The Dead Letter (13 page)

35.

The next morning Anne hovered between sleep and consciousness,
and she hid there restlessly. It wasn't a hangover. She'd had only one drink. But something intangible and troubling had restrained her, and she lingered in this twilight, avoiding the resolution. Anne's head ached, her eyes were gritty, her mind reluctant, her body limp from a dulling paralysis, and she wanted to stay in bed, sleep the rest of the day. Only Jacqui didn't let her.

A litany of
Mom, you're going to be late! Mom, it's time to get up! Mom, I need some lunch money!

Anne rolled over in bed, her eyes still closed, and her body convinced that it was the middle of the night. She swung at the snooze alarm, but it had no effect on Jacqui's nagging mantra. Finally, her mind roused and slowly began processing.

“Mom! Mom! Are you awake?”

Jacqui's voice was loud, annoying, and very close at hand. The light switch snapped, and Anne's last refuge was exposed. Jacqui hovered over her bed.

“Mom! I have to go and I need a lunch or lunch money.”

“What time is it?” asked Anne groggily.

“Quarter to eight. Are you sick? Are you taking today off? Don't you have people to see or appointments or anything? Don't you have to work?”

Anne sat bolt upright and leaped onto the floor.

“Oh my god, I have to meet someone…at nine. What time is it?”

“Nearly eight. Lunch money?” said Jacqui, sounding disgusted and impatient.

“Take some…in my purse.”

“Thanks,” she said, and added as she fled out the door, “I don't know what you did with my Mom, but I'd like her back sometime today.”

Anne saw a crooked smile trying to wriggle its way onto the dopey face staring back at her in the bathroom mirror, and then her memory stirred up the incidents from the night before. She had tried to bury those memories in her sleep, but there weren't enough hours in the night to finish the job. There never are.

The flat-tire incident was dodgy and nerve-racking, but that was part of the job. The thing with Dit, though…that was…

What an ass I've been
, she said to herself.
What a stupid ass!

By eight-forty Anne had washed, dressed, eaten, and was driving toward the University and her appointment with Edna Hibley. Her frantic morning had pushed Buddy and Frank and Dit out of mind until she exited her house and eyed the spare tire on her car.

On her way, she pulled into a service station next to a shopping centre, collared the attendant, and told him she had a flat in the trunk and needed it fixed. She'd be back in an hour or so to see about it. Anne had five minutes to spare as she walked across the campus toward the meeting place with Edna.

Edna seemed more relaxed on campus than she had been when they met at her house the week before. Edna had arrived at the student centre before Anne arrived. She had seated herself at a table in the cafe. She was sipping coffee and nibbling on a blueberry muffin when Anne approached.

“Good morning,” she said brightly to Anne. “Coffee's over there if you need one. You look like you might.”

“I do. Late night. Very late.”

“Party?”

“Work, I'm afraid. Barely time to see my daughter…yesterday or this morning.”

Anne poured a fresh cup of black coffee, returned to the table, and sat down opposite Edna.

Edna's light brown hair was loosely pulled back and fastened with a pin behind her head. Anne thought she looked about fifty, closing in on fifty at least, she thought. She was plain but not unattractive, sturdily built but not plump, neatly presented but not primped.

“I have to apologize,” said Anne. “I wasn't aware that you were a professor. Nursing?”

“I teach the odd course to the nursing students, but most of my teaching is in veterinary medicine.”

“That's quite a shift. What took you in that direction?”

“Like the paths of so many others…fate. Carolyn and I graduated high school in '83. We both received entry scholarships to UPEI, me
in nursing… Carolyn in business. Dad died the summer of our
second year, and that derailed us somewhat, I'm afraid. Mother was an invalid with early-onset Alzheimer's, and we shared her home care until 2001.”

“How did you manage to finish college?”

“Determination. Education was important to both of us. We took night courses or day courses, depending on what kind of schedule we could coordinate between us. Dad's insurance money kept us afloat for a while. Carolyn and I always worked well together. We worked part-time, too, she as a bookkeeper and me at a vet clinic. After Carolyn's death, though, I couldn't handle Mother on my own. Her health was deteriorating…mentally and physically. I had to put her in a nursing home. By then, I had got my nursing degree.”

“You married, too.”

“A hapless marriage, as it turned out. He was a lovely man, ten years older than I. He suddenly died in his sleep. Completely out of the blue. We had been married for just eighteen months. An undiagnosed heart problem. At that point I'd had my fill of dealing with human complaints and sicknesses and death. So I moved on. I pursued a Master's in pharmacology and a Doctorate in veterinary medicine. I've been associate professor for half a dozen years now…and I like it very much.”

Abruptly, Edna's tone shifted from personal and reminiscent to direct and businesslike: “So where do we stand? Have you made progress?”

“I have. There's a connection between the Villier murder and Carolyn's death. The common thread is Simone's boyfriend, Jamie MacFarlane. He was a police officer at the time. Now he's Chief of the Stratford Constabulary. I may have uncovered a motive for him to have murdered his girlfriend. I've caught him in a string of lies about his testimony and his relationship with Simone and others. I'm following up on them now.”

“But what's his connection to Carolyn's death?”

“She was interviewed as part of the Villier investigation, and she lied. She said she had gone home early the evening of the murder when, in fact, she had worked until quite late.”

“You think Carolyn would have been a witness? Surely not. I would have known. She would have told me something.”

“Carolyn wasn't aware of the murder until several days later. She probably never actually witnessed anything, but she may have somehow concluded that MacFarlane had done it. That's the only reason I can think of that would explain her lying. If MacFarlane somehow became aware of her lie, then he might have felt compelled to kill her to prevent her from coming forward.”

“Will you be able to establish that?”

“I'm working on it. I think I'm stepping hard enough on his toes to make him very nervous. When people become rash, they make mistakes.”

“How much longer?”

“Hopefully a few days. I can't say for certain.”

“Then you'll have proof?”

“I can't promise anything. Like I said, it's been a very long time since the crime was committed. I'm confident I'll have enough to discredit him, but a conviction for murder will be difficult to substantiate. The reality is that the only way to get him for Carolyn's death is to get him for Simone Villier's. The two are tied together. Sorry.”

“I can give you two more days. That's the most I can do. Two days.”

Anne returned to the service station. The mechanic rolled out her tire, jacked the car, and replaced the spare.

“That'll be ten dollars,” he said.

“Nail?” asked Anne.

“Core in the valve stem.”

“I've had valve stems replaced but never a core.”

“Wasn't replaced. Just tightened it, pumped her up,” he said.

“Did it vibrate loose?”

“Not by accident.” Anne looked at him expectantly. He got the hint and continued. “Used to be a common high school prank in the day.” He took a small tool from his pocket and held it up. “This part fits in the stem hole. Twist it counterclockwise. If you twist just a little, air leaks out slowly.”

36.

“Let's go! Let's go! Let's go, ladies!”

Phys Ed teacher Fred Mueller shouted into the showers. Steam billowed, spray cascaded from two rows of shower heads, students hooted and shouted and laughed, and their echo was deafening.

Mueller waited a minute and stuck his head 'round the corner into the shower room and shouted again, “Let's go, ladies. The bell's about to ring. C'mon! Get a move on!”

Sig Valdimarsson rushed past him out of the cloudy haze and into the locker room. William Larsen was right behind him. He loosed a ninja cry and snapped his towel. It cracked like a whip against Sig's ass. Sig yelped.

“Knock it off, Larsen! Get dressed,” shouted Mueller.

Sig's long wet blond hair clung to his neck. He was slender, but broadly built and muscular. He towelled off and started dressing for the second class. Larsen's locker was next to his.

What's up this weekend?” he asked.

“Birthday party.”

Larsen's ear perked.

“Birthday party? Whose?” he asked.

“Bobby… Fogarty…at his house,” said Sig, grunting between tugs at the clothes he was rushing to put on.

“A big seventeenth blowout, huh?”

“Nah, just a few friends. A family thing. His mother's got something planned.”

“Oh,” said Larsen.

“… Then I think we're going over to Madame Desjardins'.”

“Whoa, she's pretty hot for a teacher. I bet Bobby's mom didn't plan that.”

Sig gave him a disdainful look.

“Jacqui Brown is babysitting. She can't come to the party, but she wants to give him something. I'm tagging along. Might do something afterwards, though.”

“I know what she can give me for my birthday,” he laughed. Sig ignored him. “So it's a party, and then a party after the party. Cool. See you at practice.”

37.

Ben Solomon felt just like he had been when summoned to Mrs.
Bell's office. Mrs. Bell had been principal at the junior high school he attended in Ottawa. That time, he knew what the summons was about. Fighting again. Rudy Fitz had called him “bagel baby.” It wasn't the first time. So, at recess Ben popped him with a volleyball shot to the face. It swelled like an overripe tomato. A supervising teacher had seen the whole thing.

Rudy could blubber with the best of them, and at thirteen he had mastered the art of lying. So he denied his provocation. The teacher believed Rudy's whimpering explanation. So did Mrs. Bell. Ben was suspended for the day. His parents were called.

“It won't happen again,” said Ben's mother.

“No, Mrs. Solomon, I'm sure it won't,” said Mrs. Bell crisply.

“Benjy, what's the matter with you? Haven't you learned anything?” scolded his mother as she left the office with Ben. Her hand swatted the back of Ben's head as they descended the broad stone steps of the schoolhouse. “You're a bright boy, Benjy. Next time, act smart. Don't let anyone catch you. Here. Here's three dollars. There's a matinee at the Odeon. Be home for supper, and don't be late.”

Serpico
was the main feature that day and later that evening Ben Solomon imagined himself as Al Pacino, cleaning up a corrupt Canadian city from the forces of vice, greed, and cruelty.

The premier's office was on the fifth floor of the Jones Building, one floor above his. Premier Thane Clark had not summoned him, but his chief of staff, Wendell Carmody, had. He was the premier's go-to man for problems he'd rather distance himself from.

The door was open. Premier Clark and Carmody were talking. Ben knocked politely on the door frame and entered. Both men turned toward the door.

Premier Thane Clark always looked taller than he actually was. He had a full head of grey hair, casually combed back on the sides, always a touch long for the professorial, liberal-thinking look, and always meticulously arranged. He was quick to step forward and greet Ben.

“Good morning, Ben. It's good to see you again. Wendell tells me that you're beginning to settle in. That's wonderful…and I'm hearing good things about you. Someday soon we'll get together for a longer chat. It's wonderful to have you on our team.” The premier glanced quickly at his watch. “Another meeting,” he said with a smile and returned to his office, closing the door behind him.

“What's up, Wendell?”

“Have a seat, Ben.” Wendell motioned Ben to a chair. “Won't take long. I've been made aware of an irregularity that we need to take care of. More of a nuisance really.”

Wendell didn't take a seat. Instead, he leaned against the edge of his desk in front of Ben's chair. The smile on Ben's face grew weaker.

“Yes?” said Ben noncommittally.

“Actually there's been a complaint, unofficial of course. It's about a police file that you requested. I understand that it's fallen into the hands of a private detective, a Ms. Billy Darby. We need it returned.”

“Why?”

“Only peace officers or officers of the court can have access to those files. They're confidential. As a matter of fact, it's a personal privacy concern, too.”

“I authorized it.”

“You can't do that.”

“She came into new evidence relating to the case.”

“Then she should have requested it through a proper application.”

Ben felt the steam rising and his chest constricting as he watched Carmody's lips move through his playbook of political hoops and bureaucratic red tape. Ben took several long slow breaths to control his breathing. He couldn't count how many times he'd seen contents of a police file slipped into the hands of an outsider, and he knew that he had the authority to widen the circle of access to the file in spite of Carmody's declaration. He took a few longer, controlled breaths until he felt some calmness return.
There is something else going on here
, he thought.

“Who initiated the complaint?”

“I can't go into that. It's confidential.”

“I can find out.”

“I'm sure you can, but as I mentioned, it's unofficial at this time. No one wants to draw any more attention to it. If it's ratcheted up to an official complaint, it may come back on you. And let's face it, Ben, you knew it wasn't kosher.”

Ben winced at his choice of words and wondered if it was an unconscious choice or a mindful one.

“No problem. I'll get it back. And I assume there won't be any fallout for Ms. Darby.”

“Nothing permanent. As I understand it, though, a separate privacy complaint has been made, and that will have to work its way through the system. I'm sure it will be done quietly, though, and expeditiously.”

“I'll do what I can to help, Wendell. You know that. Perhaps, though, if you can spare a moment, you could explain how everything will ‘work its way through the system.' I'm a little muddy on this administrative stuff.”

Wendell Carmody stood up and returned to the chair behind his desk. His posture relaxed. The tautness in his smile faded.

“Coffee?” he asked, pointing to a fresh carafe at a side table.

“Perfect.”

“Sweetener?” Wendell asked as he held up a bottle of liqueur.

“More than perfect.”

Carmody poured two cups, brought one to Ben, and settled into a chair next to him. He took a quick slurp, and then he began: “According to the legislation governing private investigators, here's what usually happens…”