The Red chesterfield

The Red Chesterfield – by Wayne Arthurson        

Winner of the Arthur Ellis Award for the Best Crime Novella of 2019

the Choice:

This book is about a bylaw officer who finds a chesterfield in a ditch with a severed foot in it. The piece of furniture was not a sofa or a couch. It is definitely a chesterfield and it continues to plague the unnamed protagonist.

the Reader in me:

The book starts off with a BANG! you can’t resist the read. Each chapter is super short and speeds the story along in a wonderful style of intrigue, thoughts, and twists. Oh, and the author is Canadian.

the Writer in me:

I like it when the reader is confused, yet too involved to wonder why. So how would I go about using this tool in my writing? I often think of far-fetched ideas that make no sense. I share them with my husband who agrees that I am crazy. But there is a kernel of greatness in there and sometimes I write it down, hoping not to forget. The author of this tale made it work, so I might as well take one of my saved outlandish thoughts… and attempt to find a way to portray the hesitation as he tries to get through this unlikely conversation.

Conversation at Border Security, driver is exhausted, remembers he has beer in the trunk of car. Shit. Then realizes he also happens to have a body in the trunk.

Fleming and the Dead Man

There was a bottleneck in the light traffic ahead and Fleming slowed with a lurch. Approaching the border back into Canada, the fog in his brain began to lift and he was able to navigate into one of the three open lanes.

Geez, only minutes ago the car was merely doing its own driving, guided by the center line, oblivious of the man, half-comatose, holding the steering wheel. Luckily his eyes had registered the change before plowing through Border Security - even if it was not on purpose like in some smash-up, car-chase movie.

He had somewhere he needed to be by 9 am. And, once he had the time to wake up a bit more, Fleming would hopefully remember where it was he needed to be. The last few days were a blur of anxious vigilance. The comfort of sleep had been forbidden. But soon…

Fleming shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. His turn was next and he waited for the red light to change. Anticipating the typical questions to get through the border, he glanced at the passport on the seat beside him. He’d entered the US on Tuesday. The purpose was to visit a friend. Now it was Wednesday. No, Thursday at 6:42 am. He’d bought nothing and was bringing nothing back to Canada with him. Just another 5 minutes and everything would go smoothly.

He’d crossed over at Roosville, Montana, and was now re-tracing his route. On the Canada side ahead was Grasmere, hardly even a town, definitely no gas station open at this hour. His brain gave him an image of turning right in 30 miles.  Finally, the green light. He drove forward.

“Good morning,” sang the voice of the female guard. She seemed much friendlier than the US version from Tuesday whose mouth was all pursed up ‘very prunes and prisms’ like a character out of an Agatha Christie mystery. This one’s badge identified her as Trudy but Fleming vowed to keep conversation to a minimum and not use her first name as he handed over his passport. He smiled. At least he was wide awake now, and capable of making it to… Fernie. Yes, Fernie.

“How long have you been in the United States?” Trudy stared at her computer screen.

“Only since Tuesday afternoon, I went to visit a friend in Missoula.” It had been Tom’s birthday and Fleming had wanted to give him a surprise visit. Would he have gone if he’d known Tom wasn’t there? Yes. Fleming would have assumed his high school buddy would text any minute, and be stoked about the visit.

When Fleming had parked outside the ratty duplex, a six-pack of cold Moose Drool beer in hand, he knew he had the right place because of the brick pizza oven in the front yard. He knocked at the front door, and then at the back door. Each time, Fleming was ready to thrust both arms in the air with a loud howl before grabbing Tom in a big bear hug. But there was no answer. Next, he tried at the other side of the duplex. That’s when he began texting a series of ‘Tom, where are you buddy!’ ‘I’m here.’ ‘Happy Birthday, you fuckhead.’

 

“And where are you from?” continued the security guard.

“Calgary. Yeah, uhmm. I’m headed back home to Calgary, but not sure if that’ll be today.” First, he had to give a message to someone named Bruce at Gear Hub in Fernie, BC. No, he didn’t know Bruce, didn’t know what Gear Hub was, and he had no idea what the message he’d memorized meant; ‘get the Rozzies to Griz before noon. Or the cops will find your powder. And Tom won’t be coming back.’

 

Fleming had never skied a day in his life, but he knew Tom had been a Fernie ski bum in his day. He didn’t want to think Tom was into any illegal activity…. But Fleming had been dwelling on several odd encounters in the last 36 hours. At the restaurant that Tom managed, a colleague had suggested a fruitless set of local spots to try. Not knowing his way around, Fleming  drove for hours, getting lost and frustrated. Returning to Tom’s work, the colleague agreed that those suggestions were pathetic. He then offered to text Tom’s girlfriend. Fleming left with her address and directions.  

Becky looked only eighteen years old, and hadn’t seen Tom in a few days. She didn’t even know it was his birthday. She offered to take him to Tom’s weekend spots. The squash club where she convinced Fleming they hang for a beer, Tom’s favourite brewhouse where she talked him into another couple beer, and then a gamer’s joint where she introduced Fleming to other friends of Tom’s, who didn’t know where he was, but were more than keen to leave the flashing lights for a few drinks to celebrate Tom’s unknown birthday with an old friend.

Early in the morning, the party was headed elsewhere when one of the guys held back and, putting his hand on Fleming’s shoulder, said in a hushed tone, “yeah, I didn’t want to say anything in front of those mortals. I know a guy you should talk to.”

So next, Fleming was on his way to sit in an alley, waiting for a dude on a blue scooter to come home. Things continued in this way, getting darker and more questionable, until he met up with Lord the DJ. Fleming was hunkered in a park somewhere outside the city and hundreds of young people had been throbbing to the confusing beat for hours. Fleming was amazed he kept following each lead without question. Without realizing things were sliding far out of his comfort zone. Without deciding to fuck it and  crawl in the backseat of his Honda for a bit of shut-eye. He was afraid to miss out on finding Tom. He was possibly afraid he needed his eyes open for his own safety.

During a break in the music, Lord found him, and with no explanation, gave him the message he needed to deliver. Lord’s whole human essence conveyed that this was serious stuff. Fleming immediately started driving North.

 

“And you aren’t returning with any fruit or alcoholic beverages in your car?” Trudy was holding out his passport.  

“Nope.”   Ooops, Fleming remembered the unopened 6-pack from Tuesday. “Yes. Yes, actually. I just remembered. I have beer in the trunk. Here, I’ll just,” He scrambled to get out of the car, “I’ll get it out and just leave it in your garbage. Sorry, I forgot.”

As the trunk flew open, Fleming remembered something else. There was a dead body in the trunk of his car.

“Shit.”