vinegar," he said. "Nobody asked you to do that. It's not part of your job to do that. And I appreciate it. It's very nice to have clean venetian blinds. Only, Isabella, my office smells like a pickle jar. And when you add the smell from these flowers—they combine in the air, and the result is nauseating."
He removed his hands from her desk and stood up.
"I never thought of that,” said Isabella. "The question is, do you want clean blinds or nice fragrant flowers that bring a whiff of summer into this joint?" She frowned, pondering. Isabella Harbud was a tall, lumpy woman married to a chiropractor. She had long thick hair, once brown, now becoming unapologetically gray, and she wore it down, which Alberg thought inappropriate in a woman of late middle age. Her front teeth protruded, and she didn't care much about the way she dressed. She was usually cold, even in summer, and had a selection of thick sweaters which she grabbed from her closet without any apparent consideration as to what she planned to wear underneath. Today the sweater was turquoise, and partly obscured a red and black striped dress. She had the most beautiful eyes Alberg had ever seen: gold, flecked with brown; they were what he imagined a tiger's eyes must look like.
"You want clean blinds," said Isabella, decisively.
"Right,” said Alberg, with gratitude.
"I'll bring you in one that doesn't have a smell.”
"I don't have any room in my office for any plant. No room.”
"Sure you do,” said Isabella comfortingly, going back to her typing.
"When you go home," Alberg yelled as he went down the hall, "make sure you cover up that damn cage."
Sokolowski appeared from somewhere and followed him into his office. Alberg swung his feet back up onto the desk and linked his hands behind his head. "What've we got, Sergeant? Fill me in. Bring me up to date.” He tossed him the file. "Let's go over the whole damn thing, one more time." Sokolowski settled himself in the black chair and opened the file. His big thighs strained the fabric of his dark blue uniform trousers, his legs were stolidly apart, feet planted heavy on the floor. "Victim died between eleven A.M. and two P.M. on Tuesday, june fifth, from a blow to the head. Death was probably instantaneous. The coroner says the weapon was a metal object, rounded, with some kind of rim. Very little spattering. Probably some blood got on the perpetrator's clothes, but not much. No forced entry into the house." He droned on, shifting his feet a little. "Nothing missing as far as anybody can tell."
"l know all this,” said Alberg, staring at the ceiling.
"Several neighbors saw the fish guy's truck, four of them saw the fish guy." Sokolowski looked up.'"You want their names and addresses?” Alberg shook his head, slowly. "Vehicle described as an old VW van, couldn't pinpoint the year, just old, painted silver, paint flaking off, orange paint underneath, they think, but they aren't sure; van's got a big rainbow painted on each side and some birds; rainbow's all colors, birds are blue. No sign of the vehicle yet. I got on to the mainland, just in case it got by the ferry types, which wouldn't be hard in my experience."
"Sid, Sid," Alberg chided, still staring at the ceiling.
"The fish seller," the sergeant went on, "he's a guy about thirty-eight, forty, got a beard, wore a pair of jeans and a light shirt and smelled like fish, which isn't surprising. Soft-spoken kind of guy, say the citizens. One of them bought a salmon from him, why not." Sokolowski shrugged. "He's not a licensed peddler, so what else is new. " He looked up at Alberg, exasperated. "The woods are full of them. Guys selling salmon, crab, oysters, fruits, vegetables, you name it, not a license between them."
"I know all this too," said Alberg. He sighed and sat up. "Go on, Sid."
"The fish seller's our best lead. We're combing the bush for him. Checked the town first, got on to Gibsons, but he's probably camped up on Crown land someplace;
He removed his hands from her desk and stood up.
"I never thought of that,” said Isabella. "The question is, do you want clean blinds or nice fragrant flowers that bring a whiff of summer into this joint?" She frowned, pondering. Isabella Harbud was a tall, lumpy woman married to a chiropractor. She had long thick hair, once brown, now becoming unapologetically gray, and she wore it down, which Alberg thought inappropriate in a woman of late middle age. Her front teeth protruded, and she didn't care much about the way she dressed. She was usually cold, even in summer, and had a selection of thick sweaters which she grabbed from her closet without any apparent consideration as to what she planned to wear underneath. Today the sweater was turquoise, and partly obscured a red and black striped dress. She had the most beautiful eyes Alberg had ever seen: gold, flecked with brown; they were what he imagined a tiger's eyes must look like.
"You want clean blinds," said Isabella, decisively.
"Right,” said Alberg, with gratitude.
"I'll bring you in one that doesn't have a smell.”
"I don't have any room in my office for any plant. No room.”
"Sure you do,” said Isabella comfortingly, going back to her typing.
"When you go home," Alberg yelled as he went down the hall, "make sure you cover up that damn cage."
Sokolowski appeared from somewhere and followed him into his office. Alberg swung his feet back up onto the desk and linked his hands behind his head. "What've we got, Sergeant? Fill me in. Bring me up to date.” He tossed him the file. "Let's go over the whole damn thing, one more time." Sokolowski settled himself in the black chair and opened the file. His big thighs strained the fabric of his dark blue uniform trousers, his legs were stolidly apart, feet planted heavy on the floor. "Victim died between eleven A.M. and two P.M. on Tuesday, june fifth, from a blow to the head. Death was probably instantaneous. The coroner says the weapon was a metal object, rounded, with some kind of rim. Very little spattering. Probably some blood got on the perpetrator's clothes, but not much. No forced entry into the house." He droned on, shifting his feet a little. "Nothing missing as far as anybody can tell."
"l know all this,” said Alberg, staring at the ceiling.
"Several neighbors saw the fish guy's truck, four of them saw the fish guy." Sokolowski looked up.'"You want their names and addresses?” Alberg shook his head, slowly. "Vehicle described as an old VW van, couldn't pinpoint the year, just old, painted silver, paint flaking off, orange paint underneath, they think, but they aren't sure; van's got a big rainbow painted on each side and some birds; rainbow's all colors, birds are blue. No sign of the vehicle yet. I got on to the mainland, just in case it got by the ferry types, which wouldn't be hard in my experience."
"Sid, Sid," Alberg chided, still staring at the ceiling.
"The fish seller," the sergeant went on, "he's a guy about thirty-eight, forty, got a beard, wore a pair of jeans and a light shirt and smelled like fish, which isn't surprising. Soft-spoken kind of guy, say the citizens. One of them bought a salmon from him, why not." Sokolowski shrugged. "He's not a licensed peddler, so what else is new. " He looked up at Alberg, exasperated. "The woods are full of them. Guys selling salmon, crab, oysters, fruits, vegetables, you name it, not a license between them."
"I know all this too," said Alberg. He sighed and sat up. "Go on, Sid."
"The fish seller's our best lead. We're combing the bush for him. Checked the town first, got on to Gibsons, but he's probably camped up on Crown land someplace;
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