Something Fishy by Hilary MacLeod Page B

at him.
    He didn’t smile back. Like you and me, he thought. Just like you and me.

Chapter Eleven
    Elmer Whitehead died in the hall, the first person to do so in nearly four years – and the only one ever to go on the toilet.
    The last one to die in the hall had been from away and Gus always pointed out that the night before the woman had been “dancing up a storm” with Gill, the pig farmer. Gill had emphysema, but he was the most enthusiastic male dancer in the village. He’d show up early the night of a ceilidh or a jamboree, and prep the floor with dance wax, sprinkling it evenly to ensure a smooth sliding surface. Then he’d dance all night.
    Elmer was faster on his feet than Gill that day, as he lunged into the hall, bent over with cramps.
    Half the Institute ladies were there to give the hall a proper clean-up to prepare for the Canada Day ceremonies. The local MP would be coming, and maybe even the premier.
    Some of the women wanted to get in the bathroom themselves. They heard Elmer moaning and groaning, and wished he would hurry up.
    Then silence.
    â€œElmer?” Rose tapped on the door to see if he was okay.
    â€œElmer?” No response.
    â€œElmer?”
    They dithered about whether they should bash in the door.
    Finally they decided to call on Nathan Mack, the self-appointed volunteer paramedic. He came, and slipped a credit card into the doorjamb to flip the lock open.
    Everyone had huddled around him. Now they dropped back or turned with fingers pinching noses.
    The smell.
    Elmer was slumped forward, his trousers down around his ankles, his head slumped onto his thighs.
    â€œIs he done?”
    â€œOh, he’s done, all right.”
    Nathan closed the door. Turned and shook his head at the villagers.
    â€œWe’ll need Dr. Dunn to decide that.” Moira spoke through tight lips.
    Five of the women moved away, chattering in hushed surprise, chasing a cup of tea to soothe their palpitations. Moira stood white-faced and silent as a stone until the aged doctor came. From Winterside, he was at The Shores that day to make his regular house calls on his elderly patients. One advantage of being his age was that he’d seen everything. Twice. This was nothing he hadn’t seen before.
    â€œStraining too much,” was Dr. Dunn’s verdict. He could sympathize. At ninety-two, he himself was beset with a variety of intestinal and evacuation problems that come with old age.
    â€œNot that he couldn’t get it out,” the doctor stared with interest at the toilet bowl. “Looks like it came out easy, but there was too much of it and it musta gone on too long. Heart gave out.”
    Moira had turned away from the sight and the smell. Dr. Dunn kept up the refrain.
    â€œOverstraining. No doubt about it. Popped his heart. Not that unusual. Seen it plenty of times.”
    Elmer’s epitaph was doomed to be, “He Had To Go.”
    Jamieson charged into the hall, Billy Pride in tow.
    â€œWhy wasn’t I told immediately?”
    The doctor and Nathan looked at each other. Shrugged.
    There was no phone in the hall.
    Nathan had phoned from his cell and left a message when Jamieson didn’t answer. She’d been strolling through a potato field, down a long red channel between raised rows of spuds, before her day officially began. When she got in the cruiser, she picked up the cryptic message. Nathan hadn’t felt right about leaving a death notice on a voicemail.
    â€œBit of trouble at the hall,” he’d said. Nathan had then called Billy Pride to help him extricate Elmer from the loo. He couldn’t ask any of the women to do it. Billy flagged down Jamieson on the road, abandoning his lawn tractor for a vehicle more suited to the occasion.
    â€œOverstraining,” said the doctor, repeating himself for Jamieson’s benefit.
    Jamieson’s fastidiousness stood in the way of her police duties.
    She took a cursory look, made a few