by Anne Emery
Swail-Peddle was childishly pleased to have his recollection confirmed. I wondered whether his inability to recall Burke’s name was a bit of play-acting. His face was pink, and I concluded that he did not have a large capacity for alcohol.
“I also seem to recall that your friend — Ed, was it? — offered you rather an unorthodox gift to help you celebrate.” The psychologist leaned forward with an arch smile playing about his lips. “We’re all adults here. Did he come through with a couple of sex-trade workers for the occasion?”
“Yes, he did. Well, not a couple.”
“Not a couple. I see. Just as well, perhaps!”
“A dozen, by my count.”
Swail-Peddle’s tiny eyes seemed to bulge behind his spectacles. “Come now, Brendan, surely this constitutes a bit of male braggadocio!”
“No, no, not at all,” Burke said.
“Well, where was your partner while this anniversary was being celebrated so uninhibitedly?”
“Partner?”
“Brendan, forgive me if I’m overstepping. But do you think it’s possible that you are engaging in patriarchal behaviours and denying your wife the empowerment that a woman —”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not married.”
“This anniversary, then . . .”
“Johnson hired the women for my twenty-fifth anniversary as a priest. Sure, after all that time, couldn’t I do with a rub of the relic?”
Swail-Peddle goggled at him across the table. Burke sent me an almost imperceptible wink as he lifted his pint to his mouth.
“Gareth, did you ever meet Mavis Campbell’s husband, Dice?” I said then.
“Eh?” His eyes were those of a startled rabbit.
“Dice Campbell. Did you ever meet him?”
“I’m not following you here, I’m afraid,” he said, stalling for time.
“The question sounded simple enough to me,” Burke put in.
I leaned towards the little bearded man. “Dice Campbell died, an apparent suicide. Corey Leaman died, an apparent suicide, only this time the ‘suicide’ was committed with Dice Campbell’s gun. You knew Corey, you knew Mavis. Did you also know Dice?”
“What are you saying?” His voice was overly loud, and had gone up in pitch. He stole a glance at Burke, who regarded him impassively with his black eyes half shut.
“I’m just wondering if you can help me here, Gareth,” I prompted.
“You are being very aggressive, Monty. I wonder why.”
“You are being very evasive, Gareth. I wonder why.”
“Now you are being sarcastic and accusatory. I suspect your occupation as a lawyer tempts you at times to take on an intimidating posture. Well, this may disappoint you, but you won’t find me very enabling.”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“Your question was what again?”
“Did you ever meet Dice Campbell?”
“Oh. Right. Yes, Mr. Campbell and I met once or twice while his wife was in recovery. I cannot imagine why my work with Mrs. Campbell or her husband has anything to do with my efforts to assist you in the claim for Corey Leaman.”
He was going to bluff it out. As much as he feared I might know about the gonad-shrivelling incidents with Mavis and Dice Campbell, he could not bring himself to acknowledge them. And who could blame him for that? I really had no desire to rub his nose in it. From his point of view, too, there was always a chance that I was bluffing and knew nothing about what had happened. I decided to keep him in the dark, and off balance, about what I knew. The psychologist was someone I wanted to investigate further, but I had nothing to gain by antagonizing him.
“I’m sorry, Gareth,” I lied. “It’s just that all these people were connected somehow, and I can’t find anyone who can help me piece it together.” Had I ever told Gareth I had met Mavis? Had Johnson said something about her knowing me, that night at the Midtown? I was pretty sure I had never alluded to my conversations with her. I made a face I hoped would pass as a thoughtful expression: “Perhaps Mavis Campbell herself . . . I should see if I can track her down. Shouldn’t be hard to do.”
“I wouldn’t bother, if I were you,” he said quickly.
“Why not?”
“I’ll be frank. Mavis Campbell is delusional. You’d be surprised at some of the things she used to say to me, in the full expectation that I would believe her.” He gave a condescending little laugh. “You and I, Monty, are trained professionals. We know a lie when we hear one. Or several! And her husband wasn’t any better, from the little I saw of him. It was my impression that they lived in a state of dysfunctionality and co-enablement, and they were both in denial about their issues. Sad, I know. Terribly sad. But you won’t get a word of truth out of poor Mavis Campbell.”
Chapter 13
You know, you know how it is with me, baby, You know I just can’t stand myself And it takes a whole lot of medicine For me to pretend that I’m somebody else.
— Randy Newman, “Guilty”
I stayed on at Ryan Duffy’s for a couple more drinks after Swail-Peddle and Burke left the bar. But I didn’t want to leave my car downtown, particularly since it was parked at the family home down the street, so I got up to leave when I was still relatively unimpaired. On my way down the stairs to Dresden Row, I heard footsteps behind me. A soft but grating voice sang: “I’m going back to New Orleans to wear that ball and chain.”
I turned to look when I got to the bottom of the stairs but, before I realized what was happening, I was grabbed, pushed outside and shoved up against the building.
“Montague Collins. Imagine meeting you outside a bar in downtown Halifax.”
“Kenneth Fanshaw. Imagine you casting aspersions on anyone else’s behaviour.”
Fanshaw was practically standing on my toes; his face was about six inches from mine.
“Do you know anything about the defamation laws in this province, Collins?”
“I do. That’s why I am always meticulous about not contravening those laws in any way.”
“You’d better be fucking meticulous. And stop poking around where you have no right to poke around.”
“Speaking of poking around, you wouldn’t be making reference to private files in my law office, would you? Files that are covered by solicitor-client confidentiality?”
“I don’t give a fuck about your law office.”
“That doesn’t cause me any great anguish, but I know someone who would be most dismayed if she heard you say that.”
“Never mind anyone else. Let’s talk about you. About a U.S. road trip and a flight from the American authorities.”
“This sounds like pillow talk from Felicia Morgan.”
“Felicia Morgan isn’t the only one in this town who’s heard about your escapades, Collins. Though maybe the Bar Society hasn’t been advised of them yet. Sounds pretty bad. A whole rock band, a bag of mind-altering drugs, and one underage girl.”
“My blues band had nothing to do with the girl, although some regular patrons of a particularly seedy nightclub did.”
“If it was all a big misunderstanding, why the jailbreak?”
I was not about to give Fanshaw the details of the incident, the all-too-bluesy incident that occurred when I was on a road trip with an American band called Busted Flat. I had indeed been involved in a jailbreak. If Tyrone Jackson and I had not knocked that guard unconscious and broken out of the jailhouse in Trou de Boue, Louisiana, I’d still be sitting in there, serving as a punching bag for Sheriff Salaud. And Tyrone would have fared even worse. We had no involvement with the young girl — nobody in the band did — and we weren’t going to stick around and face Louisiana justice. I didn’t have any identifying information on me and I hitched rides, jumped on boxcars, and got up to the border and crossed over at night. I’d always believed the other guys on our bus got rid of my papers and said they had no idea who I was. Nobody had served any extradition pa
pers on me. From what I heard, the party-gone-wrong was the girl’s idea, but she was too young to give legal consent. The fact that she was the daughter of one of the state troopers down there did not redound to the advantage of those of us who were wrongly accused.
All I said to Fanshaw was: “There was no wrongdoing on my part or that of the band.”
“Yeah, sure. You didn’t lay a hand on her.”
“I have not touched an underage girl since I was an underage boy. Can you say the same?”
“You know, I find your story hard to believe —”
“You would.”
“— and I suspect others would find it hard to believe, too.”
“Speaking of blackmail, Ken, did you ever have any experience along that line? On the receiving end, I mean. Letters, threats of exposure, that sort of thing? My own response to blackmail would be: ‘Publish and be damned.’ Of course it’s easier for me, being innocent. Others, not so lily-white, might be tempted to silence the blackmailer at all costs, and perhaps in the process —”
Fanshaw leaned even closer to me. “Fuck you, Collins. And get the fuck out of my life. People who cross me sometimes find themselves in unenviable circumstances. That’s not a threat; that’s just a description of economic reality in this town. Don’t make me come looking for you again.”
I gave him a shove, and he stumbled. He regained his balance and came towards me, but a group of people came out of the bar at that moment, and he quickly walked away. I escaped to my car. Who had told Fanshaw about the road trip? Felicia was the obvious suspect, but how did she know about it? The woman was a sponge when it came to picking up dirt about other people. The fact that I was innocent was small consolation at the moment. My most immediate worry was what Fanshaw might do with the information. My only hope was that he knew the secret would become useless as a threat if he revealed it.
†
On Friday morning I intended to check out Primrose House, the group home or shelter Mrs. Pottie had described to me as a beneficiary of Matilda Lonergan’s generosity. Just before my departure, I got a call from Constable Phil Riley.
“You may be interested in this, Monty. Remember the spanker, Sybil Kraus?”
I did indeed. Sybil Kraus, also known as Sarah MacLeod, the gingerbread lady of Lunenburg County.
“Yes, I remember.”
“She’s going to be arraigned this morning on fraud charges.”
“No!”
“Yeah. She wrote a couple of bad cheques — for food! Couple of massive grocery orders. I guess times are tough.”
“What’s the story?”
“I don’t know. One of the other guys is handling the case, and he’s left for the courthouse.”
“Thanks, Phil. I’ll check it out.”
I sprinted to Spring Garden Road and took a seat upstairs in the courtroom, where I watched the usual sad parade of the misguided, the misanthropic, and the misbegotten. What was the story on Sybil Kraus? First the spanking charges, now this. After an hour of other cases, Sybil’s name was called. A lawyer popped up and went to the door, returning with a plump, round-faced woman with curly grey hair. The gingerbread lady did not look like a child beater to me, or a fraud artist, but I had learned long ago not to bet the farm on a sweet face. Her lawyer conferred with the Crown prosecutor, who then asked the judge for an adjournment. He made a reference to Community Services involvement, and he was not even in his seat again before the judge moved on to the next matter.
I got up and made sure I was out the door before Sybil Kraus. She emerged alone; her counsel must have had another client on the docket.
“Excuse me, Ms. Kraus.”
“No comment,” she said, brushing past me to go down the stairs.
“I’m not a reporter.”
“I have nothing to say no matter who you are. Excuse me.”
What was I going to do? Grab her and have her charge me with assault? And what would I say to her anyway? Your friend, the Reverend Warren Tulk, raided a party at the Colosseum; the host of the party was later dispatched to hell. You were charged with spanking a child, and Tulk booted the case. You and Tulk were seen cruising for young people in the Tex-Park garage. You have a reinforced compound out in the country. And I’m making this my business. I could not make it my business without a clear connection to my case. I stood and watched her walk out of the courthouse. She crossed Spring Garden and walked up Grafton Street. Was she headed to Tulk’s shop? I debated following her but, just as I was about to leave, I was hailed by a former Legal Aid colleague who was now a judge; he wanted to speak to me about the scheduling of one of my cases. By the time I got away, Sybil Kraus was nowhere in sight. But I went over to Blowers Street and peered in the window of the His Word bookshop. There was no sign of Sybil, or of Tulk. A young girl stood beside the cash register, talking animatedly into the phone. The shop had a sale on, advertised by a poster done in elaborate calligraphy: “Ask and it shall be given!” If only it were that simple. I walked down the street to my office.
I had two clients waiting so I dealt with them, then got in my car and headed for Dartmouth via the old bridge. I knew at least one person who refused to drive on this, the Macdonald, bridge because of “the curse” supposedly placed on it by a young Micmac in the early years of the city. Legend has it the dispute arose when two men fell in love with the same woman. Some things never change.
Three times o’er these waves a bridge shall rise,
Built by the pale face, so strong and wise,
Three times shall fall like a dying breath,
In storm, in silence, and last in death.
The first two predictions came true in the late 1800s. They didn’t take any chances when they built the bridge for the third time; they had the Grand Chief of the Micmac on hand to lift the curse during the opening ceremonies in 1955. But, take note: half a dozen men died building it.
I got over safely for the thousandth time, and found my way to Primrose Street. The streetscape was composed of small apartment buildings and mean-looking bungalows. I saw nothing that had been recently built, or even repaired, to offer a home to troubled kids. Perhaps the youth shelter had relocated. Or maybe I had the wrong address. I turned at the end of the street and drove out again. Only then did I see a two-storey house with a small sign on the door. I parked and got out to look. Primrose House, sure enough. The house was done up in beige plastic siding; its large picture window was covered with Plexiglas, which had been scratched and spray-painted with graffiti. A brave little window box was crammed with purple and yellow pansies. I rang the bell.
“Yes?” A small, tired-looking woman in her sixties peered up at me.
I offered her a cover story about Corey Leaman and a possible connection with the shelter, and she invited me in. She introduced herself as Connie. The place was clean but worn. I could hear rock music coming from the upper floor, and voices murmuring in the back of the house.
“Thanks for seeing me, Connie. I’m trying to track down any information I can find about Corey Leaman’s life. He may have come to Primrose House but I’m not sure. The reason I think he may have been here is that Mrs. Lonergan seems to have helped him out at times. I understand she was a volunteer.”
“Dear, sweet Mrs. Lonergan! Matilda. Yes, she spent several days a week here with us. I’ll just go back into the office and see if I can find Corey’s name.”
“Thank you.”
She left the room and stood aside in the hall as a heavy, and heavily tattooed, young girl passed by with a baby over her shoulder.
“How’s Chelsea? Has her rash cleared up?”
“All gone,” the girl replied. “You were right. All it took was water! They were telling me I had to get this really expensive medicine but they were just trying to rip me off.”
“Oh, yes, sometimes all a baby’s skin needs is cool, soothing water. I’m glad she’s better. Will you be in for dinner tonight?”
“Yup. I’ll put Chelsea down and help you pe
el the potatoes.”
“Thank you, Megan. Take your time.”
A young guy with buzzed hair and a Maltese cross dangling from his ear came into the room and stared at me without speaking. His head rocked in time to the music upstairs. Connie came back and smiled at him; he mumbled a “hi” and backed out of the room.
“I can’t find any record of Corey’s having been here. I’m sorry. But I remember Matilda speaking of him, and of her hopes that he would get himself straightened out. I recognized his name from the news stories.”
Looking around me, I wondered what had become of the building plans mentioned by Mrs. Pottie. Of course, that may have been an inference she had drawn herself. I readied myself for a bit of tactful probing.
“I suppose it’s difficult to keep a place like this running. Maintenance costs, heat, food for the residents, and all that.”
“Oh, we’re on a shoestring budget, no question. But that’s the way of the world when you’re a not-for-profit organization. We get by. We have our supporters, and we’re most grateful to them. And some of the young people sell their artwork.”
“I had been under the impression that perhaps Mrs. Lonergan might have —”
“Oh, she did! Matilda was forever helping us cover expenses, and buying little extras for the place, or for a young person in trouble.”
“When she died, did she perhaps leave anything for Primrose House in her will? Somebody mentioned that, but I could be mistaken.”
A slight blush crept up Connie’s cheeks. “Well, that had always been our understanding. Matilda had indicated to me that when the time came . . . Such a generous lady! I suspect that, when she became ill, perhaps family members came to her assistance, and she found them to be in need. I didn’t know she had family — the death notice mentions only very distant relatives — but however Matilda settled her affairs in the end, you can be sure she did it in a way that would do the most good. And we’re getting along just fine here.”
“Was it fairly close to the time of her death that she intimated to you that she hoped to leave a bequest?”
The blush again. The poor woman must have thought it unseemly to have been hoping to inherit under the will. “It wasn’t long before. Certainly in the year before her death. But, as I say, things change and people respond in the best way they can.”
