Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery (25 page)

“Good, oh good. Okay—show him in,” Harvie said. “Why don't you initiate discussion with him, Roz.”

Greetings were exchanged all round and Daniel sat down with us.

“Daniel, how have your meetings with your mother been going?” I asked.

“Meet
ing
. I've only seen her the once. She's not forthcoming, if that's what you mean.”

“We're concerned that she does not have counsel. She's potentially facing very serious charges and she needs to have a lawyer to advise her and to help her through the process,” I said.

“She says she lived with a lawyer for so many years, she knows how they think.”

“But she herself is not thinking clearly, so for her to try to provide her own defence…it's ludicrous.” Arbuckle stopped there. He didn't want to offend Daniel or come right out and say Greta wasn't in her right mind, but that's what was in the air.

“Is there someone you know that she would trust?” Harvie asked.

“Well, at one time, that would have been you,” Daniel said.

“That's right, I crossed the floor. No more defence law for me,” Harvie said. “And I was celebrating the fact that I would be in a position to help prosecute your father's perpetrator. But I certainly didn't anticipate that your mother would end up being a suspect. Life is never simple.”

“Can you give me an indication of what the charges may be?” Daniel asked.

I looked at Harvie. He nodded. “Well…we now know your father was poisoned, and it's looking very much like your mother may somehow have been a party to it. She may have been an accomplice, so she will need an experienced criminal lawyer.”

“An accomplice to this man Carl Spiegle?”

“That's right, Daniel.”

Daniel suddenly looked at me and said “Roz…could I speak to you privately?”

“Of course,” I said without hesitating. I could feel something troublesome brewing under the surface. I looked at Harvie.

“Go ahead.”

“I'll come out with you now. Let's go somewhere.”

Daniel and I left the Maritime Centre and walked along Barrington Street in silence. It was chilly, so we turned in at the Mediterraneo diner. There were a number of regulars in for their afternoon coffees, perusing
The Coast
or
The Daily News
. Some were just having breakfast. There were several art college students, including a group energetically discussing their film projects. Compared to the intensity I could feel coming from Daniel, the clientele seemed carefree. We found an out-of-the-way booth and sat down.“What's up?” I said, stirring a little milk into my coffee.

“It's—there's a memory that's come back to me. It's the kind of memory that feels like a dream, because I was so young—but it's very clear.” He paused.

“Please,” I said. “I'd like to hear it.”

“I'm seven, maybe. I'm in Zurich with my mother. We're visiting because my grandmother is dying of lung cancer. I'm sitting at my grandmother's antique dressing table—you know, the kind with a large central mirror and two side panels. I have a picture book my mother has given me to look at, Hans Christian Andersen, I think. But when I look up into the mirror, I can see my grandmother in the big bed and my mother beside the bed on a straight-backed chair.

“I remember my grandmother's breathing being very laboured. This must have been just before she died. Then, as I watch them, she says, ‘I know how much you hate coming here.' And my mother says, ‘That's not true. Just be quiet and rest.' My grandmother says, ‘You hate coming here because you blame yourself. But it was my fault—I never should have let your father move the boy in here to begin with. It was a mistake and I knew it right from the start.' Then my mother says, ‘Please don't talk about it.' And my grandmother says, ‘It killed him in the end. That's why he killed himself—because of you and Carl.'”

Daniel looked at me. “That's it. I can't remember anything more. But I think it's key to whatever is going on here.”

I nodded and silently reviewed what he had just said. He seemed relieved to have told me. He let out a long breath, picked up his coffee for the first time and took a drink.

“When you say it's key, do you mean you think the Carl in the memory is Carl Spiegle?”

“I think that's why the memory's come back to me. Because suddenly there's this person Carl, with whom my mother is apparently involved but whom she's never ever mentioned, as far as I know.”

“Well, according to the CV that Harvie saw during his days at City Council, Carl Spiegle is from Zurich.”

“There you go, it really could be him.”

“And Daniel, is it true that your grandfather killed himself?”

“I knew he had died in the sixties and it was something no one ever talked about. My mother's relationship with her mother was not warm. I think my grandmother was right when she said my mother hated going there—and we only went that time because my grandmother was on her deathbed.”

“So that summer years later when you went to take the architecture course…You said you stayed with cousins. Who were they?”

“They were actually second cousins, the family of my grandmother's sister. One of her daughters, who would actually be my mother's cousin, was a childhood pal of my mother, and so she invited me to stay with them.”

“When you were there, did your mother's cousin talk about your mother, about growing up?”

“Only to say how much she missed my mother after she left at sixteen. My mother went to study in France then had gone on to England, where she eventually met my father, and they pretty much lost contact after that. But now that you ask, I do recall her saying that my mother's departure had been unexpected, that she left abruptly when her father died, so his death must have been what triggered it.”

“And if it was suicide, and if your mother did blame herself, that would be a lot for her to handle.”

“Yes.”

“And your mother's cousin—what's her name?”

“Helga.”

“You don't recall Helga ever referring to someone in your mother's household named Carl?”

“No, I don't. But when I was there, I was always busy at class or doing the assignments. And I knew that my mother's relationship with her own family had been rancorous. It just wasn't something we naturally spoke about.”

“Is Helga still there? Is she alive and well?”

“I can try to find out. I must still have the telephone number for them.”

“Daniel, if you could call and ask her if she recalls anything about this boy your grandmother referred to, that would be helpful to us. I realize it may be a bit awkward.”

“I can figure out a way to ask her,” he said, “and keep the explanations minimal for the time being.” We got the bill; Daniel picked it up off the table and walked over to the cash. The art college students, both boys and girls, were checking him out with interest. He's definitely got the good looks going for him, I thought as I watched him. How would he manage over the next while, I wondered. I stood and put my coat on.

“I appreciate your telling me about this. It's extremely helpful.” I wanted to encourage him.

“Thanks for listening,” he said.

We walked out the door and onto Barrington Street.

“So you'll let me know if you find out anything more from your mother's cousin? And also you'll work on engaging a lawyer for your mother. Would anyone in your father's firm be able to send you in the right direction?”

“That's a good idea, Roz—I'll start there. I know my father would want her to have the best possible defence.”

We parted ways and I walked back to the office. His story had been so vivid—I couldn't help picturing the two women in the mirror through the eyes of the seven-year-old boy.

When I got back, Melanie informed me that Arbuckle had gone and that Harvie had to attend a meeting out of the office. I called over to Peter's firm and arranged to have the boxes of his files delivered the following morning. I was at a loss. I needed to get perspective on what was happening with the case. I dialed McBride.

“You just caught me,” he said. “I'm about to take Molly out onto the Commons for a run.”

“Can I join you? I want to ask you about something.”

“Do you miss me, Roz?”

“Every minute, McBride. Go on ahead—I'll find you there.”

I walked up Spring Garden Road, past the School of Architecture, on past the beautifully dressed windows of Mills Brothers, the oldest family-run department store in Canada, and turned right on to South Park. I walked along beside the Public Gardens, closed for the winter. I looked in through the iron fence. The gardens were still in the midst of restoration from the damage done by the hurricane. I turned up Bell Road towards the open green space of the Commons. I had read that in the early days of Halifax, the Commons had been established so the whole community could pasture their livestock—hence the name. That made me think of Peter King and his philosophical position on water as part of the Commons. He was the heart of this case for me. Who would do his work now that he was gone, I wondered.

I looked across the snow-dusted grounds and my spirits lightened to see Molly bounding after an orange ball that McBride was throwing for her. It wasn't quite four o'clock, but would soon be dark—still heading for the nadir.

Molly ran towards me with an enthusiastic greeting and dropped the ball at my feet. I tossed it into mid-field and watched her race for it. We walked around on the grounds and I caught McBride up on what little was happening so far, and Greta's continuing silence, then told him the story of Daniel's childhood memory.

“So, there's a reason for Greta's behaviour after all. She's not just a run-of-the-mill nutbar. If this relationship goes all the way back to when she was fifteen or sixteen, it might explain why she stole the file and tried to eliminate Aziz. She's torn between protecting Carl and running away from him.”

“So what's the next step here do you think? How can we get her to open up and tell us what's going on?”

“Wait and see if Daniel comes up with some information from the cousin. It might shed more light. My instinct would be to somehow provoke a reaction from her. Perhaps tell her that Carl is being charged with Peter's murder, even if they're not ready to really lay the charges. That might crack her open.”

“That sounds scary…should we let Daniel be present?”

“I think so. That's why he told you about the memory, Roz. He needs to know what's going on with his mother. He can't be protected from that—and he shouldn't be.”

We turned and started walking back towards North Park. Molly trotted along with the ball in her mouth.

“I better get back,” I said.

“Punching a clock eh, Roz.”

“You're jealous, McBride. You wish you had a job.”

He laughed.

“Where are you off to now?” I asked.

“Molly and I are going to take a walk over to Sophie's. She hasn't been able to put her bed back together since they turned her place upside down. I'm going to help her out with that.”

“Regular handyman.”

“That's me. And then we're going to watch a movie.”

“
Strangers on a Train
?”

“That's the one! Keep me posted.”

I headed back the way I had come and was standing at the light at South Park and Spring Garden when a woman's voice from behind me said, “Hey, Rosalind. What happened to that lunch we were going to have?”

I turned. It was Eloise Radner from Ecology Counts.

“Hey! How are you? Good to see you.”

“Likewise,” she said.

“How about right now?” I said on impulse. “Have you got time for a drink?”

“I'd love a drink—it's been one crazy day. Honestly, those Tories are going to put me in the loony bin.”

“Let's go in right here, to the pub in the Lord Nelson.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I can feel a martini coming towards me.”

We got comfortable. I ordered a Keith's and Eloise ordered a vodka martini straight up with extra olives. The pub was quite dark with little lamps and cozy booths.

The after-work crowd was starting to fill the place up.

“They're two for one,” the waiter said. “Happy Hour.”

“Two would definitely be better than one,” Eloise said. “So…what's the news? The last time I saw you, you were getting Peter King's report on the Europa deal.”

“That's right. A lot has happened, Eloise, a lot of ‘blood under the bridge' as Albee says.”

“You've lost me.”

“Playwright.
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Anyway, some happy developments as well. I'm working as a contract researcher for your old friend Harvie Greenblatt at the Public Prosecution office at the moment. Remember you gave me his card?”

“Good for you, Roz. It's so fantastic that Harvie took that new job. He'll be a welcome asset to the ever-fraught Prosecutor's Office.”

“We've become really good friends through this Peter King case. Anyway, as I say, we're working on it and you'll be interested to know there's a murder charge pending.”

She had picked up a few peanuts and was about to put them in her mouth, but she stopped short and looked at me, startled.

“Are you serious? Who killed him—his crazy wife?”

“Wow, Eloise. That didn't come out of nowhere. Do you know Greta?”

The waiter set down our drinks. Eloise knocked back a good portion of one martini and dug for an olive.

“Look, Roz, Peter's gone now, and I might as well come clean…I was involved with him for years. He loved his wife very much. He would never have left her, but she was…I don't know…a cold fish. And she was basically miserable most of the time. He and I worked together often and we enjoyed each other. We laughed a lot, you know? So, this one time—Greta was away in Europe and we were working long hours developing some policy initiatives, and the next thing you know, we were sleeping together. The truth is I was crazy about him.”