Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery (21 page)

I went up to my room and pulled out a warmer sweater to wear. It was looking a little nasty outside—that lovely rain-snow-ice combo Halifax does so well. I put the sweater on and brushed my hair. Then I went over to the closet and pushed aside the shoes and boots with my foot. I bent down and pulled the old pine floorboard up.

At first I couldn't believe it. Then I reached in and felt around. My heart went into my mouth. “Oh my god,” I said aloud.

“McBride—” I called from the top of the stairs.

“What?” I could hear the dishes clinking around.

“We've got trouble.” I sat down on the top step.

He walked into the hall with the tea towel in his hand and looked up the stairs at me.

“What do you mean?”

“It's gone. The file's gone.”

We just stared at one another. Then he took the stairs two at a time, sprinted past me and into my room. I followed, hoping, as he did, that I'd made a mistake.

“It's definitely not there,” he said. “You're sure you didn't move it after they pulled Scarface out of here?”

“No. And I hadn't even gotten to the point of lifting the board when you knocked him down, so of course I just assumed it was still there. When I tidied up the lamp and the table, everything looked just as we'd left it. Sophie came back with me yesterday but other than that, no one's even been here, except….” I trailed off and looked at him.

“Greta.” We said it together.

“That's it,” he said. “Now her little visit makes sense. Did she come up here?”

I nodded reluctantly. “She went up to use the bathroom when I took a call from Harvie.”

“Bingo,” he said.

“But how would she know?”

“Scarface must have told Spiegle where he thought it was, and Spiegle must have told her. They've been in touch with each other somehow. Boy, they really don't want that evidence to surface.”

“The thing is, Aziz would still have all those original journal entries and probably a copy of the DVD and everything else in the file. The evidence still exists right? And for that matter, when he gets well, he can be brought forward to testify.”

“This could be bad for Aziz—”

“You mean, Aziz is now a target,” I said.

“No time to waste.” He jumped to his feet.

“Your car or mine?”

“Let's take Ruby. Come on Molly!”

At the hospital, we took the elevator to the sixth floor and followed the signs to the ICU, where Aziz had been recovering from his coma.

Even from a distance I knew something was wrong. At the end of the hall we could see a cluster of people around a bed; it looked like a scene straight out of
ER
. We picked up our pace.

“Oh Christ, it is him,” McBride said.

Aziz appeared to be in extreme agony. He was clutching at his stomach and retching violently. A young nurse came rushing out of the room and quickly headed down the hall to her left.

“What's happened to him?” I said running along beside her.

“Sorry. No time.”

“Look, I'm a criminologist, and he's a victim in a case we're working on.”

“We're not sure what's going on. He was doing so well, but now—violent nausea and he may be going into heart failure.”

“Arrhythmia?”

“Yes.”

She had opened a locked door and was rapidly wheeling out a piece of equipment that I recognized as an electronic defibrillator.

“Did he have any visitors this morning?”

“A woman. Less than an hour ago. She was very nice, said she was his boss, I think.” We were moving quickly back towards the room.

“Fur coat?”

“That's right.”

“It's poison,” I said bluntly.

“What?” The nurse looked straight at me for the first time.

“It could be taxine,” I said. “From the yew.”

She shook her head and picked up her pace. I pursued her.

“Look I know it sounds crazy, but it's not. It is possible that this woman had access to that substance. In a high concentration it works very fast, is easily absorbed. Was he eating breakfast at the time?”

“Yes he was. Okay, I'll tell the doctor,” she said, wheeling the defibrillator into the room. Everyone leaped into action to get the machine ready.

McBride was across the hall on a pay phone to Arbuckle.

“He's on his way,” he said, hanging up.

The door opened again and an older man—black, with piercing blue eyes—came out and looked at me.

“You said something about poison?”

“Yes, I did,” I said, speaking fast. “Taxine from the yew. Can start with severe stomach pain, nausea, then there's an arrhythmia and the heart fails. No known antidote, except recently some vets swear by heptaminol. It's a chloride of some kind. It's animals who usually get in trouble—eating the yew leaves. Maybe call a vet! Oh, and I've also read about calcium channel blockers being helpful. Pump the stomach to reduce the amount of poison going through the system.”

“We've done that.”

“That's all I know,” I said.

Quite understandably, he was looking at me with a combination of astonishment and suspicion. But he asked no questions, just turned and flew back into the room.

I looked at McBride. “She was here. She must be insane.”

I could see the doctor giving specific instructions to several people. Someone immediately got on a telephone. A couple of minutes later, a technician came flying down the hall and entered the room.

Meanwhile, Aziz was still fighting for his life. More jolts from the defibrillator.

Arbuckle hadn't wasted any time. He appeared from around the corner and rushed towards us.

“How is he?”

“He might not make it,” I said. “The stuff's deadly.”

“What stuff?”

“It looks like taxine, from the yew. The same thing that I think killed Peter King. It sounds like Greta paid Aziz a visit this morning.”

“You know, we have all three of those guys locked up and I didn't think we'd need someone here to watch over Aziz. But obviously I was wrong.”

“Well, since you're beating yourself up, I have a confession of my own,” I said. “Greta paid me a visit last night, and—are you ready?—she managed to steal the evidence file.”

“She paid you a visit?” Arbuckle said. “Why didn't you call me?” He was clearly annoyed.

“I thought I could handle it,” I said. “I didn't know until this morning that the file was missing.”

“Look, the important question is: where is she now?” McBride said.

“The bank?” I offered lamely.

“My guess is the airport,” Arbuckle said.

The door opened and the doctor reappeared. “I think he's stabilizing. We gave him an injection of heptaminol. It may have helped.” The doctor was breathing hard, as though he'd just run a marathon. He went back in to the room. I looked through the narrow window on the door. Aziz appeared somewhat calmer now, and was breathing more regularly.

“Oh god, we might have gotten here just in time.” I was shaking.

Arbuckle was on his phone. I heard him asking someone to check with every airline flying out of Halifax to find out if Greta King was booked on any flight.

“If you have to prioritize, check flights to Montreal, Toronto, New York, and London first. Do this immediately and call me back on my cell.”

He snapped his cellphone shut and looked at us. “I'm going to the airport now. She might not be there, but if she is, I'm going to head her off at the pass.” He spun on his heels and walked away at a clip.

After the doctor confirmed that Aziz was out of the woods we left the hospital. McBride said he'd connect with the bank to find out if Greta had a specific appointment that day.

“What about you, Roz?” he asked as he dropped me off at home.

“I have to get my bearings,” I said, getting out of the car. “This morning when I woke up, I knew how everything was going to unfold. Now I know nothing.”

The morning's events had left me badly out of sorts.
I thought I might sit down with my old friend
Hamlet
, get my head back into something familiar. I made a pot of tea, and while I was waiting for it to steep I decided to give Sophie a call to see how she was feeling.

“I just heard from Michael,” she said. “We'll be reviewing part one tomorrow—a stumble through.”

“Oh that's good to know. I was just thinking I should take a look at it.”

“Something's wrong. I can tell from your voice. What is it?”

“Everything,” I said. “I feel like such an idiot.” I proceeded to tell her about Greta's visit, the theft of the file and what had happened to Aziz.

“Oh my god, the poor kid. Like he needed that. But you think he'll make it?”

“I certainly hope so. The doctor thought he'd passed through the worst.”

“And so now what are you doing, Roz?”

“I'm trying to figure out what Greta's up to. Honestly, when I picture her sitting at my table last night in that mink coat, it's like watching a scene out of a forties film noir. Like she was waiting for Humphrey Bogart or Cary Grant to come along and join her for a Scotch.”

“Really? I didn't actually get to see her when they had me tied up and blindfolded in the house. But I heard her voice. She certainly had Carl Spiegle on edge. It seemed as though the whole situation was a complete shock to her—but obviously she's involved or she wouldn't have stolen the file, or tried to hurt Aziz. You're right. She does sound like one of those wild noir characters…like Ingrid Bergman in
Notorious
.”

“What are you doing today Sophie?” I asked.

“Remember my apartment? I'm putting everything back together. Why…do you want to come over and forget about things and just watch a movie? Because speaking of Hitchcock, I happen to have
Strangers on a Train
sitting right here. We could watch that this afternoon, Roz. Let's have some fun.”

“Okay. That actually sounds great. I'll get it together and come over soon.” I hung up and went to pour my tea. Well, this will be just what the doctor ordered, I thought to myself. Just go and hang out with Sophie and watch—which one did she say?—
Strangers on a Train
. In the next instant, I was overwhelmed with that shivery sense of being “guided.” I looked down and realized I was still pouring—my tea was running all over the counter. Oh my god, I've just figured it out, I think. I know what Greta would do! I mopped up the tea and hurried upstairs to my computer to look up schedules for VIA Rail.

The Halifax–Montreal train left at 12:30, but with a first-class ticket, passengers could board as early as eleven o'clock. It was almost eleven. I had over an hour to check out the train before it even left. I called Sophie and begged off. I thought about inviting her along but decided to learn from my mistakes. I'd gotten her into enough trouble already.

I went into my room and started searching on the top shelf of my closet for the gold plastic bag that contained a curly, red-haired wig I'd once used in a case. I found it and carefully pinned all my dark hair back, shook the wig out, and put it on. I looked for my sunglasses with the light rose-coloured glass, the kind you could still see through even if the light was poor. I put them on and looked in the mirror. I found it a satisfactory disguise, and I liked it; it made me look kind of hip. I checked my watch. It was exactly eleven o'clock. I grabbed my leather coat and my car keys and headed downtown to the VIA Rail station.

I parked Old Solid at a two-hour meter on South Street and walked in to the station.

People were starting to congregate—seeing their friends or relatives off, waiting to board. I walked across the open area and stood in line for a ticket.

“When can you board?” I asked the ticket man.

“Not until twelve o'clock,” he said.

“But if you have a first-class ticket I thought you could board early?”

“That's right. They let you stay in the lounge and then they take everyone on.” He looked at his watch. “They've probably just gone up.”

“What's the first stop?”

“Truro.”

I paid him for a first-class ticked to Truro.

As I walked away from the booth with my ticket, I realized he hadn't asked for my name or for any ID. Just like the old days. This is perfect for Greta. She wouldn't even need to give her name, although she probably didn't pay cash if she was going all the way to Montreal. I was wondering how she might have paid for her ticket as I made my way to the exit that led out onto the platform.

“Sorry, they're not boarding yet. Take a seat in the waiting area.”

“I have a first-class ticket.”

“You'll have to wait. They've already gone up.”

“Why do I have to wait? The reason I bought first-class is so I could board early!” Redheads are scrappy, I thought.

“Okay, okay, just a minute. Mick!” he called out to a porter. “Take this lady to her car please. First class.”

“Come this way, ma'am. Ticket?”

I showed him my ticket.

“This ticket says Truro.”

“That's right.”

“Okay, but you'll barely be on the train long enough to even get a meal.” He looked at me as if I had lost my marbles as he led me to the first-class coach.

We walked along the platform.

“Which are the bedroom cars? I'm thinking of taking the train to Montreal next month and I want to see what they're like.”

“These cars that we're passing now are the bedroom cars,” he said.

“And are they first class?”

“There are both economy and first class. First class is more private—much nicer, better service.”

“Can I see those?”

“Other passengers aren't really supposed to be walking through those cars…”