Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery (12 page)

“I like what you said about her conducting her own memorial,” Sophie jumped in. “I mean, her life is over at this point and on some level she knows it. It does have that spooky sense of prophecy in it, so often
connected to madness.”

“Yes, I guess you could say it's already too late. But of course you can't really play it that way. It's more dramatic to be seeking rescue. That's why she is so determined to get in to see Gertrude. And at the end of her first scene, she says, ‘
I hope all will be well. We must be patient
.' And more importantly, ‘
My brother shall know of it
.' In other words, she's still fighting for her life, holding out some hope. When she returns for the second scene only a short time later, she's draped in the wildflowers and much further gone into the madness. Laertes is devastated and angered by her state, but he offers Ophelia only pity, not help. He's already grieving for her. This second scene has much more the sense of a
goodbye ritual to it.”

“God—poor Ophelia.” This was Tom.

“Yes I guess that's what Shakespeare was saying about the nature of these power machinations. They leave the innocent destroyed. And of course it really sets the audience up to want some kind of retribution. When Claudius and Gertrude both die later, we have a sense that they deserve what they get. The brutal reality is that no one comes out unscathed. Even Horatio,” I looked at George, “though he lives, is burdened with forever re-telling the tragic story.”

The cast worked through the two Ophelia scenes a couple of times. Sophie had unnerving insight into Ophelia's desolation, and I was struck, as I had been so often over the years, by her luminous quality and the sheer force of her talent. The company decided to call it a night and tackle the section again the following evening.

After rehearsal, I stopped Sophie on the way out to try to talk her out of the appointment with Aziz the following morning, but she was determined.

“Look Roz, I've taken this on and I'm seeing it through.”

“Sophie, if he does bring you something, it's best not to look at it, and please put it somewhere safe.”

“I'll put it in my secret drawer,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Remember.”

“And promise me you'll call as soon as you can to let me know how it has gone.”

“Promise,” she said as we left the cathedral and walked out towards the street.

“Listen, I'd drive you home, but I have a meeting in a few minutes.”

“That's okay, Roz. George said something about people going out for a drink.”

“You could probably use a drink—that was stunning work tonight, Sophie.”

“You too. You know it makes such a difference when you help us penetrate what's being said. It's inspiring. Thanks for doing all that research.”

“Don't worry, I love it. See you tomorrow.”

I was home just before 10:30. I'd made a hasty trip to the Agricola Street liquor store on the way to rehearsal and picked up an Australian Cabernet and a six pack of Keith's—I had no idea what Harvie drank, if anything. I also grabbed a few snacks from Brother's Deli. I pulled the bags out of my trunk and was just putting my key in the lock when Harvie ran up the front steps.

“Wow, I got here just in time,” I said. “I wouldn't have wanted you waiting on the doorstep. You don't have a car?”

“Well, I don't use it much in the city. I try to walk whenever I can.”

“But the three briefcases?” I said.

“Oh yeah. Well, I don't always have three—two of them are back in the office tonight.”

“How was court?”

“Great, I think we're winning.”

“Come on in, Harvie. It's chilly out here.”

“So, this is your house.”

“I'm afraid so.”

“It's big—all yours?”

“For my sins.”

“Must cost a bit to heat.”

“It's ridiculous. I have this fantasy that the oil company execs raise their glasses to me at the beginning of every quarter. You know—‘Here's to that crazy woman on Brunswick Street who single-handedly sends our profits into the stratosphere.'”

“Ouch!”

“I've got some beer and red wine here. What would you like?” I said, taking his coat.

“I'll take a beer, but I should have a bite first. I haven't eaten since our breakfast.”

“Well, right in this bag, I've got some nice rye bread, some good cheeses, and some pastrami. If you don't like that, I'm afraid we're out of luck.”

“Sounds great. Let's go.”

In the kitchen, I poured him a Keith's and put the food out on a big wooden cutting board. He opened my fridge. “Look at this Roz. You don't have any food in your fridge.”

“That's not true. There's that can of cat food in the door and some ice cream in the freezer.”

“So you should come with me tomorrow morning to the market. I go every Saturday. One of our city's great features! Come with me—lay in a few supplies, some fresh veggies, some nice fish, a chicken. It's all organic, and it's reasonable. It's local. It's not right you should have such an empty fridge.”

“Okay. I'd love to. I always mean to go, but I never do it.”

“It's a date. I'll pick you up at eight o'clock.”

“Another 8:00
a.m.
date? This is getting to be a bad habit,” I said.

“Mmm! Good. This is good pastrami,” he said taking a bite out of the substantial sandwich he'd made. “Brothers did you say? Very nice. So look, we'd better get going with that video.”

“I hope you won't think this is a set-up,” I said, “but the TV's in my bedroom.”

“You're a goer, Roz.”

I laughed, picked up my beer and the bread board and gestured for him to follow.

We didn't find anything of interest on the tape except the possible exit of Carl Spiegle from the church. The image was obscured and Harvie couldn't be sure it was him. There were no surreptitious hand-holdings with Greta in evidence. Harvie pointed out the back of her head where she sat in the pew next to Daniel, and from what I could see, she was blond and didn't look at all like Jackie Kennedy. Although there were some moving tributes to Peter King, the audio was poor and funerals make for pretty dull television. Both of us were so exhausted we fell asleep on the bed with the cat curled up between us. At some point, Harvie got up, put the quilt over me, turned off the TV, wrote a note to say he'd pick me at eight o'clock the next morning, and left quietly. Not very romantic, but better than I'd been doing for a long time.

The next morning found us having coffee
at the Trident Café on Hollis Street, getting ready to visit Harvie's favourite market vendors. We were both managing to avoid mentioning that we had fallen asleep together on the bed. “Thanks for coming over last night. I'm sorry the tape was so bad—what a waste of your time.”

“Listen, I've found valuable evidence on much poorer videos. It's always worth a try. So tell me what you think is going on in this case.”

I reviewed the facts as succinctly as I could, filling him in on what had happened to McBride the night he was at the meet to get information indicating that King was a target, my being followed by the same nasty character, the lab results showing that the yew samples were highly toxic and Daniel's confusion over his mother's behaviour after the funeral. “How well do you know Greta King?” I asked.

“Well, I've met her socially several times at fundraisers and so on for organizations that Peter and I were involved with. She's never been very outgoing in my opinion. Kind of private and enigmatic. But Peter thought the world of her, and she's a very beautiful woman. Bit of a fish out of water, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don't think she's ever really felt at home here. She's kept herself removed, and I imagine she was lonely. I believe she travels back to Europe quite a bit, to visit friends.”

“Yes, that's what Daniel said. Do you know him?” I asked.

“You know I haven't actually seen the boy for a few years. I do remember having quite a good conversation with him when he was going to the School of Architecture at TUNS. Peter took me to an exhibit of student designs and Daniel had a very interesting piece in it. He did well at the school. I certainly don't know enough about him to analyze his character. But Peter was proud of him and I would say that if he believes that something's amiss, it's certainly worth investigating.”

“Well, it's his nickel at this point. We're far enough along in the case that the next logical step is getting a permit to have Peter's body exhumed. Harvie, do you know anything about how all that works?”

“I've actually never exhumed a body, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's a complicated, utterly exasperating administrative nightmare. But hey—that's the story of my life these days. I'd be happy to look into it and provide you with the information.”

“I don't want to take advantage of you,” I said.

“Feel free,” he replied.

I could feel myself blushing. “God, Harvie,” I said laughing. “We better go shopping.”

“Yeah,” he said. “What are we going to have for dinner?”

After thoroughly exploring a number of superb stalls at the market, we put our various purchases into the trunk of Harvie's funky 1990 pale green Mercedes and decided to amble along the harbour boardwalk. The market had been hectic and it was a relief to get away from the crowds. It was a brisk but bright morning and the sunlight glinted off the water.

“
La mer porte ses bijoux,
” Harvie said.

“The sea…wears her jewels?” I said, feeling rusty with my French.

He nodded, smiling.

“Nice,” I said.

As we walked along I was interested to see that all traces of Hurricane Juan's devastation from the previous year had disappeared. The boardwalk had been restored, and the five tugs and several familiar old ships were all in their berths. We made our way as far as the Wave sculpture at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic and then turned and walked back to the parking lot. We drove along Water Street and then up to Brunswick. Harvie dropped me at home and as I got my parcels and bags out of his trunk, he invited me over to his place for an early meal.

“4:30,” he said. “Just some salmon and a fresh salad. Set you up for your rehearsal.”

God he is so great, I thought to myself as I watched him drive away. I can't believe he wants to cook for me. That's happened when? Never.

The message light was flashing. “Hi Roz, it's Sophie.”

Harvie had distracted me so much I'd actually forgotten all about her eleven o'clock assignation with Aziz.

“I'm calling you so you won't worry. Aziz is in the kitchen finishing his tea, and I am just about to do his tarot reading.” She was speaking softly, most likely from the bedroom extension. “I just wanted to assure you that all is well, and everything is in its place. See you later at rehearsal.” She sounded quite pleased with herself.

It was already 12:30, so their meeting was probably over. Her message would indicate that she had safely stowed whatever information she had gotten from Aziz. I dialed her number and got the machine. “Hi Sophie—got your message. Hope to hear from you this afternoon. Otherwise see you later.”

I put my groceries away—a rare experience for me—and settled down to work for a couple of hours on the Claudius/Laertes conspiracy, Hamlet's return to Denmark, and the gravedigger scene. Around three o'clock in the afternoon, I couldn't handle the knots in my shoulders any longer, so I decided to have a hot bath and disappear from the world for an hour before heading up to Harvie's. The cat joined me, revelling in the chance to pick her way along the curved rim of the old clawfoot tub, repeatedly reaching her paw down to swat at the crackling bubbles. Though I did my best to discourage her from this daredevil sport, I always gave in. Otherwise, she would sit outside the bathroom door and find ways to make my life hell—like demonstrating her extended vocal technique or knocking over the hall lamp. Besides, I enjoyed her company. She would let me talk on, and had a slightly sardonic look that kept me honest. The water was nice and hot, and I took a couple of deep relaxing breaths.

As I lay back, I heard a thump from downstairs at the front door. I stretched my arm out and pulled the bathroom door open a bit. Nothing. Probably just some fliers coming through the mail slot. I closed the door and sank down further into the steamy bath. The cat had stationed herself in a crouch near the taps, her eyes half closed. I rested my neck on the curved rim of the old tub, placing the hot, lavender-soaked washcloth over my face and eyes. “Oh it just doesn't get better than this,” I said through the cloth, letting out a sigh.

An unfamiliar shrill ringing made me sit up abruptly, the cloth sliding from my face. Startled, the cat fell right into the water. During the mad scramble to get her out of the tub without clawing me to pieces, the ringing stopped. So much for a blissful respite. Better get out and see what on earth had come through my front door. Barely dried, I threw on my old chenille dressing gown and ran barefoot down the stairs.

A manila envelope lay on the hall floor. On it was written in large scrawl, FOR ROSALIND. Okay, so this is from someone who knows my name and where I live. I picked it up and tore it open. It appeared to contain a cellphone—nothing else. As I was reaching in to take it out for a closer look, I stopped myself from touching it. It looked like McBride's phone. I laid the envelope carefully on the hall table so that the phone was lying on its back. I could see the little green message light flashing. Had the message been left just a few minutes earlier, while I was in the tub?

I took a pencil and, with the eraser end, depressed the message button. I then picked up the whole package and held the envelope to my ear. For a few seconds, I could hear the sound of dripping water, as though it were in an echo chamber. Then, a woman's voice, distressed, “
But long it could not be
.” Here she broke off to get her breath, and then again, “
But long it could not be, Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay, to muddy death
.” And then a sudden click off.