"He was always the one to figure things," remarked Humboldt. "Always
the smart ass type, big jawed lazy bones--couldn't make a good farmer
out of that sort. Didn't want to do much of anything 'cept run. All his
money went on his car. Drinking in the Richelieu most every night. I
suspect that's where he were coming from when it happened."
Humboldt leaned back against the store front. Twice weekly he'd take a
cab into town to fetch sundry articles as he said--one day went for
shopping t'other for visitin'. Retirement had given him the necessary
time to concentrate almost exclusively on the latter. This was the
first trip in this week and already the day was abuzz with talk of the
recent mishap.
"Now let me get this straight," Russell was interjecting. "According to
what Humboldt says, the car just plain left the highway and crashed
through the barrier where seven meets the Bath road."
"That's what Thompson was saying and he was talking to the widder
Jocelyn the very morning after. Makin' a run into Kincaid and happened
to see the downed guard-rail. Accordin' to the widder, she was awakened
late Saturday night by the crash. She wasn't what you call definite
seening how it was in the middle of the night and all, but still claims
it scared her half to death the thought of that car entering the lake."
"Serve's 'im right," Humboldt began again. "Probably smokin' drugs and
boozin'. Ain't no proper place for the likes of him, anyhow. Just plain
crazy. Why that Scots boy was a born no good. Heard tell he let berries
fall off their stems rather than pick them, then go to town to buy a
quart basket. Blamed foolishness. Why me and Jimmy Robinson remember
hayin' with their old man when he'd fork a bale then sit under the tree
and smoke. Gave up farmin' good land to guard at Ronald Bay. Between
stints on welfare, of course. The two of them, Ester and he sitting in
that kitchen--too damn lazy to rototiller that garden. Had a big bitch
dog, Buzzy--tail like an ice pick that was always swishing and chased
my stock afore I got Scot to tie him down."
The conversation slowly became a praise of working values with an
occasional homily to flaunt the more ensconced rural virtues. Humboldt
referred to the List brothers both dead lazy and drinkers, too, as the
dialogue became more dogmatic.
"Seems he'd had to swear off the bottle or go blind," Humboldt
continued.
"And you know what List said? Guess I've seen all that's worth seeing.
He ended up in a sanitorium in Stephensville. The other stayed on
allowing bush to burst up through the cement walk and a tree to come
through the drive shed. Imagine that."
Humboldt and his friend were grinning the same wide smile. Apart from
an occasional story of their own garrulousness or resentment against
authority, their past was free of such tales and they knew it. It was
enough to make a man feel proud knowing he had nothing to live down.
Humboldt was cradling a watermelon to take back. His time was old and
he was given to all sorts of quirks he would never have allowed himself
but even five years ago--like taking a taxi, selling part of his farm
or, worse yet, eating good weiners on any but festive occasions. Such
things, he had once remarked, were the very stuff of foolishness.
The taxi would only take him to the end of the long lane. Punctuated by
his mailbox and an old haying shed, the driveway was well over a mile
from the house. The road was all that remained of an old county line
that had since fallen into disuse. Provided considerable privacy, he
thought, well in tune to his love of isolation. Barring, of course,
those bi-weekly ventures into town. Yes, they were needed.
Pulling the latch over the door and stooping to rekindle the fire, many
would have thought such an existence unbearably dull. Not so, Humboldt.
Since his sister had died it was true he had sometimes felt the need
for companionship but this was a world of his own making. He felt the
thrill of self-accomplishment knowing it was his land. He was alone
with memories. Quietly rocking by the fire, he began to doze off,
little thinking materials like old magazines, old rags to start a fire
lay strewn about the floor. Basic cleanliness had been an early
casualty since the sister's death. Gone was the regimen of order and
weekly cleans until now the house was like a dusty candle box. Still,
his was an orderly world. Soft fashioned, it was free of the tatters
that change brings. He thought of the years, the steady labour in the
fields, the thriftiness, his distrust of banks, the big city--the new
highway that had compelled the sale of the "lower 40" and all the rest
of that blamed idiocy.
The fire was gentle and massaged the chill from his fingers. An old
man's fingers. Honest hands not creased with pleasure but with familiar
toil. He used to liken his life to that drive into town. Steady, small
pastimes where every bend was anticipated before rounding it like the
neat little farms all in rows. His warmth was in the security of the
knowable, he thought nodding off. He was thinking little thoughts like
strawberries in spring or what the icy water must have felt like
closing around the throat of Scot. If he had only lived like himself,
got into farming and enjoyed life instead of dashing off to lose touch
with reality. Yes, old ways were best.
"Seems we've got two things to stir folks up with in this town," the
officer, a new constable with the OPP in Kincaid was saying.
"It looks like a routine blaze what with all the junk laying around but
we'll have to check out all possibilities seeing that Humboldt had the
reputation of having lots stashed away. We all supposed the old man
kept considerable money hidden in the house. Checks confirm no bank
accounts so a strongbox is suspected. It may be that some of the damage
here was not the work of fire alone. These are things we would like to
probe, Jake, and would appreciate any help you might provide." The
officer was looking straight at Jake asking his questions routinely,
matter of factly.
Jake surveyed the still smouldering ruins. Only the brick chimney still
stood. They had found Humboldt's body by the door. Apparently a clear
case of smoke inhalation before he was burned. Yet the scene betrayed
Jake's own involvement. Surveying anew the debris, Jake began to
reassemble recent events and his stake in having Scot rob Humboldt. The
policeman was saying nothing of any valuables found on the dead Scot.
This worried him, especially those heirloom bits containing Humboldt
Bennett's name. Perhaps, perhaps yes I could figure that the money
spilled out of the wrecked car or a strongbox now lies at the bottom of
the lake, Jake was thinking to himself. Yes, that could very well be,
he thought.
Still, I wonder, yes really wonder had Scot managed to locate
Humboldt's nest egg at all? And what if Scot's drowning occurred before
the robbery, before he could rob Humboldt at all? If so, this would
explain why no money had been found and that no one so far had the
presence of mind to connect the two episodes. Or were the police
withholding this information for reasons of their own? Still, how could
the two incidents be woven together by the authorities when Humboldt
was freely talking of the Scot disaster only yesterday. Unless, yes
damn Scot, evidence was found of Scot rummaging around Humboldt's
property the day Humboldt was in town! That would be just like Scot to
disobey a good game plan!
He was thinking now which, of all possibilities, would implicate his
name the least. Wiping his brow and trying to remain calm, he pressed
the investigating officer as any concerned neighbour might. After all,
he was Humboldt's closest friend.
Yet to Jake's mind another probability was presenting itself. Humboldt,
on returning home from his visit to town yesterday, might have found
himself robbed, his place pilfered and, in his angst, knocked over a
lantern or, worse, suffered a stroke in the ensuing panic.
"Can a coroner establish if heart failure occurred prior to
asphyxiation?" he found himself muttering half-absentmindedly.
Jake was hoping so. Gingerly, he fingered memories of what he would
have done had Scot returned the night as intended. Still, if all held
true, there was nothing to implicate him, even if Humboldt had died
unexpectedly. Jake was in the process of reassuring himself. All had
been taken care of. Scot dead and now the car a convenient
shambles--the only possible source of clues or evidence. How tidy fate
had been. Strange. If only he had managed to get the money prior to
Scot inadvertently doing away with himself. He smiled, how lucky he had
been. Especially now, that Humboldt, too, was dead of God knows what
and he, he was no worse off for his pains. He still might locate a
cache or two on the property when all this blew over.
The other side of Jake's personality was now exerting itself, the
peasant cunning of folk long inured to the earth's rhythmic cycles. He
knew of the officer's steady gaze and his ploy. The officer was playing
it smart, letting Jake see all the possibilities when asking his
opinion. First mention the near likelihood of a robbery but be vague on
the question of accomplices. And, of course, the question of the
necessary instigation. Jake was wondering if he were looking a little
too detached from his friend's death. A little too sincere? Then there
was the issue of a second coroner if the evidence seemed inconclusive.
Wild fantasies swept through his now activated brain. Did he dare?
Might he risk it? Would the officer be ... well receptive to a little
more ... er fact finding? And the best way to approach him? Hmmm.
Jake stared at the charred hulk of a bedpost. Humboldt's? The long
deceased sister probably. He couldn't rightly tell but did recall
Humboldt hadn't removed the bedding at the time of her death. Either
way, he mused, he would have to let events take their course or steer
them back his way at once. He pressed his manured boot over a darkened
brick kicking it free.
"Am I free, uh, to go?" Jake asked the constable.
"Free to go, why, why shouldn't you be Mr. Wright?"