
Jack blew in after ten minutes, wearing his aluminum Gatorz sunglasses and blue ski suit.
“Jesus Christ.” Rawle had never seen a man so brutally assaulted by mid-life crisis.
.He talked with Frank, the manager, for a few minutes and then ordered tea and a fat slice of butterscotch cake.
He said hello to three or four people on the way, and finally joined Rawle at his black laquer table.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself. You okay?” He sat down and started cutting into the cake with a fork and stuffing the crumbly hunks into his mouth. “Man, I’m starved.”
Rawle let the fuzzy espresso coat his tongue. “I got a real problem, Jack.”
Jack hunched his shoulders in a defensive pose. “Is Kelloway okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. Physically, she’s fine. But she’s shook up.”
“I bet. Do you know who did it?”
“I think I might. But it’s more complicated than some co-worker, or a grudge at work.” Rawle sighed and leaned back against the metal tubes of his stool-chair. “You remember that story? The firebombing of the jail guard?”
Jack got a slightly uneasy look on his face. “Has that woman been bothering you?”
Rawle stopped his train of thought. “How do you know about her?”
“Darroll Missions’ mother. What’s-her-name? Darlene.”
Rawle just stared at Jack with his mouth open. A nervous feeling started spreading through him. “How do you know about Darroll’s mom?”
“She’s been calling Barry.” Jack was eating his cake again. “She’s been complaining about you to Barry, big time. Haha! Like non-stop, ever since the story ran. She’s probably called him a dozen times.”
“Oh my God.”
Barry Partridge was the Gazette’s managing editor. “I can’t believe this? What’s she been saying?”
“She wants a retraction. She wants you fired. She wants money. Compensation. You name it. She’s a psycho, man. Don’t worry about it. Barry called me when it first happened and I explained everything. He’s fine. She’s just some crazy bitch. The angry mom of a dead drug dealer. Our story was legitimate.”
Rawle felt some relief, but not really. “This woman has been calling me and reaming me a new asshole. But it’s not just that. I think she’s the one behind Kelloway getting poisoned.”
Jack looked as if that had never occurred to him. “How do you figure that?”
Rawle felt frustration pour through him. “God, I wish to Christ I had a cigarette!” His face was hot and red. He peeled off his sweater and dropped it in a static-y pile on the tile floor of the cafe.
“C’mon. Let’s go out to the alley. Right now, enough of this bullshit.” Jack pulled out his cigarette pack and stood up from the table.
“No. I don’t smoke. There’s no such thing as smoking.”
“Fine.” He put his pack away, theatrically. “So.” He sat back down. “Darlene. Did she threaten you? You or Kelloway?”
“Yes. She did, Jack. She knew Kelloway’s name and Athan’s name and my address, the first time she called. God knows what she was able to figure out over a span of a few days. She could have learned where Kelloway worked- all it would take was to park outside our place and follow her to work. Christ, I’ve done as much for a news story.” Rawle reached into the side pocket of his corduroy jacket, slung over the chair, and pulled out a colour printout of the photo he’d found in the Outside Archive. He slapped it down on the table.
“This is Darlene Missions and her family, including Darroll. They’re standing with a man named Tobias Pye, a Baptist preacher. This is 1997.”
Jack perused the printout carefully, with squinted eyes.
“It’s from an old Gerry Godsoe story I dug up in the archive.”
“She’s an ugly old bitch, ain’t she?”
“Yes. Now listen: Independently of everything I suspect about Darlene, these nurses at the hospital came up with a suspect who they think poisoned Kelloway. A security guard named Matt Pye.” Rawle took out the ID photo of Matt Pye and fwapped it down on the table next to the newspaper photo.
“This is father and son. Matt Pye and Tobias Pye. This is the connection between Matt Pye and Darlene Missions. Darlene, or one of her sons, was aquainted with Matt Pye and paid him to poison Kelloway. I’m convinced of this. This is what happened.”
Jack looked curious about the idea, but maintained his skepticism. “I understand what you’re saying, but just… you could dig around and find a photo of just about anybody. You could find me and Dee Lee and a couple cops and a judge and some firefighters. It doesn’t prove anything.”
Rawle put the photos back into the envelope and lowered his voice. “I know. That’s why I’m talking to you right now, instead of the cops. We’re reporters, we don’t need proof.”
Jack wrinkled his square face. He looked a cross between amused, tough, sickly and pissed off.
Rawle couldn’t decide what was going on with him, but the wheels were turning.
They sat in silence, listening to Missy Elliott Christmas carols playing over the café’ stereo system. They stared at eachother, eye to eye for about two minutes.
Finally, a tinge of blood appeared in one of Jack’s nostrils. He wiped the drip away with the back of his hand, then picked up the envelope of photographs. He flipped to the picture of Matthew Pye and slipped it out of the envelope, turned it over on the table and took out a Bic pen from his pants pocket. “What date was Kelloway poisoned?”
Rawle frowned at him. “Wednesday, February seven.”
Jack wrote the date down on the back of the photo and added the words, ‘Week of.’
He placed the photo back in the envelope and placed the envelope carefully into a large pocket of his ski jacket. He stood up with a scrape of his stool legs on tile. “Okay. I’m going to take care of this for you,” he said. “I have an idea.”
Then he left.