Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

“Wrench!” he said, in a tone that declared me a fool or an idiot. I obliged from the tools laid out on a board running between us. He took it from me, used it, and slapped it back into my hand again, like he was thinking of the operating room too. After ten or fifteen minutes of this, he looked up and out at me. He didn’t say “Thanks,” or anything as gauche as that. For a moment, he didn’t say a thing, then: “That Faulkner kid just about ruined this new motor. Took him only an hour and a half doing doughnuts in the lake. His father should talk sense to him. Kid doesn’t respect anything, least of all a good motor. Comes from a good family too. His people’ve been coming to the lake since my uncle Russell ran this place. We’ve been up here since the fall the S.S. Waome went down up by Beaumaris, coming out of Port Carling. I was a youngster. Nineteen and thirty-four.” I wasn’t surprised to discover that Evans was a bit of a moralist. The lake had its rules, and you disobeyed them at your own risk. Evans was a watcher and a judge. I could imagine him, when sufficiently moved, doling out summary justice to repeat offenders. But, I could be wrong. Maybe I was just tired of waiting for the moment to ask my questions. Before I could, he ploughed into me with one of his own.

“Why are you sticking your nose into this?” I caught my breath.

“Vanessa says she was up here when Renata Sartori was killed. I just had to see that what she said was true. Frankly, I haven’t found her all that truthful in other things.”

“Takes after her father. Always tellin’ fish stories.”

“Was it a fish story when she said she was at her place on Monday the fifteenth of May?”

“Oh, she was here all right. Took a briefcase in with her and some bread and cheese. Frozen dinners. She never could look out for herself proper like.”

A second chance for a question of my own finally came when we were both holding Cokes from the big cooler on his dock.

“Who’s Ed?” I asked.

“Ed? Which Ed do you mean?”

“I mean the one you thought of first. The Ed that gave his keys to Vanessa for safekeeping.”

“Oh, that’ d be old Ed Patel. Lawyer from town. His place is at the end of the path that the road peters out into.” Here he indicated a direction with his right hand, vaguely in the direction of the parking lot, which was the official end to this spur of the highway.

“Why would Ed Patel give his keys to her?”

“What are friends for? Ed was like an uncle to Stella while she was growing up.” He smiled to himself at the picture in his mind. Then his face darkened. “Ed’s been in and out of hospital for the last year. He’s in a bad way. Vanessa told him she’d see to his place.”

“She doesn’t take the time to see to her own place. How is she going to look after his?”

“You don’t miss much, for a …”

“She hasn’t had her boat out this year yet. There’s not much in the cupboards.”

“Don’t I know it. Oh, she came with a few groceries when she was up a few weeks ago, even bought bread, cheese and juice from the marina like I told you, but she didn’t bring any of the basics, you know, flour, soda, sugar, onions, potatoes. Just frozen stuff and a few boxes of Kraft Dinner was all she carried with her. She usually treats herself better than that.”

“So, you’ve been looking after Ed Patel’s place as well as hers?”

“Had to be done. A place can go to wrack and ruin in short order here at the lake. If I hadn’t kept the roofs of both places cleared of snow last winter, by now there’d be nothing you could salvage from either place. Ed found this place for Mrs. Moss and acted as her lawyer for the conveyancing. He’s got an office in town.”

“Which town would that be? Port Carling? Bracebridge? Gravenhurst?”

“Ha! Funny you said that. Ed used to keep offices in all three, but he’s closed the ones in Port Carling and Gravenhurst. Even the one in Bracebridge’s closed most times I go by. Now that Alma’s gone.”

“Who?”

“Secretary.”

“Oh. He’s that sick, is he?”

“You don’t go home again when you’re as sick as Ed is. I go see him once a week. We play cribbage. You know.”

“Hard?”

“Oh, he’s game. Yes, he’s game, but failing. Nothing left but the spirit holding him together.”

“Bracebridge hospital?”

“N’yup. Good little hospital. Had my gallstones out there. Dr. MacGruder.”

“Vanessa says there are other NTC people, you know, television people, up here on this part of the lake.” Then I remembered something. “There was a block of property. I forget the name, but the estate sold cottages on this lake to NTC people.”

“You’re talkin’ about the trust Ernie Bradings set up. Aye, Ernie let in the TV people with a vengeance. We got all sorts. Most of them bought their places. Others have long leases. Some don’t know the sharp end of a boat from the round end. Some do. Fellow named Trebitsch has three boats and he keeps them in good condition. Has cellphones in ’em. He tells me he’s an important man in Toronto. Says he’s a newsman . I guess he is; I see his picture in the paper. But I don’t hold much stock in getting your picture in the paper. I think if you set your mind to it, it can’t be too difficult. Think Mr. Trebitsch learned about watercraft from Dermot Keogh, the cellist. Dermot’s boats were always well kept. Bob Foley knows his engines. But those friends of his, like that Mr. Devlin and Mr. Rankin, they’re worse than both the Faulkner boys put together.”

“How did Devlin get a Bradings Trust property? He’s a lawyer, not a TV person.”

“His father bought a place not too far from here after the war. No connection with Bradings, except when they went fishing together. Should be a law who can run a boat. The way I see it, the lake’s the same as the highway. You obey the rules or the Provincial Police’ll run you in. That’s funny about Mr. Devlin too, because I heard from Dermot that he’s a keen sailor. Has a yacht down in the city. I wouldn’t have guessed it. For a time there, Mr. Devlin was ruining a motor every time he came up to visit Dermot. But then-that Dermot Keogh was a smart feller-he cut Mr. Devlin off. Wouldn’t have him at his place any more. Didn’t much like Rankin either there for a time.”

“When would that have been, Mr. Evans? Dermot Keogh died a year ago last April. When did Devlin and Rankin become scarce around the lake?”

“Well, let me see …” Ifor pulled at his chin a minute to see if he could get his dates and tourists straight. “It would have been in the late spring of the year before last. Around June, I’d say. Didn’t see Mr. Devlin or Mr. Rankin on the lake after that.” He thought a minute as though checking on his facts a second time. Then he shook his head: “Mr. Devlin never did know how to dress up here. I think he’s the only man been up here wearing a three-piece suit since Mr. Eaton died.” Ifor Evans was not given to laughing at his betters, but he came close as that vision flashed through his head.

After that, he seemed to tire of giving away so much information. He leaned into me with a few questions, which I tried to answer as honestly as I could. He knew about the murder of Renata Sartori, and seemed to accept the theory that Renata had been killed by mistake, that Vanessa had been the intended target. “She was a very nice woman, that Renata Sartori. She loved it on the lake when Dermot drove her up for a weekend. Mr. Keogh told me he might just marry that girl. That’s what he told me sitting right where you’re sitting. ‘I could do worse,’ he said. ‘I could do a great deal worse.’ Pity about that woman. She wasn’t very old, was she?”