Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery (23 page)

There she goes—practicing the fine art of avoiding the question, I thought as the waiter set down my chowder. It looked good, but my stomach was in knots.

“Here's to Montreal,” McBride said. They drank.

“It is a wonderful city,” she said.

“Do you have family there? You seem—well—as though you might not be from here.”

“I'm from here, there, and everywhere. It's a long story and one I'd rather not discuss.” We rumbled rhythmically along and everyone in the car seemed remarkably carefree. Greta sipped her Scotch and made charming comments to McBride. It was a clear day and there was snow on the fields.

“Would you like to order, sir? There is a second sitting at 2:00 and it's almost 1:30.”

“Oh, I see,” Greta said. “We're being shunted along. Well, I'll have the fettuccine.”

“And I'll go for the chicken Caesar,” McBride said.

Less than ten minutes to Truro. My nerves.

The train suddenly lurched slightly and we heard the squeal of the brakes and could feel the strain as the engineer tried to bring the train to a rapid halt. I just caught my chowder before it slid onto my lap.

“What on earth?” Greta said holding on to her glass.

The writers were all getting to their feet, carrying their wine glasses with them, and trying to see out the window.

“Something must be up ahead on the track,” one of them said. “We don't seem to be anywhere in particular.”

“I think there's a road up there,” another added, her cheek pressed against the glass.

“Maybe someone was trying to race the train. God, I can't believe my brothers used to do that as teenagers,” one of the others said. Every one of the writers suddenly had train stories to tell.

I made eye contact with McBride. What could it be?

“Calm down folks,” the waiter said. “They'll be letting us know if there's a problem. In the meantime, we'll carry on as usual. Please enjoy your meals.” The literary bunch began returning to their seats.

At that moment the door opened and the conductor entered.

“What's happening?” a man at a front table asked him.

“Just a momentary delay,” he said, walking casually through the car, then turning and going back out. Everyone resumed eating.

Not a moment later Arbuckle, accompanied by two men in plain clothes, entered the car and without pausing walked straight down to the table where McBride was sitting with Greta. The conductor came back in and stood by the door. The entire car began to quiet down as one by one people started to zero in on the encounter.

Very quietly, Arbuckle said, “I'm detective Arbuckle with the Halifax police. We'd like you to come with us, ma'am. We have some questions for you.” The writers were wide-eyed, all riveted to Arbuckle and Greta.

“What's this all about?” Greta was maintaining her cool.

“I assure you it would be best not to get into the details right here,” Arbuckle said.

She looked at McBride intently, reached across and put her hand over his. “My husband and I are on our way to Montreal to see our family. My mother is gravely ill. You must be mistaking me for someone else.” McBride was looking at her. He remained still and gave absolutely nothing away.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Arbuckle said. “Nonetheless, it will be in your best interests to co-operate and come with us.”

Arbuckle was nothing if not patient.

Greta suddenly tossed back the rest of her Scotch and stood up. The eyes of everyone in the car were on her. She was wearing a close-fitting grey wool dress and I could see she was quaking, but she maintained her dignity and bearing. She picked up her bag from the chair beside her.

“We'll carry that for you,” Arbuckle said reaching out. “Let's get your things from your compartment.”

She handed him her bag. “I'll just go and sort this out,” she said to McBride for the benefit of the watching passengers. McBride nodded. As they moved towards the front of the car, he looked at me and raised his eyebrows. The conductor opened the door for them, and they exited the car. The passengers all began talking at once.

“Amazing,” I said over the cacophony of voices. “What now?”

McBride rose, moved to my table and sat down across from me.

“Let's stay out of it,” he said. “We've done our bit and Arbuckle clearly has everything under control.”

I could feel the relief move through my body. The waiter arrived with McBride's chicken Caesar. “Will you be paying for the lady's drink, sir?” he asked.

“I'd be happy to pay for it. And you can cancel the fettuccine.”

The train started to move again. McBride ate his chicken Caesar and I watched him and thought back over the wild events of the day.

After a few minutes, the conductor entered the car and announced the station stop.

“How on earth will we get home from Truro?” I wondered aloud.

“We could…take the bus?”

This suggestion got me giggling. I looked at McBride and said, “Asbestos consultant?” We both cracked up at this, and were still laughing as the train pulled in to Truro.

We really did take the bus.
It left Truro at 4:00
p.m.
McBride and I arrived in Halifax at 5:30, and immediately parted ways. I had gotten a parking ticket—he probably did too. Expensive afternoon.

When I got home, I dialed Harvie's number, but he wasn't in yet. I left him a message and went up to my bedroom, where I hauled off the wig and decided to take a quick shower, to wash the train off me.

I was toweling my hair dry when the phone rang. “Hi Roz. How are you doing? What's happening?”

“Things got a little complicated today, Harvie.”

“Yes, I spoke with Arbuckle this morning. He told me about Greta's terrible antics. Did she show up at the airport?”

“What are you doing right now? Do you want to have dinner or something—I'll fill you in,” I said.

“That would be great. Come on over.”

“Harvie, you don't have to cook. We could go out.”

“Are you kidding? I'd much rather be here. Seriously. Come over.”

“Okay, I'll be there soon. Did you connect with the Chief Crown Attorney today?”

“I made my pitch. He has to have a meeting with the Director of Public Prosecutions. My situation is quite unique, but he feels I can continue to work with the police on the investigation for the time being.”

“Fantastic,” I said. “Okay—see you soon. I'm hungry!”

Harvie was pounding filets of tender veal when I arrived. Some Yukon gold potatoes were baking in the oven.

“It's a very simple dish,” he said. “I cook the veal in a wild mushroom sauce with a little cognac added to it—very tasty. Wine?” He held up a bottle of red.

“Not just yet—I haven't really eaten today—I ordered clam chowder on the train but I couldn't eat it.”

“The train?”

“Yeah. It was just a hunch. I went down and found Greta on the train.”

“No! Tell me everything.”

I reviewed the day's events, and Harvie was thoroughly absorbed by the story of Greta's capture. “So this whole case just got a lot more complex,” I said.

“That's for sure. What was she thinking? Obviously trying to protect Spiegle, but why?”

“God, Harvie. I can't even imagine where you'll start with all this.”

“Well, I'll sit down with Donald Arbuckle and we'll look at everything and figure out how to proceed.”

“Arbuckle was really something on that train today. Quiet authority, no big show, no bluster, nobody got hurt. He just got the job done. He's changed my entire opinion of the police.”

“He's a mensch. I've known him for a long time.”

“So what do you want me to get started on, research-wise?” I asked.

“Let's not put the cart before the horse. I have to get my own situation sorted out and if you're going to do research for us, I'm going to try to get you a proper contract—so you'll at least be earning a little money.”

“That's very thoughtful of you, Harvie.”

“Well, now that this case has moved along, Daniel won't be paying you and McBride for anything further, right?”

“That's right. His father's case is finally being brought into the justice system, just as he had hoped, but he's going to be a mess when he finds out what his mother's been up to. Deep down, he knew. We really need to get him out here to see her.”

“And he should also be present for the results of the autopsy. Speaking of which, I was able to expedite the paperwork today. If everything goes smoothly we should have the coffin out of the ground by the end of the week.”

“You're kidding. That's very impressive!”

“I know.” Harvie smiled. “Shall we eat, Roz?”

Before sitting down I went to use the phone first, to find out how Aziz was doing. I called the ICU on the sixth floor and spoke to a nurse. She told me that he was still in recovery from his bout with the poison, still weak and very groggy.

“But is the doctor feeling confident he'll pull through?”

“Unless something unexpected happens. He seems stable.”

Next, I dialed Sophie's and left a message to fill her in on his condition.

Then Harvie and I sat down at the round table. He held up the bottle of wine and beamed.

“Now?”

“Absolutely.” I held out my glass and he poured some wine for both of us.

“Onward!” I said. “To the trial.”

“May it bring justice to the memory of Peter King,” he added, and we drank.

“Wow—that's extraordinary!”

“Nothing like a good Spanish Rioja,” he said, clearly pleased with my response.

I took my first bite of Harvie's delicious meal. “Okay,” I said, “yesterday's dinner wasn't just a fluke. You've obviously got a career as a primo chef if the new gig doesn't work out.”

“You know the best thing about cooking good food?”

“Eating it?”

“Eating it
with
someone. Here's to us, Roz.”

Harvie was right.
The body came out of the ground early Thursday and the process was begun immediately. McBride had gotten in touch with Daniel and broke the news to him about his mother's arrest. He agreed to come in for the autopsy results. He flew in on Friday morning, just as the examination of the body was being completed.

I picked him up at the airport, and we went together to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner on Spring Garden Road. The samples sent for toxicology testing had been taken from the corpse on Thursday and couriered to the RCMP Forensic Laboratory. They were prioritized so the results could be made available by noon the next day. McBride met us at the examiner's office; while we waited for the results, we went into the visitors' lounge to discuss developments with Daniel. We explained that the probable charges against Greta were theft and interfering with evidence—both relating to the stolen file—and attempted murder for the poisoning of Aziz, and that she was presently being held in custody until her arraignment.

We told him the police had recovered the evidence file from her luggage, and that the information in the file had allowed the police to move further along with the case against Carl Spiegle. Then we dropped the bomb: If the awaited results showed poisoning, it was very possible that Greta had conspired with Spiegle to kill Peter King.

Daniel was looking very pale and shaken by the news. If he hadn't started the investigation, his mother would still be a free woman.

“I don't know what to do now,” he said to us. “I don't know if I can face her.”

“Daniel, ” I said. “You're here now. You have to remember why you started all this. If your father was murdered, it must be brought into the light. It's looking very much like you were right. You have to be strong enough to face whatever the consequences are—including finding out what your mother's involvement is. As hard as it is, go see her, talk to her. Ask her to tell you the truth.”

He put his head down in his hands, clearly distraught. He's still a child, I thought. Well, he'll be a man when this is over—if he makes it through the fire.

The Medical Examiner sent one of her assistants up to let us know that the results were in. As we were going down the stairs, we were joined by Donald Arbuckle, who had also been called. We introduced him to Daniel King and we all went in together.

“Well, you were correct,” the examiner said to me. “Peter King's stomach contents reveal traces of highly concentrated taxine. The poison appears to be from the seeds of the arils as opposed to yew foliage. As you suggested, we contacted the lab out in the industrial park and they forwarded us the results from the material you had brought to them. The tests that were done there on the seeds you gathered on the King property have matching characteristics. It's highly probable that the poison in the body is from the same source. At your request, Detective Arbuckle, we also tested the material that was pumped from the stomach of the fellow who was poisoned in the hospital. Again, matching characteristics. He's very lucky to be alive, by the way.”

“It was a close call alright,” McBride said, looking at me and remembering our frantic morning.

“The death certificate of Peter King will be amended and reissued,” she continued. “Myocardial infarction due to taxine poisoning. I'll have it ready for you later today.”

“This is not the sweet victory I had imagined,” Daniel said, “but I want to thank you both for all your hard work on this case.” He shook hands with McBride then with me. Then he offered his hand to Arbuckle. “And you as well, Detective Arbuckle.”

“I can take you to visit your mother now, Daniel,” Arbuckle said.

He looked over at me for a moment, then said, “Yes, alright. I'll go and see her.”