Chapter 17
Ah was standin' by the police car when this here red Porsche screams up the driveway, fast, top down, this gal—ah presume Ms. Fran Fleetsmith—her hair straight back like a mare runnin' ag'in the wind. Barney Bernside slides outta the police car, grins like he knows her. The gal slides outta the Porsche.
"Hello BB," she says. "What brings you to my humble abode?"
T'aint't exactly humble: it's one big house, sorta like a mansion, lookin' over the lake. Ah steps forward and asks, "Ms. Francis Fleetsmith?"
Yuh larn to say 'Ms' in TO. Too many feminist gals about.
"You bet," she says.
"Ah'm Willum Boone, TO Police," Ah says, draggin' mah stetson from mah head. "Ah'd like t'ask y'all a few questions, if yuh don't mind."
"Y'all?" she says. "From Texas?" she says.
"Never ask a man if'n he's from Texas, ma'am. If he is, he'll tell you on his own and if he ain't, no need to embarrass him," Ah says.
Then she leans forward and whispers at me, "Have I told you the one about the short Texan?"
Ah keep goin', ignorin' the comment, puttin' mah hat back on.
"Ah've asked Dr. Bernside here to accompany me, case there's some technical matters beyond mah ken, yuh know." Ah pauses, lookin' at her male partner. A mite too old fer her. The young lady notices my starin'.
"This is Charles Clayton Curran, my companion, chef, housekeeper and best buddy," Ms. Fleetsmith says.
Somethin' goin' on between 'em? Ah nods mah head toward Mr. Curry, then go on. "Ma'am? May we go inside? This shouldn't take too long."
"Certainly," Ms. Fleetsmith says, and she frowns at Mr. Curry, a wierd frown, like she was tellin' him somethin. "Charlie will make us some coffee, and while he does that, I'd like to show you something that you may find interesting. Follow me," she says.
She's lookin' straight at me with those baby blues—'cept they's brown, Ah think. The invitation sounds temptin' and Ah follow without a word, jest like some pooch on a chain, watchin' her ass swing side to side. Not bad lookin', a Venus de Milo kinda body, solid ass, long chesnut hair.
She 'mmediately heads fer the back yard, Curry heads quick fer the front door. Ah follows Ms. Fleetsmith. Ah kin see Bernside jest standin' fer a minute, lookin' from Curry to Fleetsmith to Curry. Then he follows us.
The route to the back of the house wanders, the house is overstuffed with little pieces juttin' out and bay windows. It's a kinda estate, big trees hangin down, windin' paths, gardens, way back from the road and lots o' space out back with a view of Lake Ontario. This Fleetsmith must have a few bucks. They don't come cheap, houses like this, in Burlington. A bit of a drive from TO, but quiet, clean, fresh air. Nice.
Ah follows Fleetsmith round the side and Bernside jogs past, takes up a position beside Fleetsmith. He gives her a little knock with his elbow. They's somethin' goin on between 'em?
"... and my father was perhaps prouder of these roses than any of his medicinal herbs," Fleetsmith is sayin' to Bernside, pointin' to a bunch o' flowers, roses Ah guess. "Charlie looks after them now," she says, then she looks at me. "Mr. Boone, are you a rose nut? My father was a rose nut. Tea roses, his specialty, although old strains of wild roses—"
"A mighty fine house, ma'am. Back home we got us a stove on the porch and lawn chairs in the kitchen. But, Ms. Fleetsmith," Ah complain, "could we please set somewhere, quiet like, and could Ah please ask y'all some questions?" Ah look at mah watch. It's jest past noon and Ah'm getting' kinda hungry.
"This way, chief," Fleetsmith says, marchin' to the front door o' the house and knockin', then waitin', then enterin'. Knockin? On her own front door?
"Do you always knock before you enter your own house," Bernside asks. Thet woulda bin mah question, if'n Ah had a mind to ask.
"Knock? Sure, why not? Don't you? Never know. Might find your wife in bed with the plumber." She winks at Bernside. "Married, Dr. Bernside?"
She's callin' him Dr. Bernside? Thet formality, fer mah benefit, mebbe?
"Uh, well, sort of," Bernside says.
When they enter the house, Ah figure Curry's had time to send Miss Cowley somewhere and thet explains the detour to the rose bed, 'cause sure as shootin' Miss Cowley's inside; Ah know thet fer a fact. He'd set the coffee paraphernalia on the livin' room table. He's grindin' coffee beans in the kitchen.
Now Ah had interviewed Miss Josephine Cowley a few days ago. She ain't nothin' but a tramp. So why's she livin' with Fleetsmith? Everybody says she's disappeared, but Ah don't believe it. She's holed up here, like a bear in winter.
"Well, Boone?" Fleetsmith says. "What's up?"
"Y'all are no doubt aware thet four bodies have bin found, each of which is covered in some sorta skin?" Ah says.
"Mmm. And how am I connected with all that?"
"C'mon, Ms. Fleetsmith," Ah says. "Hans von Oerschott died o' the same cause and, unless Ah'm mistaken, y'all worked fer the man. Further, y'all carried out 'xperiments with a concoction—Dermafix Ah believe it's called—and this here stuff produces precisely the same curious skin as we've found on these four bodies." Ah pause fer effect. "Right, so far?"
"Mmm, right on the button."
"Ah'm confused as a termite in a yo-yo 'n Ah'd like to hear your explanation as to how this here skin comes 'bout, how it's formed, how it kills the person inside, how the concoction got out of your lab at Oerschott Medicals, whether we kin expect further occurrences of—"
She puts a hand on a hip and says, "Ah'm afraid Ah kin tell y'all very little y'all don't already know." She says it in a southern drawl. Grins. Nice teeth. "Charles and I have just come from the university where we saw professor Unger, a well known microbiologist with a keen interest in fungi. I gave him a specimen of this stuff and he admitted he's never seen anything like it. It's a fungus, it attaches itself to a human or mammalian host and if the environment is adequate ... mmm ... " Fleetsmith begins to hum, looks up at the ceiling, then she turns to Charles who enters with a tray. "Sweat!" she says.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles said, lookin' embarassed.
"The saline environment which promotes growth of this fungus. Sweat, salty human sweat - and Hans was one sweaty guy."
"Okay," Ah says, "human sweat is good fer the fungus. Then what?"
"Mmm, it grows, encloses the human—that's your curious skin—and begins to regenerate its cells."
"She means," interrupts Bernside, "it regenerates the human cells. The fungus actually repairs, regrows, rejuvenates the cells of the body which lies beneath this skin."
"And jest what kills the human inside?" Ah ask.
"Damned if I know." Fleetsmith grunts, takin' a cup of coffee from the tray. "Maybe it suffocates. The skin, if completed, is practically airtight."
"And the person jest stands there, lettin' this here skin grow? Come now, ma'am," Ah says.
"I told you, I don't know what kills the bloody host."
"Actually," Bernside says, "the four bodies we found were in such good shape they should really be alive, not dead."
"How'd this here Dermafix get outta yer lab?" Ah says.
"Again, I don't know," she answers. "Except ..." Then she pauses.
"Except?" Ah says.
"Hans did visit me in my lab, one evening about midnight, and I believe he stole a vial of the fungal culture. At least I know that a vial was missing the next morning. As far as the other corpses are concerned, I haven't the faintest idea how they came in contact with the stuff. I don't even know these people." She tosses her hair over her shoulder, shakin' her head like a skittish mare.
"Perhaps von Oerschott distributed it to the others, to—" Bernside starts to say.
"Nope," Ah says. "They ain't no connection between Oerschott and the other four. They didn't even know each other, far as we know. Nevertheless, Ms. Fleetsmith, y'all are quite certain thet Oerschott had a vial of this here concoction?"
"Mmm." She looks straight at
me. "Can you call me Fran? I don't quite like this Ms shit."
"Yes, ma'am!" Ah'm jest a little taken aback at her language. "And what do y'all believe he did with it, the vial, Ah mean? Why would Dr. von Oerschott take it? It was his lab, yuh know, and the eventual product would belong to him so they don't seem no need to—"
"He rubbed the stuff on his body," Ms. Fleetsmith says, "to look young."
Ah gives her a curious look. Somethin' goin' on between Oerschott and Missy here? "Rubbed his body? How'd y'all know this, ma'am? Did y'all—?"
"No, Mr. Boone, I didn't give Hans a body rub. God what a thought." She screws up her face. "I believe it was his secretary."
"Miss Josephine Cowley?" Ah says, lookin' round, 'xpectin to see the tramp.
"Mmm."
"How'd y'all know this?" Ah says ag'in.
"She told me ... before she disappeared, of course. She has disappeared, hasn't she?" she says.
"Miss Cowley? Yes, ma'am. She's surely disappeared." Ah looks curious-like at the lady. Ah know she knows where Miss Cowley is. "And when did y'all last see her?" Ah says. It was a trap: Cowley's around, hidin', somewhere. Neighbours'd seen a woman who fit the description, recently, smokin' in the side drive. Ah got a patrol car wingin' by every so often. Ah'd come round and seen her myself, twice. Each time she was standin' at the winda, blowin' smoke.
"Let's see. When did I last see her ... mmm, weeks ago, I think. Yes, in late September, just after Hans' body was found. I asked her about the missing vial. Josey said she rubbed it on Hans, to make his body smooth and young. It does that, you know. This stuff. Smooth and young. I haven't seen her since."
"And Hans? Have y'all seen him?" Did Ah say Hans? Shame. "Dr. von Oerschott? Have y'all seen him?"
"You're kidding, of course."
"Not at all, ma'am. His body is missin', stolen from the morgue, yuh know. Have y'all seen it?"
"Have I seen his body?" she says. "Yes, I've seen his body. It's nothing to write Mom about. Big where he should be small, small where he should be big."
"Ma'am?" Ah says.
"If you're asking whether I've seen his body, yes. Have I seen it recently, since he died? No."
"Y'all didn't see his dead body?" Ah asks. Another trap. Ah knows she's seen it. "Ma'am, his body was in the morgue."
"How would I get into the morgue to see it?" she says.
Ah looks at Bernside, waitin' fer his response. The coroner looks at Ms. Fleetsmith, shrugs and says, "Fran, I told Boone you visited me, saw the body and were the first to observe the membrane."
The lady sighs, rolls her eyes. "Look, Mr. Boone," Ms. Fleetsmith says, gettin' up from her chair, "I did go to the morgue and Dr. Bernside was kind enough to let me see the body. About the membrane, I'm as confused as you are. My father died in an attempt to bring this curative potion to the world. I struggled through the jungles of the Amazon to get it here. Mr. Boone, I've been investigating its properties for weeks. It has the potential to be a great boon to mankind—sorry for the pun—yet it kills, for reasons which are still a mystery. I have nothing to gain by hiding anything. If I knew, you would know. Today, I obtained some letters written by my father to professor Unger. In them he mentions the weed and its powers. I have yet to read them carefully, but when I do I will give you a full report. Satisfied?"
"Weed?" Ah says. Ah don't remember nothin' 'bout a weed.
"Mmm, the miracle weed."
"What weed?" Ah says.
"The fungus is obtained from the surface of a weed. My father thought it was the weed, found in Brazil, which healed wounds. In fact, its the fungus clinging to the surface in symbiotic alliance."
"And y'all brought this weed back, from Brazil?"
"Precisely."
"And where is this here weed now? Have y'all used it up, to concoct this Dermafix?"
Fran waved at Charles. "Charlie, get the vase." Charles left immediately, returning shortly with a tall vase, placin it before Miss Fleetsmith. She overturns the vase on the table. It's empty.
"Shit!" She peers into the vase. "Shit! Shit!"
"Ah take it the weed was in this here vase, and somebody stole it?"
"There's some at my lab," Miss Fleetsmith says, then she leaves the room, returns with three letters, lookin' kinda frustrated.
"I'm telling you I know no more than you do. Here are the letters from my father. Would you like to read them? I intend to, right now." She falls back into her chair, removes the first letter, tosses the rest onto the table. She starts right in readin' and Ah looks at Bernside, then selects the second letter, obviously sorted by date. I start in readin'. Bernside looks at Curry then at the last letter and picks it fer hisself. The room is silent fer some time. Everybody's busy readin'. Curry clears the table and leaves. Fleetsmith, Bernside and Boone, all readin' letters. Nice 'n' cosy like.
In a few minutes, Miss Fleetsmith reads her letter out loud:
Dear Dr. Unger:
I am writing to describe a rather peculiar plant growing here along the Amazon. Below is a rough sketch, with some indication of its coloring. I realize that your expertise may not extend to this particular plant life, but on the surface of the leaf grows a fungus. If the leaf is rubbed on a wound, say a scratch on a human arm, the fungus adheres to the skin and grows to encompass the wound. Beneath this covering the wound heals. Perhaps you have run across such a curious behavior? Attached are copies of my notes. If you can add anything I would be pleased to hear from you. If you write to the address given below, your letter will eventually reach me.
"He knows its a fungus," she says. "And he sent Unger some notes." She puts the letter on the table, looks at me. Guess it's mah turn. Ah clears mah throat and starts right in:
Dear Dr. Unger:
Thank you for your response to my earlier letter. I am almost relieved to hear that no such behavior has been described in the literature. I will try to send you a sample of the weed, for your analysis. I would be grateful, however, if you would tell no one of this. If you do not receive a sample in a month's time, it will be because the authorities will not allow me to export vegetable matter.
"Won't get it outta Brazil," Ah mutter. Then Ah add, "His letters are sorta short."
Barney reads the third and last letter, which is even shorter:
Dear Dr. Unger:
As I expected, I am not able to send you a sample of the weed. Nevertheless, I intend to return to Toronto within a month and will definitely carry a sample with me ... somehow.
"Yeah, he'll bring some home, when he comes," Ah says, smilin'. Did Ah really say that? I look at Fran. "Sorry ... guess he didn't make it home. Sorry."
"Shit!" Fran throws her letter on the table. "I've read these three times and except for the fact that Lloyd knew it was a fungus, not just the weed, we're no farther ahead." She stares at the ceilin'. "But there are notes, his notes, and Unger probably has them."
Ah shakes mah head.
She looks up at me. "And, for your information Mr. Boone, my father did make it back to Toronto ... then he ... he died."
The lady starts in tremblin', her hands on her face.
"Sorry ma'am." He did make it back home. Ah shoulda known that.
PART SIX