Death in Cold Type

by C. C. Benison

  Leo studied her face as she stroked the dog. “Do you think about…him? Her. The baby?”

  “Her. Yes, sometimes. A little more lately, for some reason. Sometimes when I wake up, I know I’ve been dreaming about her.”

  “Did you ever see her?”

  “Just for a moment. I wish I hadn’t, in a way. The blue eyes. Michael’s eyes.”

  She looked away quickly. Leo wished his eyes weren’t brown.

  “Somewhere out there, there’s an eleven-year-old girl wandering around. My daughter.” She was silent a moment. “Anyway, I’m sure she’s in a good home somewhere. It was a good agency.”

  Leo contemplated his ceiling, his mind turning over. “Amazing Michael never found out.”

  “The only ones who knew were my parents and my aunt and uncle in Baltimore. The story was that I was going to get work experience for a year in Baltimore, then go to RISD.”

  Leo noticed a pock mark in the plaster he hadn’t seen before. “So if you were able to keep this from Michael, then how does Merritt know?”

  “Like I’ve said before, she lived with my parents for a couple of years after her parents were killed. That was the custodial arrangement. She was a little pitcher and she had big ears, I guess.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t blab to her brother.”

  “Oh, I think she had her reasons.”

  Leo turned from the ceiling. “What does that mean?”

  Stevie made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, look, Leo, I feel like I haven’t been all that honest with you, and I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, hell, we’re all icebergs. Ninety percent of us is below the surface.”

  She smiled at him for the first time. “Thanks.” She reached for her fanny pack. “Shall we talk about something else?”

  “Like what?”

  Stevie pulled the zipper. “Like photographs, for instance. I developed a roll this morning. Want to see them?”

  “Are there any with me in them?”

  “No.”

  “Then how interesting could they be?”

  Ignoring him, she pulled a manila envelope from her pack. “I didn’t tell you this when we were at Merritt’s Tuesday, but it was pretty obvious she had had company, even though she told your brother-in-law she’d been alone.”

  “Obvious how?”

  “A trail of men’s clothes in her bedroom.”

  “Eh?” Leo paused. “But does that mean some naked man was hiding in the house when we were there?”

  “I doubt it. And why would he hide? Anyway, I’ve got a picture of him. I think. I snapped some pictures down the Crescent on the way to Michael’s and this guy jogged into the frame. The pictures are black and white, but the shirt has the same stripe as the one on the floor in Merritt’s bedroom.” She handed the package to Leo with a shrug. “I just thought you might have some idea who it is. He doesn’t look like your descriptions of this Guy Clark person, and you see Merritt at work.”

  Leo examined the picture, savouring it, noting the hair style of the jogger. “I’ll say it’s interesting,” he hooted. “That’s my old pal Axel Werner.”

  “Someone you know?”

  “Well, it’s not such a coincidence. Axel was just leaving the Zit when Merritt started, and they probably end up at the same arts events around town.” He cackled. “So that’s what he’s been up to. Or who.”

  He gave Stevie a shorthand version of Axel’s life and times. “And he’s married, though god knows that’s never stopped him before. Anyway, that’s probably why Merritt lied to Frank.” He glanced at the picture again, Axel flying along with that very familiar knapsack on his back. “Look at him. He’s a total exercise nut. There’s probably two dozen cans of Chef Boyardee in there to add heft.”

  “Or dry clothes.”

  “Oh, yeah, true.” He wrinkled his nose. “Getting back into the old clothes would be pretty skanky.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t take the damp ones with him?”

  Leo didn’t speculate. He was scrutinizing Stevie’s picture more closely. “That’s the old Farquhar house in the background, right? The one between Merritt’s and your parents’ that the Oblates use. So you’ve pointed the camera sort of northwest, which means he’s running west.”

  “So?”

  Leo shrugged. “Axel and Eve live near Bruce Park. He’d run east, probably over the foot bridge, and through the park, and down the Crescent to Merritt’s.”

  “Then he probably went for a long run, and then turned back to get to Merritt’s.”

  “Probably.” Maybe Merritt likes ’em raunchy, he thought, but further speculation along these lines was interrupted by the sound of knuckles crashing against his front door. “If it’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses, tell them I worship Satan,” he called to Stevie, who rose to answer.

  “It’s your brother-in-law,” she whispered loudly, glancing through a trio of tiny windows in the inside door.

  “Right on cue.” He slipped Stevie’s picture under the pillow supporting his buttocks. “Let him in.”

  “Well, you got style, Fabian,” Frank said a moment later, surveying the scene. “You sure know how to entertain the ladies.”

  “I can’t think of the last time you visited my happy home without Maria and kids.”

  “I returned your call at work. They said you were home. I was concerned.”

  “The hell you were.”

  “Okay, the fact is, I decided to drop in here on my way home to kick your ass for the violin story. You fuckwad—there’s a reason why we hold back certain information, even from reporters. Especially from reporters! Sometimes there’s stuff only the cops and killer know—”

  “So sorry,” Leo responded, uncontrite.

  “—and now I’ve got my superiors wondering how the Citizen knows, and every other media outlet in town is on my back about this fucking fiddle.”

  “Hey, you talked about it freely to me yesterday.”

  “That was off the record.”

  “You didn’t say off the record.”

  Frank glared down at him.

  “So, anyway,” Leo continued, “what’s happening with the violin?”

  “Like I’m going to tell you.”

  “Off the record, then. Off the fucking record. Satisfied?”

  Frank struggled out of his coat and tossed it on the couch. “Doesn’t matter now anyway,” he growled. “The whole world knows. And why doesn’t your story have a byline?”

  “Internal crap at the Zit. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, it’s some protection for me, at any rate.” Frank glanced woodenly at Stevie. “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  Frank grunted and turned back to Leo. “And what the hell are you doing on the floor?”

  Leo explained.

  “Tough.”

  “I’ll be better tomorrow. Are you going to tell me about the violin?”

  “Not much to tell, other than that the thing did get to Winnipeg. Sotheby’s says he didn’t carry it with him—I guess because he was going to Washington from London and didn’t want anything to happen to something that cost such a shitload of money. A courier delivered it to him on September 12, six days after he got back to Winnipeg.”

  “There you go: motive.”

  “Maybe. But—”

  “He had another violin,” Stevie interjected. “The one he had at the Curtis. The one he’s had for years, since he was in his teens.”

  “Smart girl.” Frank grinned.

  “Oh,” Leo said.

  “I don’t know the make,” Stevie continued. “Nowhere near as valuable as a Guarneri del Gesu.”

  “But I thought he’d abandoned the violin.”

  “As a profession, yes. But he kept the instrument. For sentimental reasons, he told me. And he took it out to play from time to time.”

  “Could you identify the case?” Frank asked her.

  Stevie thought a moment and shook her
head. “I haven’t seen that violin in years. I couldn’t even tell you the colour of the lining. I think most violin cases look pretty much alike, unless it’s an antique, or someone has gone to the trouble to decorate theirs.”

  “And that’s the problem,” Frank groused. “We have one empty case, and two missing violins. Is the missing one the million-dollar Guarneri or the other one? No one has seen the Gaurneri around here. And it seems Rossiter didn’t play his ordinary violin with others often enough for anyone to remember anything about the case. At least anyone that we can find.”

  Stevie was studying her nails. “Try Caitlin Clark,” she muttered.

  “Who?”

  “Tried her already,” Leo said. “Doing a little investigating on my own.”

  “A friend of Michael’s,” Stevie replied, worrying a cuticle. “They were at the Curtis at the same time. They might be—might have been—lovers.”

  Leo glanced sharply at her. Her eyes skimmed his, but briefly.

  “And?” Frank said to Leo.

  “I got an answering machine.” He turned back to his brother-in-law. “She lives on Roslyn Road.”

  Frank fished a notebook out of his suit pocket and made a note. He regarded them in grumpy silence.

  “Not exactly one of your E-Z-Solve, home-in-time-for-Wheel of Fortune homicides, is it, Frank?” Leo said.

  “No, damn it.”

  “Informed sources tell me professional art thieves usually have more finesse,” Leo continued.

  “Usually.”

  Leo regarded them both. Frank was running his hand over his bald pate, as if searching for the ghost of hairs past. Stevie was fidgeting with the abundance of follicles nature affords women. He wished Frank would go and she would stay.

  “Seen the will?” he asked his brother-in-law.

  “Not yet. Seen the pathologist’s report.”

  “And—”

  Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Stevie cut him off. “I think I’ll take Alvy for a w-a-l-k.” She rose abruptly. “I can live without hearing this.”

  She had the dog’s lead and was out the door in a trice. Leo could feel cool air roll along the floor toward him.

  “Just as well, I guess,” Frank said.

  “That bad?”

  “Remember that old Olivetti? The bar at the bottom matches the head wound.”

  “Ouch.”

  “But that’s not how he died. As near as can be made out, Rossiter staggered forward under the blow, then tried to grip the edge of the desk to steady himself. In doing so, he must have swiped a letter spike off the desk with his hand and then sort of rolled forward—”

  “Oh crap.”

  “Yup. His head fell on the spike and it pierced his neck and brain.”

  Leo sucked in his breath.

  “His death was immediate.”

  “Big consolation.” Leo gagged inwardly. He thought a moment. “You couldn’t plan for that effect, could you?”

  “Nope.”

  “If the intent was to club Michael to death—”

  “There would have been a helluva lot of mess. Blood everywhere. And on the killer, too.”

  Leo considered this. “You’d have to bring a change of clothes with you.”

  “Or take something from his closet—”

  “If you were a man. Or maybe even a woman.”

  “—and wash yourself first.”

  “There’s no blood in any sink or tub.”

  “Kind of a lucky break.”

  “If timing was important.

  “Was it?”

  Frank shrugged. “Who knows? The best estimate is that Rossiter died sometime between 6:30 and 7:15. Probably earlier than later.”

  “Opportunity?”

  “Lots, you’d think. But we’ve had uniforms doing a door-to-door all day in the neighbourhood, and squat all. Seems like everyone was indoors having dinner, and everyone’s dining room window in the goddamn forest of Crescentwood is obscured by trees and shrubs. Most of the shops in Dorchester Square were closed. The florist was just closing, but she wasn’t too useful when I talked to her.” Frank paused, staring out the window. “And the restaurant had all of two customers the whole evening—a couple with a 7:30 reservation under the name of Johnson, I figure. It was spelled phonetically J-O-N-S-U-N. I managed to yank the reservations books away from the manager—he barely spoke English and he was as tense as a ball of wire. You can imagine how many Johnsons there are in this town.”

  Leo savoured the moment.

  “What are you grinning about?” Frank growled.

  “Johnson is a sort of nom de nosh.”

  “Eh?”

  “For Roger Mellish, the Zit’s food editor and restaurant reviewer. He was at the Wajan Tuesday with his lady friend to do a review. He doesn’t want to tip off the restaurant owners, so he uses a fake name.” He shrugged. “Of course, they know him. The restaurant association circulates his picture. The manager at the Wajan probably didn’t want to jinx his review. No one gives a crap what the theatre reviewer in this town thinks, but the restaurant reviewer? He can make or break. If Roger liked the Wajan, then the place will be packed by the weekend.”

  Frank grunted.

  “Besides, he lives in Savoye House, that glass thing on stilts near Wellington and Grosvenor. It’s about a ten-minute walk, so maybe he and Nan—”

  “Who?”

  “Nan Hughes, his lady friend. Maybe they saw something or someone.”

  “Worth a shot, I guess.” Frank fitted Stevie’s pictures back into their envelope. “Can’t you get off the floor? I feel like I’m talking to a corpse.”

  Leo propped himself on his elbows. “I have to piss anyway.”

  “This was stuck to your butt,” Frank said when he returned a few minutes later. Leo finished knotting his bathrobe and took the photograph from Frank.

  “I guess it slipped under.”

  Frank peered up at him. “You guess.”

  “Never mind, Frank. It’s not important.” Leo bent over and picked Stevie’s photo envelope off the coffee table. He was a bit stiff, but not too bad.

  “You don’t seem so sick,” Frank observed.

  “Drugs and booze—they work just fine.” Leo slipped the picture of Axel back in with the others. “I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”

  “Remember—we never had this conversation.”

  “Gee, Frank, I think you’ve got more out of us than you’ve given.” Leo looked out the front window. Stevie was talking to Les Strickland, who had moved over to Leo’s lawn to rake it. Having a semi-retired neighbour with an obsessive-compulsive disorder was a true boon. Anxious lest all the lawns in the neighbourhood didn’t match, he cut or raked every one of them himself until they did.

  “I suppose you’ve had no luck with the missing computer disks or the torn page from the daytimer?” he asked Frank.

  “Nope.”

  “Would you tell me if you had?”

  “I’d have to think about it.”

  “You’re a shit. I don’t know why my sister married you.”

  “She was pregnant.”

  “How could I forget?” His niece, Alison, arrived seven months after the wedding. “Would you have married Maria if she hadn’t been?”

  “What? Pregnant? That’s a lousy question.”

  “Try answering it.”

  “It was more than ‘doing the right thing,’ if that’s what you’re thinking.” He kicked Leo’s bare calf. “And why are you bringing this up now? It’s years since.”

  “Hell if I know, Frank,” he replied, stepping out of Frank’s reach and watching Stevie break away from his neighbour and lead Alvy back to the house. He tossed the package of photos back on the coffee table. “By the way, Stevie’s camera is still at Michael’s house.”

  “Do you have your phone off?”

  Frank’s question made Leo turn. “I intended to snooze all afternoon, why?”

  “It’s ringing…or blinking.” A frail red light
trebled on the plastic console. “It might be for me.”

  “And you’re the centre of the universe.”

  Stevie came through the front door, bringing one dog and a burst of cool air with her. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion. “Are you talking about Toronto?”

  Leo laughed. The answering machine kicked in with an audible click.

  “Hey!” Frank said, rising from his chair. “Someone grab that thing.”

  Leo turned the volume dial and pressed the rewind button. The tape made a short Chip’n’Dale shriek. They listened to the tail end of Stevie sounding slightly anxious, then Gerry Shorter with the impatience of a five-year-old at Christmas.

  “Told you,” Frank said, picking the phone up off the floor. His contribution to the ensuing conversation was a series of “yeahs” in varying tones.

  “Some kid remembered a licence plate from a car at the scene,” he whispered loudly from the side of his mouth, cupping the receiver with one hand.

  “Amazing what some people can remember,” Stevie commented, removing Alvy’s lead.

  “It’s an easy one,” Frank returned the receiver to its cradle. “A vanity plate—10 JETS.”

  “Ah!” said Leo.

  Stevie frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “Dale Hawerchuk, Winnipeg Jets.” Leo and Frank chorused.

  “Who?”

  “He plays centre for the Winnipeg Jets,” Leo explained. “Ten is his number.” He turned to Frank. “You’ve gotta be kidding. Dale Hawerchuk is a suspect?”

  “Nope. ”Frank pulled out his notebook and scribbled something. “Don’t think so.”

  “But—”

  Frank looked up, imperceptible pleasure crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Licence plate number 10 JETS has been traced to a woman.”

  “A woman? Some wacko groupie?”

  “You tell me. Is Merritt Helena Parrish née Rossiter of Wellington Crescent a hockey fan?”

  Book 4

  Friday, September 30

  21

  Pissed Off