Barrington Street Blues

by Anne Emery

  “Tulk is determined to see that justice is done.”

  “Good. I’ll go talk to him.”

  “Yes. He sent you the postcard but he didn’t want to show his hand otherwise, because he didn’t know if you might end up representing Dice Campbell’s estate in some way. He wasn’t sure what you were looking into.”

  “That makes two of us!”

  “Anyway, I imagine Mr. Fanshaw is in for a surprise.”

  And I would have to gamble that, by the time the police arrived at the drawbridge of Fanshaw’s château, Fanshaw would realize it was too late to gain anything by spreading the story of my misadventures in New Orleans. To Burke, I said: “I’ll ask Tulk how close he is to handing his information over to the police, then I’ll have a word with Phil Riley, my pal on the force.” But I would not be giving them the name Vegas Negus. I couldn’t do that to Ed Johnson. With any luck, the police would see no reason to talk to Burke. Vernon might or might not recall the name Negus, might or might not repeat it if he did. Either way, I didn’t think anybody would be able to prove Ed had been there. The Romans would be busy denying that they had been there themselves.

  I realized Burke was winding up his call. “Don’t let me hold you up. See you at eleven.” Click.

  Why not? A little spiritual refreshment would not go amiss. I showered, shaved, and dressed in a shirt and sports jacket. On my way downtown I came up with the idea of stopping in and seeing if the kids might like to join me. But when I drove down Dresden Row I saw a sight that stopped me cold. There, turning left at the corner of Dresden and Morris Street, was my family: Maura pushing the baby carriage, Normie holding on at the side, and Tommy walking behind. I knew that picture would stay with me as clearly as if I had it framed and hung on the wall across from my bed. They were dressed up enough that I knew where they were headed: St. Bernadette’s Church. That put paid to my appearance at Mass there. I turned the car around, went up the street to Clyde and turned left.

  †

  When I got to the address I wanted on Tower Road, I rang the bell and waited. The place was not what I would have expected; it was one of the beautiful Victorian houses with an Italianate storm porch on the front. I was just about to give up when a pale but bravely painted Mavis Campbell came to the door.

  “You again.”

  “Me again. Nice place. I expected something a little more flashy.”

  “I’m just an old-fashioned girl at heart. But you wouldn’t know that. Are you ever going to go away and leave me alone? Now that you know I didn’t kill my husband?”

  “You’ll never see me again.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Oh.” She stood staring at me. “Would you like to come in? Have a drink?”

  “I thought maybe I could take you out for breakfast. Or lunch.”

  “As long as it’s licensed.”

  “How about walking over to Barrington Street. The Athens.”

  “All right. I keep hearing rumours they’re going to move.”

  “No! Where to?”

  “I heard Quinpool Road.”

  “Hmm.”

  We walked up Tower Road, cut through the Victoria General Hospital parking lot, and headed east on Spring Garden. A cold fog had settled over the city; the occasional foghorn broke the silence of the morning. Nobody was out, except for the odd pan-handler. My mind kept replaying the image of my children with their mother and their new baby brother. But I turned to the subject at hand.

  “Mavis, you now know Dice was murdered. By Ross Trevelyan.”

  “I know. But none of it makes any sense to me!”

  “Trevelyan wasn’t working with us then. In fact, he joined our firm for one reason: to control the lawsuit against the Baird Centre, so he could cover up the fact that he killed Dice and then killed Leaman to keep the Dice killing under wraps. Graham Scott was shot because he arrived on the scene before Trevelyan could get away.”

  “Why?” She stopped walking; her face had gone a deathly white. “Why did he kill Dice? Was he involved in the . . . Tell me.”

  I recounted the story of her husband’s death.

  Tears streamed down her face; she made no effort to wipe them away.

  “Mavis, I’m sorry. About Dice. About everything. Truly.”

  “Well, at least I know,” she said, struggling to get her voice under control. “After all these years. And, as much as it sticks in my craw, I have you to thank for taking the trouble to find out what happened. I know it would have been tempting for you to have stuck to the Leaman suicide theory and gone for the payoff.”

  “Mavis, you know I’m going to have to tell the police about that party. The Colosseum. I understand that you weren’t part of it.”

  “Good. Nail them. I wanted to call the police myself. But . . . I couldn’t do it. Kept telling myself the things I heard could not be true. Even Dice felt guilty. He didn’t let on — he never mentioned that Colosseum business to me — but I knew. It had an effect on him. He’d hold forth about the Hobbesian view of man, that life was nasty, brutish, and short. I just stayed blind drunk all the time so I could be oblivious.”

  “It won’t be good for Dice’s reputation.”

  “It can’t hurt him now. He’s dead.”

  We walked in silence, lost in our thoughts. Then I said: “Well, as promised, as soon as we finish lunch I’m out of your life.”

  “Now that I’m finally going to be rid of you, I’m not sure I like the idea. Is there a woman in your life these days?”

  I ended up spilling the whole sorry tale to her as we walked through the fog.

  “Is she in love with this other man?”

  “If it’s who I think it is, this Giacomo, then no, I don’t think she is.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Well, then, what?”

  “The love of your life is still breathing. Mine isn’t. Try to imagine yourself grieving for someone and then, in the middle of that grief, you’re brought up short by the fact that the person didn’t love you. Was seeing someone else right up until he died. Try to imagine what that’s like, Monty. Plus those other things . . . I have a friend who’s an arch-Catholic; she’d probably tell me there’s a prayer for uncomplicated grief! Too late for me, if there is. And you think you have problems. My advice to you, Monty, is get over it and get on with it.”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “It’s up to you. You have to decide whether you want to spend the rest of your allotted time on earth with her. Or without her.”

  I couldn’t answer.

  After a moment she looked at me and said: “I guess you don’t want to take up with an alcoholic!”

  “I don’t want to become one, Mavis; it scares the hell out of me.”

  “It hasn’t hurt me.”

  “No, of course it hasn’t, sweetheart.”

  We passed the Basilica and were nearly knocked over by a blast of wind from the Maritime Centre as we turned the corner onto Barrington Street. I took my friend’s arm and slipped it through mine. We huddled together against the wind as we headed north.

  ANNE EMERYis a graduate of St. F.X. University and Dalhousie Law School. She has worked as a lawyer, legal affairs reporter, and researcher. She lives in Halifax with her husband and daughter. Her earlier novels were Sign of the Cross , winner of the 2006 Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Novel, and Obit (2007).