Rain did fall eventually, briefly, leaving behind the smell of ozone and sweet grass in the air. Floodlights lit the scene like a nighttime baseball game where the EMT had taken over examining Cherie who was pronounced dead at 10:51pm. It would later be said she had died doing what she loved second-most in a manner which, cruel in its timing, befitted someone who always wished to be young and bright and hot.
The fire truck which had arrived with the ambulance pulled away shortly afterwards creating a near vacuum of sound; steady whispers and faint sobs of jarred witnesses blending into a low choral hum, the backing for the songs of crickets. Suddenly a dog barked. Another responded to it only to be cut short with a half-whimper of guilt by a stern command. Charlie looked away from Martin who was being attended to by one of the paramedics and saw two police officers, one with a young German shepherd in a training vest, begin making their way through the crowds taking statements. A psychologist with an emotional support dog had also been summoned to help calm those suffering with traumatic distress, although it wasn't long before the Labrador seemed more taken with marking the eighth hole of the course and taunting the police pup who nearly broke from his constable to join him.
A third bark broke through the crowd, this time a gruff question of "Where?" from a human voice. A path was made to accommodate the arrival of Detective Sergeant Behr Creed who spoke first to one of the officers, then had a long word with a first responder. The strange glow of the trampled grounds seemed to dim in the wake of his movements with the exception of where he stood examining Cherie. In this most focused light, it could be seen that he wore a simple grey suit and pointed boots. A hand on his hip pulled his jacket away to reveal his badge as almost an extension of the ornately buckled belt it was clipped onto. An eye-patch over his left eye, the elastic of which cut invisibly through a full head of dark, wavy hair, meant that he had turn his whole torso in order to have a look at Martin when he was pointed out to him. For a plain clothed member of the force, he gave off a slightly Western-sheriff vibe in both his style and intensity. Charlie had already heard him referred to by both his formal title and the moniker Chief Creed, perhaps because his presence left no doubt as to who was in charge.
Martin, meanwhile, was physically no worse for wear. He was desperate for a drink, the more potent the better, and eager to get home. With his friend cleared medically, Charlie sought out an officer for permission to leave. Creed interrupted, notepad in hand, uncovered eye inspecting Martin, a semi-scowl on his grim face.
"First name Martin, last name Shields, is that correct?" The detective's hoarse grumble suggested vocal cords that would allow for volume but not range.
"Yes."
"How did you know Ms. Warner?"
"I just met her tonight," Martin answered.
"Were you both drinking?"
"Well, yeah."
"Whose idea was it to dance outside in a thunderstorm on a golf course?"
Martin cocked his head defiantly. "It wasn't raining at the time, but I was leading so I guess it was mine. Is this line of questioning really necessary?"
"A woman is dead because of your stupidity. I'll ask any question I feel like. Any particular reason you decided to attend a reunion for a high school you didn't go to?"
"I went to this high school," Charlie said, "and I invited him."
Creed's glower trained on Charlie, his lower teeth pushing forward to an underbite which would not exist otherwise. "Did I ask you?"
"Providing context, that's all."
"You are...?"
"Charles Fine."
Creed scribbled his name onto the notepad.
"You two going to be in town all week?"
"Yes. We're staying for the anniversary."
"Good. In case I have any other unnecessary questions."
"What are you going to do?" Charlie asked incredulously. "Stick him in a line up with other lightning bolts?"
"You're funny," Creed said dryly. "But while you boys are shaking your heads and making jokes, I'll be breaking the news to the girl's family that she's dead. Criminally, Mr. Shields, you may be clean, but the Warner's might want a civil suit. Since it's my job to be thorough for everybody's sake, maybe you should come around to the station in the morning. Then I can let you know what her parents have to say about that lineup."
After a deliberately long look slid from one man to the next, Creed flapped his notepad shut and stalked off.
"Jeezuz!" Martin said after the coast was clear. "What has Clint Eastwood done to his face?!"
"Why would a detective show up to an accident?" Charlie wondered aloud.
"I've never wanted to say, 'Aye-aye, Captain' so bad in my entire life."
"What do you want to do about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, we'll humour him. Tonight we go home and get plastered."
Later, in Sterling's living room, having changed into less formal attire, Charlie and Martin settled into a glum silence as each tried to process what he had experienced. Martin was restless. Up and down he went from his seat on the couch to the bar to fill his glass with whisky without ever thinking it might be easier to just take the bottle with him. While not exactly a futile Sisyphean task, it broke Charlie's still reflection from the sunken seat of his armchair as he began to feel drained watching him. "Pour me one while you're at it," he said eventually. Martin filled two tumblers this time, polishing off a bottle. He served Charlie his drink on the way back to the couch where he eyed the liquor cabinet almost immediately wondering what to drink next.
"What a pity," Charlie said at last, the good burn of alcohol in his throat mellowing to a therapeutic warmth "What a horrible shame."
"That such an awful thing should happen to such a lovely woman," Martin sighed.
"She really was, Martin. She really was."
"And she was going to sleep with me too," Martin said shaking his head.
Charlie's breath stalled behind an astounded lour.
"I could've found out if she was the one who kissed you," Martin went on ruefully. "She probably would've just told me. Or maybe she wouldn't have because we're friends and she might've thought I'd get upset. Still, pillow talk and all. I dunno. Maybe it's for the best."
"That she died?!" Charlie paled in disbelief.
"That's not what I meant," said Martin in a shaming tone without offering an alternate translation. He waited for Charlie to unclutch the arms of the chair. "Do you think we'll have to go to her funeral?"
"If one happens while we're here, how can we not?"
"Do you think they'll have an open casket?" Martin asked taking a deep breath and holding on to it.
"If they can get the grass stains out, sure," Charlie said, realizing after the fact how bad it sounded.
Struck by a thought, Martin stared out blankly under a raised eyebrow. "Think that when we're at the viewing you might be so overcome with grief that you might decide to pay your respects by leaning into the casket and...kissing her?"
Charlie snapped, "What's wrong with you?!"
"What? I'm just trying to help. It's literally your last chance!"
"You didn't get electrocuted. You have no excuse. "
"I'm drunk," Martin suggested.
"I'm going to bed. I'll take the bat cave. You sleep on whatever's left of the bed you broke."
"Termites loosened it up for me," Martin mumbled into his glass dismissively.
"Goodnight!"
Charlie marched upstairs while Martin called after him. "I know you feel guilty because you got your degree at weather college or whatever and didn't know it was going to storm but that's no reason to - "
The guest bedroom door slammed shut. Martin winced and covered his head in case the ceiling came crashing down on it.
Mocking Charlie's indignation with a series of pulled faces, Martin got up to select another drink from the liquor cabinet. He noticed for the first time one of the drawers slightly open and decided to see what Sterling might have stashed in it. It barely budged as he yanked on it, but enough so he could see a hint of golden liquid in a bottle which appeared to be on its side. "Hiding the good stuff, eh? Crafty bugger," he said, giving another yank to the drawer. It opened another half inch reluctantly. Martin's next attempt shook the cabinet and nearly caused some of the glass and bottles to fall out. He tried to feel with his fingers what might be blocking the way, unaware of an intricate pulley system running from behind the drawer, under the cabinet and carpet at its feet and over to the stand with castors on which the giant taxidermied bear was mounted.
For every inch of drawer Martin opened with curse-fuelled yanking, the bear with its dusty fur, bared teeth and yellowed claws rolled closer and closer until it loomed just behind him within paused striking distance.
With one last pull and a triumphant cackle of, "I've got you now!" the tension of the pulling ropes released and the drawer opened fully only to be shut again by Martin being forcefully pinned to the cabinet by the petrified belly and arms of a once magnificent beast.
"Charlie!" he called once, half-heartedly, breath from his pressed face fogging up a bottle of gin. "God, I hate this house," he sighed.
******
"Come on, get up!" Charlie said, whipping the blankets off Martin the next morning. "Let's get Creed over with and then we're going to Jean's."
"Breakfast?"
"Creed first, then food. Up!"
Charlie finished shaving and was dressed before Martin had managed to slump over the bathroom sink to brush his teeth. He poked his head in the doorway to ask, "Why is the bear on the floor?"
"Ask your uncle."
"Hurry up."
"If I'm late it's 'cause there's nowhere to plug my toothbrush charger in here and now I have to brush manually."
"And the world weeps."
"If the light switch is in the hall, why is there one here?" Martin asked staring at the wall, but Charlie had walked off. He spit and rinsed.
"Did you say something?" Charlie asked, back again.
"Yeah I asked what this switch is for."
Having learned nothing so far and before Charlie could finish warning, "I wouldn't", Martin flipped the lone light switch and an airbag of white powder burst open from the empty medicine cabinet dredging him like a chicken for the fryer.
"I'll be downstairs," Charlie said.
They sat in a waiting area of the Niagara Regional Police precinct, staring at the placard on Creed's office door which read, Detective Sergeant Major Crimes. Martin's knee bounced incessantly with his eagerness for breakfast stew and the beverage he might take with it.
Creed finally arrived not so much to greet them as to grunt at them. Both men stood.
"Just him," he said pointing at Martin. "You ready?"
"Ready, ready. Yep, yep, yep!"
Creed stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, specifically at his nose.
"You've got some white stuff on your face."
"Still?"
"You high?"
"Cornstarch," Martin and Charlie said in unison.
Creed grabbed a tissue off a desk and wiped the crease of Martin's nostril. "We'll see."
"That felt strangely intimate."
"Let's go."
"Detective Creed?" Charlie asked, "Why would someone of your rank be investigating an accident? An act of God no less?"
"With the anniversary coming up, we can't be too careful."
"But wouldn't it make more sense to have Special Investigations on it rather than someone from the Major Crimes unit?"
"You telling me how to do my job?"
"No."
"That's right." He opened the door to his office and gestured for Martin to step inside.
"Be right back," Martin said confidently.
Five minutes later, Martin stepped out alone, took a deep breath and said loudly, "We're free to go!"
"That took four minutes longer than I thought it would," Charlie said.
"I think he's lonely," said Martin.
******
Jean's all-natural beauty shop, called Sweet Jean's, was situated on the far corner of the town square opposite The Blue Bird Cafe and was sandwiched between a craft store and an ice cream bar. After breakfast, Charlie and Martin cut across the park and market again, this time with no classmate encounters to stall their progress.
In lieu of a chime, the recorded chirp of a bird sounded as they entered the store and then again as Jean's sole customer exited past them, leaving without a purchase. Jean managed to look happy and disappointed all at the same time. "Hi guys! Welcome!" she said cheerfully, then pouted. "I just hate when I can't help someone." She looked straight at Martin as she specified the reason with a crinkled nose. "Lipoma."
"Come again?"
"He has a lipoma."
"Skin cancer?" Martin grimaced.
"No. A lipoma is this thing like when one of your fat cells just goes berserk and multiplies and multiplies until you grow a fat ball like a boob on your back or your shoulder. Sometimes on your actual boob. Not fun."
Martin looked at Charlie disgusted. "What is this week like?"
Excitedly Jean asked, "So, what can I get for you? Some of our essential oil colognes? A nice shaving balm? How about a soothing foot cream, Charlie? The mint's from my garden."
"Set me up with one of everything," Charlie said.
Jean crossed her wrists and squeezed them to her chest in a sort of cute aggression gesture meant to spare him from a hug he might never escape. She grabbed two hemp shopping bags and handed them out. "Follow me," she said and began loading the bags with potions and lotions she thought they might enjoy.
"It was so great seeing everyone last night, but I just can't get over what happened," she said, eyes bugging.
"Such a tragedy," Charlie tsked.
"I cried all night. My upstairs neighbour has a support iguana who really likes me. Just knowing he could hear me somehow gave me comfort."
"It was a difficult sleep for me too. But you look as bright as a sunflower, Jean. No one would ever know."
"Thank you. I make my own cucumber-chamomile eye patches so..."
"Has anyone heard about funeral arrangements?"
"Yes. Cherie's parents still live in town. Poor them. The funeral is Tuesday."
"I'll have to send them my condolences."
"This summer has been really rough. Elbow scrub?"
" Sure. Look, Jean, I wanted to ask you, but last night seemed hardly the time, when exactly did Claire's father go missing?"
"Last day in May. Or maybe the first of June. Claire went to sleep early and in the morning he was gone. Didn't take his wallet or car or anything."
"Then the theory about his running away seems unlikely. He could have gone out to inspect the property what with the infestation problems."
"Sure. Of course. But then what? If he got hurt or had an accident where's his body?"
"The million dollar question. Were there any concerns about his mental health? Depression, memory loss, impaired reasoning or anything like that?"
"Honestly, I don't know. I guess you'll have to ask Claire. God I feel so awful for her. She was already beside herself with the breakup."
"When did the other Claire leave?"
"March, I think. With the sugarbush sick and not knowing if her dad's okay, it's too much for one person to take." She tried to force a loofah the size of a baguette into Charlie's shopping bag. "I'm trying to give Claire her space but I really want to be there for her. I sent her a nice gift basket. I hope it doesn't upset her that her maple syrup's in half of everything. Like what if it's the last of it and I wasted it in my jowl gels?"
Martin squirmed and tried to shake the words out of his ears.
"I'm sure she's grateful," Charlie said, ignoring him.
"Martin your skin is super dehydrated," said Jean. "You probably don't drink enough."
"It's true," he said, pursing his lips.
"Jean," Charlie said. "There's one other thing I want to ask you. It may seem silly but do you remember the party during senior year at Graham's house when we played Seven Minutes In Heaven?"
"Yeee-ah," Jean answered hesitantly.
"Would you do an old friend a favour and tell me who kissed me in the closet that night please?"
"Wasn't the whole joke that we said no one went in there?"
"See, that's just it. It was a joke wasn't it?"
"I think so." She placed her fingers to her temples under her golden curls and shut her eyes trying to recall some detail. It ended with an unsuccessful shrug. "You're sure someone was in there with you?"
"Positive."
" Well, I don't think it was me, but I was drinking. A lot. Oh God, what if it was me? What if it was I don't remember? I mean, I've never been blackout drunk, but sometimes I don't remember my dreams and what's the point of sleeping if you don't dream? I remember kissing Robin because it was totally gross."
"Maybe that's why he was a no-show last night," Martin joked.
"Please," Jean said, flattered for some reason. "You guys never know when you're bad kissers. Besides, Robin's on house arrest in Vancouver anyway."
"I beg to differ," Martin sniffed, considering his own lips.
"Oh no, for sure he is. Inside trading or something." She turned to Charlie again, folding her arms across her chest, her brow crinkled in concentration. "It really bothered you, huh?" She now brought her dainty fist to her chin in order to prop up her pretty, pitying face. "And to think, all this time you've been suffering."
"I wouldn't say suffering."
"Dying of curiosity then, and it's maybe probably my fault?" She seemed on the verge of Jean-like comical despair.
"There may be an easy way to find out."
"I'm the worst!"
Charlie cleared his throat. "Jean, would you mind kissing me again? I think it would help shed light on things."
"Like right now here? I don't know," she giggled embarrassedly. "Can I think about it for a sec?"
"Of course."
"You hate me for wanting to think about it, don't you?"
"Why? I'd want to."
"I'm not being fussy or a prude or anything. Just over analyzing everything like I always do. I don't want to kiss you just because you asked me to, but I kind of want to anyway. I'm trying to picture myself in one of those retro feminist memes. What would kitchen-glove-cocktail lady caption this? Never mind. You know what? Let's do it! We're friends right? And I want to so yeah!"
"You're sure?"
"Yup. Yeah. I'm ready."
She closed her eyes and let her neck drop back, arms wide as if in mid-worship.
Charlie lowered her arms delicately and kissed her gently on the lips. Sweet Jean P was indeed sweet, and even though she reminded him of a golden goddess of Spring, nothing in the kiss could bring any life to him.
"Thank you, Jean," he said. "That helped tremendously."
Jean hummed a satisfied sigh and blinked herself back into the room. "Wow. That was...really nice. Your lips are a little chapped but I definitely liked it."
"Not gross is good," Charlie said and smiled.
Jean smiled back wordlessly, a little longer than was comfortable and with a sudden shyness in her eyes. Charlie raised his stuffed bag of goodies quickly and suggested with a head tilt that they cash out.
"You don't think it was me, do you?" Jean asked, ready to seem fine with surprise disappointment.
"No," he said kindly. "I'll never know if it was Cherie and pray that it wasn't Rose, but I don't think it was you and I'm pretty sure it wasn't Pam."
"Why not Pam?"
"Because she left the party early."
"Um, I don't think so."
"Why do you say that?"
"I couldn't swear to it, but I'm pretty sure she waited for Claire."
Charlie's poker face was too good. Jean was smiling at him funny.
"I'm giving you our friends and family discount," she said.
"Thank you very much," he said, pulling a jar out his bag at random and reading the label. "I'll think about you when I'm moisturizing my corns."
"I threw in a lip balm for those chapped lips too. Maybe at the Anniversary bash we can see how it worked."
She blushed a little. Charlie was eager to leave.
"See you there, then," he said.
As they made their hasty exit, Jean waved more excitedly than Charlie hoped he'd given her reason to.
Outside, Charlie noticed Martin staring at him as they walked, a teasing grin on his face.
"What?"
"I have never in all my years heard you lie to anyone," he said shaking his head and tutting. "You don't have corns!"
"How could I give that face my hard no?"
Martin's agreeing nod and his wide gloating eyes suddenly began to slow and shrink until all his features were scrunched in thought. Then his jaw fell open. "Oh my God!" he shouted, and stopped walking. "You do have corns!"
"A corn on one toe and it doesn't have to be on the six o'clock news," Charlie shushed him.