Walter “Wally” Ecclestone, a retired insurance salesman from Dundurn, had been buried in mid-March, when the rains were still falling. His family gathered under black funeral-home umbrellas as Wally’s coffin was slowly lowered. Bright green Astroturf surrounded the graveside, hiding the soil that would cover Wally for eternity. Despite the rain, it was a dignified and solemn end befitting the gold-star salesman, husband, father, and grandfather.
As the family said their final farewells, dropping roses or small handfuls of earth into the grave, the coffin moved slightly. Those who noticed thought it was just settling onto the bottom. But, slowly and unsteadily, it began to rise. Wally’s widow collapsed in horror and would have dropped on top of the casket but for a steadying hand. Wally’s grandchildren began screaming and crying. Wally’s son turned away and vomited, sending several of Wally’s arthritic colleagues staggering into one another. A pimply-faced sixteen-year-old pointed at the coffin — now ascending quickly — and hollered, “Holy shit! Granddad’s a zombie!”
The cemetery attendants were stunned. The priest was speechless. And Wally kept rising, the space between his coffin and the mud walls filling with gurgling brown water. “It appeared,” a relative said later, “that the priest and the family suddenly realized they were about to be swept away by whatever was gushing out of the grave.”
The water rose over the edge of the grave, washing away the Astroturf and forcing anyone who hadn’t already retreated to hop awkwardly through the surf until they reached the road. With the funeral’s mood and solemnity unambiguously dashed, Wally’s friends and family scattered to their cars. The gushing eventually subsided, but the water in the grave did not. The attendants stood, jaws dropped, as the coffin tipped like a torpedoed freighter and sank head first beneath the surface with a loud extended belch. One of the attendants, a veteran, stood to attention and saluted.
It didn’t take long for the story to spread. Wally’s golfing buddies made cracks about whether Wally had had the foresight to insure against having to be buried twice. But all agreed that being stripped, rewashed, recoiffed, resuited, and stored in an industrial cooler until the weather changed was no laughing matter.
[6]
She appeared upset, but fifty-nine-year-old Luisa Roca nonetheless sat erect in her neutral-toned blouse, sweater, and slacks. On the way to Division, she had described this as the worst morning of her life, barely able to get out a sentence without sobbing. But once they were settled in the interview room, she calmed down after MacNeice brought her a glass of water. She thanked him and sipped from it several times.
Aziz waited for another minute or so before pushing the button on the recorder. “Tell us about the Terrys.”
Luisa shook her head slowly. “I knew Father Terry was dying. He told me last year about the brain tumour.” She swallowed hard, looking down at her glass. “But he didn’t let it get him down.”
Twice a week, after she’d put the laundry in the machine, Luisa would sit with Father Terry to enjoy a cup of tea in the kitchen. They’d talk about her children, who were both married, and how excited she was at the thought of becoming a grandmother. “Father Terry seemed excited for me, even though he’d never met my kids.”
As a devout Catholic, Luisa would occasionally ask him about his faith, and even invited him once to Mass at her church. “He smiled, but he never came. I asked him if he still believed. I remember he said, ‘I still believe in dreams.’”
Concerning Matthew, she was less sanguine. Her relationship with him was strictly business. He never asked about her or her family. He wanted a cleaning lady, not a friend. She understood that and it wasn’t an issue.
“Can you tell us anything about his friends?” Aziz asked.
“No.” She looked from Aziz to MacNeice. “I never saw anyone at the house and he never spoke of friends.”
“What about female friends?”
“No, though Father Terry once told me Matthew was dating someone. I don’t think it worked out.”
“And she never visited the house?”
“Not when I was there. Father Terry said he’d seen them together at the Starbucks near the library. Matthew was with a young woman and he said it didn’t look like business.”
She’d never seen Father Terry and Matthew talking together. Nor had she seen a photo of the old man anywhere in the house. She’d asked Father Terry why that was, but he just smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
Most days, Matthew was gone before she arrived. He left her cheque on the radiator in the front hall, usually with specific requests and clothes folded on the nearby chair: iron this shirt, take this suit to the dry cleaner, store these golf clubs in the basement.
Luisa knew nothing about Matthew’s business but assumed from things his father had said over tea that he was no longer practising law. He was managing his investments. “I didn’t know what that meant, so I asked, ‘Is that work?’ Father Terry laughed and said, ‘Well, my dear, he manages money to make more money.’”
“Did you sort the mail when it arrived, Luisa?” asked Aziz.
“Yes.”
“Letters for Father Terry and Matthew, bills, and so on — you’d separate those?”
“Yes, though Father Terry didn’t get much mail. Just a few Christmas cards from his congregation. Matthew wanted the bills in one pile and his letters in another.”
Aziz nodded. “So you’d read the senders’ names.”
“Yes.”
“Try, if you can, to recall some of those names. For example, there’d be services like telephone and gas, or heating oil, electricity, tax bills. Were there any business or personal letters that stood out?”
Luisa was uncomfortable with the question. “I don’t snoop, Detective.”
“I don’t doubt that. But just as you’d notice a vase out of place or something that wasn’t on a table the last time you cleaned, the same is true of an envelope. A company’s name or logo, someone’s handwriting, something you’d never seen before . . . can you think of anything?”
“I’ll try.” She lowered her head, gazing at her hands, which lay flat on the table. A minute or so passed before she looked up. “There was one letter. I remember it because of the name on the envelope: Nancy Pretty. I thought that was funny because the envelope was such a pretty cream colour. It was addressed to Matthew in fancy handwriting.”
MacNeice glanced at the clock; he had eight minutes before his briefing in Wallace’s office. “I apologize, Luisa, but I need to leave for another meeting. Detective Inspector Aziz will continue with you. If there’s anything else you recall . . .” He shook her hand, picked up his notebook, and stepped outside.
[7]
With a wide grin, the workman slapped the kitchen doorframe. “Now, how about that coffee?” His voice was upbeat, cheerful. He removed his helmet and safety glasses, pulled off his latex gloves, and put them on the table. “Mind if I sit down, Father Terry?”
“Of course not, son. I’ll be right there.” He was pouring water over his teabag. “What do I call you, young man?”
“You can call me William, sir.” He sat down at the table and began using a work cloth to wipe the blood from his face and the reflective tape of his vest. He was casual about it, neither rushed nor particularly thorough. As Terry approached with the mugs, William folded the cloth and set it next to his helmet. He took a sip of coffee and nodded his approval to Father Terry before putting the mug down. “Can I tell you a story?”
Father Terry realized that he hadn’t really studied the young man’s face. The sheen of his bald head made it look like pink alabaster. Under his dominant forehead, both cheek and jawbones were well defined; they conspired to compress his mouth into a wide slit held in place by laugh lines that looked like inverted commas. His eyes, focused on Terry, were hooded with softer flesh, a gentle relief from the hard surfaces. Though he wasn’t smiling, he had t
he lightness of someone who’d found God. For a moment, Terry was jealous.
“I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of my uniform.” He drew Terry’s eyes to the smeared bloodstain on his chest and picked up the cloth to wipe it again.
Terry was suddenly aware of the van’s orange light fragments zipping past his head. “I don’t understand.” He pulled his hand abruptly from the mug, spilling tea across the table.
“I know, but you will.” William wiped up the puddle of tea, leaving a flourish of blood from the cloth. “You see how easy it is to make a mess of things?” He refolded the cloth and drew slow circles over the blood. “Then, just like that, they’re gone.”
Terry could feel the colour draining from his face at the sight of the blood. His lips quivered and he felt like he was freezing. “I don’t feel —”
William spoke. “It’s fear, Father. It’ll pass.” He sipped his coffee as his eyes remained focused on the old man. “Matthew’s dead. I can’t tell you whether it was painless or not, but it was quick.”
Tears filled Terry’s eyes. “Why?”
“Ah.” William smiled, returning to his coffee. “Because a psychopath can always spot another psychopath.” He finished and wiped his mug with the bloody rag.
Terry’s hands were shaking. Self-consciously, he dropped them into his lap.
William undid the front of his jacket and sat back against the wall. When he spoke, his voice was warm and compassionate. The first thing he told Father Terry was that he too would be dead within the hour. He wanted him to want death — or, failing that, to accept it.
“Your son was a manipulative, arrogant, uncaring man. But I suspect you already knew that.”
“How do you know my son?”
“I don’t know him, but I’ve observed him. We frequented the same coffee shop.” William raised his hands. “Confession time, Father. I’m not with Dundurn Hydro.”
Terry listened as best he could, through waves of panic that were overtaken by disbelief, sadness, and remorse. For the previous three months, William said, every Tuesday and Thursday at ten a.m., Matthew had been meeting an attractive young woman at a local Starbucks. The coffee shop offered both an informal sit-down section and high stools at a bar along the window. “I was always able to get a seat and overhear their conversations, no matter how crowded or noisy it was.”
Seeing the confusion on Terry’s face, he explained. “Ever since I was a kid I’ve been able to follow conversations across a room. And because I also have an amazing memory, it became a party trick. People would say, ‘Okay, Willy, what were we talking about across the room just then?’ And off I’d go, recounting what they’d been saying, while jaws dropped around me. Would you like another tea, Father?”
Terry shook his head and answered in a whisper, “No.”
“I’ll pour us some water then. We should stay hydrated.” He put the two mugs in the sink, opened cupboards until he found two glasses, and filled them from the tap. He set one down in front of Terry before retaking his seat. “Matthew was working her; her name is Nancy and she’s a financial analyst. And because I’m a story collector, I was there every Tuesday and Thursday to listen. Everything seemed to be going well, though there was no outward sign that it was an intimate relationship. Your son was making a serious investment in her, and that piqued my interest. Anyway, about two weeks ago, after the usual small talk, she said, ‘Tell me about your folks.’”
Father Terry could feel his throat tighten. He felt faint. Instinctively he pressed his thumbs into his ropey thighs until they hurt.
William sipped some water and wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his forefinger. “Your son’s answer won’t come as a surprise, Father. He said, ‘That’s a boring story. There’s not much to say about them.’”
Terry picked up his glass and took a deep swallow, then lowered it shakily to the table. “No, I’m not surprised.”
“Well, I was,” William said. “So was Nancy. She said he’d been asking all about her parents at dinner the night before and she hadn’t held back. That was a quid pro quo moment — I should mention that Nancy’s father is an extremely wealthy investor. Anyway, your son was stuck. He went to the counter for another latte, but I think he really wanted to gather his thoughts. When he returned, he spoke to her in bullet points.”
Father Terry felt as if he were sinking. His head nodded slightly as he looked into the eyes of Matthew’s killer and listened as he softly, slowly, recited the list.
Mom was bitter and angry. The only time she wasn’t was in the summer, when my father was away.
I think she hated him.
My father was a priest. He created a sect of Catholicism that went nowhere.
Selling the church and the summer camp on Long Point was the only time he made any money.
I became a good student to avoid going to church and the camp.
Father wanted to be an explorer like Wilfred Thesiger, but other than going to Lake Erie, he never left Dundurn.
He was a failure as both a priest and a father.
“I didn’t know the name Wilfred Thesiger. But thanks to that conversation, I’ve read two of his books, and through him I got to know you.” William finished his water. “Anyway, Matthew recited that list like he was reading it off a menu. He was determined to discourage any further discussion about his family, and it worked. Nancy never returned to Starbucks.”
Terry couldn’t help but feel that Matthew’s assessment, though cold and unforgiving, was unquestionably honest. It more or less mirrored his own. But it was surprising to him that Matthew knew anything about the hold Thesiger had on him. He thought the seventy years of questions and observations scratched into the margins of Thesiger’s books had never been seen by anyone, even though they’d been hidden in plain sight on his desk.
Terry’s thoughts turned to his options. Could he get to a phone or push his way, screaming, to the front door and hopefully to freedom? William had yet to produce the weapon that would end his life, but Terry felt certain the young man’s amiability would end quickly if he was given a reason. Already reeling from his sense of guilt and failure, Terry added cowardice to his list of faults. But what weighed even more heavily on him now was his inability to think of a reason why his death shouldn’t happen.
[8]
MacNeice returned to the stone cottage just before nightfall. He took a single serving of lasagna from the freezer and put it in the microwave to thaw. The meal was part of a care package that Marcello had delivered when MacNeice was recovering from his near drowning in the sewer. Marcello’s wife, Chris, his chef and partner in the restaurant, had prepared a range of delicious meals, each labelled and signed with a large, curling C. With the lasagna thawed, MacNeice slipped it into the oven, poured a glass of red wine, and walked outside to breathe in the forest.
A cool breeze was raking along the escarpment. Sparrows and chickadees were chatting in the trees, no doubt comforted by the last warm rays of the sun. Come dusk, they’d find their way home to nest. One particular sparrow had taken to nesting in the hubcap-sized outdoor light MacNeice had installed under the overhanging eaves, so he and Kate could enjoy dinners for two in the garden.
He recalled how hushed those conversations had been; even when they weren’t being romantic, their voices rarely rose above a whisper. It had become a sacred place, but one not without its surprises. On one occasion a skunk had waddled by casually, less than six feet from their table, without even glancing their way. They froze and held their breath, looking at each other wide-eyed. When the skunk had disappeared up the hill, Kate whispered something that meant there was nothing left to say: “Well, peeing in your shoe won’t keep you warm for long.” They broke into rolling laughter that continued until their glasses were empty and tears were streaming down their faces. He was convinced that the crickets had stopped chirping and hundreds of unseen ey
es in the brush and trees were blinking back at them. When they finally retreated inside, both of them were light-headed and ready for bed.
Now, as MacNeice turned to look up at the light, the sparrow looked back, its head poking over the white glass lens. They’d gotten used to each other, but their coexistence meant there was a little pile of sparrow droppings on the stone terrace and, judging by the shadow on the glass, there was another pile inside.
“You’d like this sparrow, Kate. She’s so unafraid.”
I’m sure I would. Maybe I sent her to watch over you.
“Did you?”
No. At least, not knowingly.
MacNeice could hear his cellphone ringing in the kitchen. He swallowed his wine and went inside. It was Aziz.
“Mac, I want to give you an update on the interview with Luisa. Is this a good time?”
“It is, though I’m just about to burn my supper. Give me a second.”
He took the lasagna out of the oven and placed the steaming container on a plate. He poured another glass of wine and sat down. “I’m back.”
“There’s an epilogue to the story about the letter from Nancy Pretty.” On her next cleaning day, Luisa had found it in the garbage. It had been torn to bits — not just crumpled up and tossed away, not just torn in half, but in her words, “ripped almost to confetti.” She noticed it because, when she emptied the wastebasket in Matthew’s room, cream-coloured paper had fluttered onto the carpet and she had to vacuum it up. She felt certain it was the Pretty letter.
“After I sent Luisa home, I looked up Pretty’s name. There’s no home phone registered, but I got her office number. It’s closed for the weekend, but I’ll call Monday morning. How was your meeting with Wallace?”
Vantage Point Page 3
