by Cathy Ace
Still not able to sleep, I let my eyes run over the rest of Global’s headlines. The area’s “Most Searched” stories, sorted by popularity: record amounts of rain had fallen on the Lower Mainland, and areas of Coquitlam and White Rock had flooded—no news there; those areas always flood when it rains heavily; gas had hit record high prices in Downtown Vancouver for the second day running—again, not really news; and a South Surrey woman had been the victim of a targeted shooting. I sat in amazement for a moment—I mean, how can people be more interested in the weather and gas prices than in a fatal shooting? A “targeted killing” always means a gang was involved. What are these women thinking who marry or go out with gangsters? This victim wasn’t the first partner of a gang member to be shot that way; nor, probably, would she be the last. A year earlier a woman had been shot while her two-year-old son was sitting in the child-seat in the back of the car—just to send a message to her drug-runner husband. Terrible, yes, but hardly unpredictable.
I realized as I read the headline that maybe that was what had got Bud caught up at the office, or maybe even at the scene of the shooting, and the grip on my stomach stood down from red to amber alert. I was still a bit miffed that he hadn’t followed through on his offer to contact Moreau.
With one concern slightly alleviated I decided I’d better try to give some more thought to how the necklace might have been stolen from the Townsends’ apartment, rather why. If three people had a “why,” then if I spent time working out the “how,” maybe I could narrow things down a bit. I’m good with the “why” because it’s what I do—I work out why people do what they do, but I don’t usually get involved with how they do it. That’s where Bud’s lot always took over. I didn’t have “Bud’s lot,” and Moreau had made it clear that I wasn’t going to get any inside information from him, so I made a few notes and came up with some questions that needed answering.
#1 If the necklace was stolen before the party, who could have stolen it? Where were Beni, Chuck, and Gerard on Friday afternoon? Tamsin was out when Beni arrived with the bread, so the apartment was empty—a good time for theft.
#2 If the necklace was stolen at the party, how did the thief get it out of apartment?
#3 Who knew where the necklace was hidden?
#4 Was it even hidden—am I assuming this because it wasn’t in view when I arrived, and no one said it was missing then?
#5 How did Tamsin know it was missing? She must have known where it was supposed to be. Why did she bother to check for the necklace when her husband had just died?
I was happy with that list—well, as happy as you can be when you’ve just written down a bunch of questions that you don’t know the answers to. At least my thoughts were a bit clearer, so I followed the same process for the deaths of Alistair and Madelaine.
#1 How did digitalis get onto snails?
I stopped there. With internet access freely available there was no reason why I couldn’t bone up on snail rearing and digitalis. It helped a great deal, because suddenly I understood why Alistair had been hosing down the snails he’d had delivered to the apartment days before the party. The snails would have arrived in boxes. Internet photos showed them to be large boxes, with holes in the bottom and the top. You keep the little creatures in the boxes for a few days before they’re on the menu so you can purge them of all the nasty stuff that hangs around in their digestive tracts. Yuk—I saw the sense in that! If he’d been feeding them, which Tamsin said he had, it was likely that he’d been giving them dill: I could recall they had indeed been dill flavored. Apparently, snails’ bodies intensify whatever they ingest. That was interesting.
I moved onto reading about digitalis, which is derived from foxgloves. I love their jolly spikes—they are so common in and around Vancouver, where there are lots of damp spots. I was surprised to find that the whole plant is toxic, not just the flowers. I tried finding out if one could make a toxic substance by drying foxglove leaves then grinding them into some sort of powder. I thought maybe someone could have sprinkled a powder onto the snails after they were cooked. It seemed that all the sources agreed that you’d need a lot of the stuff to make people as ill as we had all been, and a huge quantity to kill someone—and I was pretty sure we hadn’t all been eating foxglove leaves in the salad! I couldn’t envisage foxgloves even growing in Nice: bougainvillea, yes; mimosa, yes; foxgloves, no. It’s just a bit too bright and arid on the Cote d’Azur for foxgloves. It was much more likely that Alistair’s stash of digitalis-based pills had been employed.
I wasn’t sure how the digitalis might have got onto the snails, but I was pretty sure it must have done so sometime between their preparation and their arrival at the table. According to several websites, the correct way to cook snails once they are out of their shells is by simmering them, something I was sure Alistair would have done because he was always one to do things the “correct” way. But even this would not have reduced the toxicity of the digitalis.
So my notes to myself ended up being just a list of words: cleansing, dill, digitalis, pills, simmering.
#2 How did the murderer know that Alistair would take/had taken extra pills?
Now that was a tough one. Either the murderer had depended on Alistair’s apparently erratic dosing habits, which seemed unlikely, or they had somehow actively encouraged him to take more pills than usual that particular day. The second option seemed much more plausible. And it meant the murderer must have spent time with the victim on the day he died. I wrote down all the suspects’ names, then thought about each of their whereabouts on Friday. As I worked through what I already knew, which wasn’t much, something else suddenly dawned on me. I needed to find out where everyone had been on Friday after lunch, not only to know if they’d been in contact with Alistair, but also to determine whether they might have had access to the Townsends’ apartment, giving them time to steal the necklace before the party.
I went back to my list. Tamsin, of course, would have had any number of chances to urge Alistair to take his pills, but I was still wondering why she’d want to steal a necklace that was going to be hers anyway. Beni had told me he’d been to the Townsends’ apartment some time after four o’clock but no one was home. Presumably, he’d been at the museum before that, and he’d told me he’d gone back there between delivering the bread and catching a cab to the party. He’d seen Gerard at the apartment when he’d left the bread with him—so had Gerard been at the Palais all day? Had he seen Alistair later on, after Alistair left me? Where was Chuck all day? I assumed he worked from home, but I guessed writers do more than just write. At certain points in their creative cycle they must do other things, like carrying out research or checking drafts of their manuscripts. So maybe he’d been elsewhere that day. Madelaine—what about her? I knew as much about her whereabouts as I did of Tamsin’s—nothing.
Yes, I decided I’d do some research when I’d had some sleep. But, how? How was I going to come up with a reason to talk to any of these people ever again? They weren’t my friends or anything. We’d been brought together originally by Alistair, and now thrown back together because of the horrible occurrences since my arrival at Tamsin’s birthday party. I’d somehow have to come up with an excuse to talk to them all.
I finally realized I was getting sleepy. I hoped that if I made a quick dive into the bed, I might actually drift off for a few hours. I powered down the laptop, unhooked all the leads, and clambered in between the sheets, where I lay for a few moments fantasizing about something sweet to nibble on, before finally drifting off to sleep. Dreams about giant snails chasing me through skyscraper-high grass didn’t wake me, though I was briefly roused by the noise of the garbage collectors outside my window at about four-thirty. I managed to slip back to my dreams, which were now populated by foxglove flowers eating pasta . . . in the way they can when you’re asleep and dream-logic rules.
When my bedside telephone rang at nine o’clock, I awoke with a start to discover that the birthday cake I thought I’d be
en munching was, in fact, my pillow, and it didn’t taste at all good. A dry mouth was the least of my problems. When I picked up the phone I heard sobbing, followed by Tamsin’s high-pitched whine. “Oh, Cait—I’m so glad I got hold of you . . . Please come, come quick . . . It’s Gerard, something terrible has happened . . .” And with that, she hung up.
Oh, whoop de bloody doo!
Good morning, Cait Morgan—this is your wake-up call . . . and off we go again!
Sunday Morning
I WASN’T REALLY WITH IT for a moment or two, which was understandable given that I’d had less than six hours’ sleep, and none of those hours seemed to have been particularly reviving. I forced myself to the bathroom, where I showered, washed my hair, dried it, and put on my makeup—all of which gave me the chance to gather my wits about me to face whatever the day might hold.
Remembering that Tamsin was nothing if not a drama queen, I tried to find her phone number and call her back before I went storming up to Cimiez again, maybe on a fool’s errand, or maybe to be confronted by yet another dead body. It was a fifty-fifty chance, I reckoned. My room didn’t have a telephone directory, so I went down to the hotel lobby to be greeted by the now familiar face of the receptionist, who pulled a tired old book from under the desk and handed it to me with a suspicious look. I rustled through the pages until I got to the “T’s,” but there were no listings at all for “Townsend.” Of course not. I tried “Damcott”—nothing—then finally “Fontainbleu.” Of course, there were dozens! I finally found Gerard’s number and entered it into my cell phone. On a final whim, I tried “Brunetti”: there were a few, but only one with the initial “B,” so I saved what I hoped was Beni’s number and gave the receptionist back his book. He looked relieved. Maybe he thought I was some weird type of criminal who would have made off with it given half a chance.
I walked out of my hotel to be greeted by a beautiful morning. There literally wasn’t a cloud in the magnificent blue sky; it wasn’t just the color of the sea that had caused this area to be named “azur.” My hotel was adjacent to the zone piétonne, so I walked the pedestrianized streets until one particular coffee shop smelled too good to pass by. I sat and ordered a double espresso, a bottle of Perrier water, and two croissants.
As I waited for my order to arrive I lit a cigarette, just to fit in, and decided to brave it and call Gerard’s number. Uncomfortably, all I got was the ring tone, not even a chance to leave voice mail. I became rather more worried about what might have happened to the old man, which spurred me on to dare to dial the number that I hoped was Beni’s.
A deep-voiced “Pronto,” was the sharp reply.
“Is that you, Beni?”
“Yes—ah it is Cait, I think?” came Beni’s welcome response.
“Yes, it is—I hope you don’t mind me calling you?” It was a concern for me, on several levels. “You must have been with Moreau until all hours, and it’s not ten o’clock yet.”
“No, do not worry, it is a good surprise. How did you get my number? Did I give it to you?”
“No—but you’re in the phone book. I looked you up.” Was I beginning to sound like a stalker?
“This is good! Would you like to meet for breakfast? I would enjoy your company. We seem to eat together a great deal, you and I. It is very pleasant.”
I’ll be honest, my heart fluttered a little. Well, whose wouldn’t? I’ve never been the sort of girl, or woman for that matter, that men take out on dates. I’ve always just sort of drifted into relationships. I know some women who are showered with flowers and gifts, collected in cars at an appointed time, taken out for nice dinners or even to the theatre or art galleries—all of which I would enjoy very much. But that hasn’t been me. I’m “The life and soul of the party, Cait,” or “You’re always happier down the pub, aren’t you, Cait.” Here was a handsome man telling me that he enjoyed eating with me, and inviting me to do so again. It sounded pretty damned perfect! How I wanted to say yes, but instead, I did what I knew I should do.
“I’d love to, Beni—but I actually called you about Tamsin.” What a way to put a damper on things, Caitlin Morgan! When a man you fancy asks you to join him for a meal, tell him you’d rather talk about a young blond who’s “got the hots” for him instead!
“Tamsin? What is wrong now?” Beni sounded apprehensive, and as though he dreaded my answer.
I took a deep breath. “She rang me at my hotel telling me I ‘had to come’ because something dreadful has happened to Gerard. Please don’t think I’m heartless, Beni; I think Gerard is very sweet and I’m very worried about him, especially given . . . well, you know.” I didn’t want to discuss dead bodies in front of a full café at breakfast time. “But I knew that if I was going to have to face another day like yesterday, I had to take the time to get myself cleaned up, and now I’m just about to grab a coffee and a croissant. I called the number I found for Gerard, but there’s no answer, and Tamsin isn’t listed in the telephone directory, so I couldn’t call her back to get the full story. You were listed, so I thought you might be able to get in touch with her to find out what on earth is going on.”
“It might be something very bad, or it might be nothing at all,” said Beni, echoing my own initial thoughts. It was nice to know I wasn’t alone in my assessment of Tamsin. “I will call Tamsin and will telephone you on this number when I have more information.” He sounded very businesslike, then he hung up.
There went my chance to dine with the divine Beni. I comforted myself with the flaky, buttery croissants I’d ordered, and put my phone on the table so I could answer it quickly when it rang. My phone bill was going to be horrendous!
I’d just finished brushing crumbs from my blouse when my phone sprang to life. It wasn’t Beni’s number.
“Hello?” I replied hesitantly.
“Hi, Cait?” It was Bud. I was delighted to hear his voice—relieved too.
“Bud—yes, it’s me! It’s great to hear your voice. I was worried about you. Where are you calling from? Are you okay?”
“Cait, shh—listen, I’ve got to be quick. I can’t talk for long, but I had to call you quickly to tell you I’ll be out of touch over the next few days. I’ve got something to deal with here that has to have my full attention, and I won’t have time to help you out at all. Sorry, but there it is.” His voice sounded . . . I couldn’t quite put my finger on it . . . defeated, yet still angry? He was almost whispering.
Instinctively, I knew that whatever it was he had to focus on, it was serious. My mind flew to the shooting I’d read about on the internet.
“Are you in South Surrey?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“How do you know about it?” snapped Bud. It wasn’t like him.
“I read about it on the internet,” I replied, guardedly.
“I didn’t know the news was out yet. At least, not all of it. Damn! Anyway, Cait—it’s nothing you can do anything about. The whole team’s on it, and we’re pretty much sure we know who we’re looking for, and where we’ll find him. It looks like the idiot used his own SUV to drive away from the hit, and a witness got his plate number. He’s holed up at a house that belongs to a known associate of his in Delta. I have to go now. I’m sorry I can’t be there for you, but this has to take precedence. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course, I understand, Bud. Will it be . . . dangerous?” Again, I couldn’t stop myself asking.
“It’s always dangerous with these guys, we all know that—and this one, more than most. This is a new low, even for him. Dangerous or not, we’ll get the bastard, you can be sure of that. If it’s the last thing I do—I’ll get him!” He sounded desperate, a man on a meaningful mission.
“Okay Bud—just go. All the best. Thanks for calling, it means a lot. I’ll be fine. And give my love to Jan . . .” but he’d gone before I’d finished speaking. It had to be something big if he was still working on it at past two in the morning. Poor bugger—it looked as if he was having as bad and as long a Satur
day as I’d had!
I’d hardly had time to begin to feel sorry for Bud, and Jan, who had presumably already spent half of her weekend on her own rather than with her beloved husband, before my phone rang again. This time I recognized the number as Beni’s.
“Hello Beni—so what’s up?” I asked, almost casually.
“It is very sad,” he replied grimly.
“Oh my God—what now?” My heart sank as I thought of all the things that might have happened to poor old Gerard—and there I’d been sipping coffee and stuffing my face with pastries!
Beni’s voice was strong and controlled. “When Gerard was dropped off at the Palais after Moreau interviewed him last night, he fell on the front steps and broke his hip. The police were still there, so they took him straight to the hospital, where they operated last night. He is doing well, but he is likely to be in hospital for some time. He needed supplies—clothes and so on, so he called Daphne, whom we met last night, because she has a key to his apartment. She then called on Tamsin at her apartment, because she knew that she and Gerard were friends. This is what set Tamsin off.”
I could imagine it had. I was sure that, somehow, Gerard’s unfortunate accident had immediately been interpreted by Tamsin as relating to her in some way, shape or form.
“So are you going to see Tamsin—or Gerard in hospital?” To me the answer seemed simple.
“First I will collect you,” replied Beni, giving me a nice, warm feeling, “then we will see Tamsin, and we will gather some items for Gerard from Daphne, and take them to him in hospital. He is the one who needs us the most, but Tamsin must be dealt with first. I thought I might call Chuck and ask him to meet us as Tamsin’s. What do you think?”
“I’m in the zone piétonne right now. How about I walk down to the Meridien hotel on the sea-front and I can meet you there?”
