12 Rose Street

by Gail Bowen

  We raised our glasses to Bev, sipped, and the luncheon was over. The salon emptied quickly. It was a workday and the guests had commitments. They lined up at the tables where they could leave cheques for the scholarship and say their final farewells before leaving.

  Liz and I lingered at our table for a moment, then we both picked up our things. Liz leaned across the table, plucked two gerberas from the centrepiece, handed one to me, and pressed the other inside her program. We walked downstairs in silence, crossed the lobby, and stepped through the glass doors at the gallery entrance. The rain had stopped. The sun was peering out, and the air smelled of wet leaves and grass. Liz touched my arm. “I know how busy you are, Joanne, but could you indulge me for a few minutes?”

  In the year since Beverly’s death, Liz’s face had become permanently lined by sadness. I was weary, but turning down any request Liz made was unthinkable. “Of course,” I said. “But won’t Graham be waiting?”

  “Graham will already be back at his office,” Liz said. “He always has urgent business to take care of. Besides, what I have in mind won’t take long. After Beverly and I visited the gallery we always went to the Mackenzie’s Outdoor Sculpture Garden. You and I don’t have to do the whole tour, but I’d like to pay a quick visit to Potter, Valadon, and Teevo.”

  Liz didn’t have to explain the reference. Potter, Valadon, and Teevo were Joe Fafard’s life-sized bronze sculptures of a bull, a cow, and a calf. The three animals stood in an informal grouping on the lawn close to Albert Street. Many a harried driver, frustrated by traffic and urban life in general, had found solace in Fafard’s reminder of a simpler time.

  Clearly, Liz Meighen felt a powerful connection to the animals. When we reached them, Liz went to Potter, rubbed his flank, then moved to Valadon and stroked her back. Finally, she went to Teevo, the calf, and rested her hand on his head. Her movements, as Beverly’s had been, were artless and sure. “You and Bev are so much alike,” I said.

  There was sorrow in Liz’s smile. “Nothing you could have said would please me more. I miss Beverly every second of every day. I tell myself that she was in my life for thirty-eight years, and that I should be grateful for that.”

  “I know. After my first husband died, I tried to hold on to the fact that we had had almost twenty good years together.”

  “You wanted more,” Liz said simply. “So did I. I wanted Beverly’s to be the last face I saw before I died.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “But it wasn’t to be. This Friday is the anniversary of Bev’s death. I’ve been keeping very much to myself this past year. I’m going to allow myself one last day of grieving and then I’m going to rejoin the world.”

  When I turned onto Halifax Street, I saw that Debbie Haczkewicz’s grey Ford Fusion was parked in front of our building. As I waited for the gate that led to our parking garage to open, I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. Standing in the wet grass looking at the Fafard cattle, I had found a measure of peace. Whatever news Debbie brought would inevitably shatter that peace. The red speedboat’s passage towards the unknown was inexorable. All I could do was hang on to the rope and hope for the best.

  Debbie and Zack were at the dining room table having coffee when I came in.

  “Perfect timing,” Zack said. “Debbie just told me she has some intriguing information.”

  I kicked off my pumps, gave Zack a quick embrace, and took the chair next to Debbie’s. “Shoot,” I said.

  Debbie raised an eyebrow. “Hold on because this one’s a doozie. Cronus named Zack as his executor and sole beneficiary.”

  Zack leaned towards her. “You’re kidding.”

  “No. The lawyer who handled Cronus’s will called this morning to say that since Cronus named you as next of kin, executor, and sole beneficiary, we should deal with you.”

  “Who’s the lawyer?” Zack asked.

  “Darryl Colby,” Debbie said.

  “The cherry on the cheesecake,” Zack said. “Darryl’s one of the few lawyers in town who really gets under my skin.”

  “It’s his aftershave,” I said. “It’s industrial strength.”

  “I’ll remember to conduct all my business with Mr. Colby electronically,” Debbie said.

  “I won’t have that option.” Zack rubbed his eyes. “You know, this really is sad. I barely knew Cronus. To me, he was just another case.”

  “Well, you obviously meant something more to him,” Debbie said.

  Zack’s face was sombre. “I know, and I’ll do everything that needs to be done. I’m assuming you won’t be releasing the body for the foreseeable future.”

  “It will take forensics time to get everything they need – not just from Cronus’s body but from his car. The Porsche is still in the parking lot behind the Sahara Club being processed: fingerprints, photographs, blood samples – all the initial stuff. We’ll transport it to the police garage later this afternoon so we can give it a thorough going-over. There are a lot of question marks around this case, and we don’t want to rush to judgment.”

  “So what do you think happened to Cronus?” Zack said.

  Debbie shook her head. “I know what somebody wants us to think. The excessive violence and the stomping on the body suggest gang involvement. We also found a red bandana at the scene.”

  “Implicating Red Rage,” Zack said.

  “We’re checking out that angle,” Debbie said. “But the placement of that red bandana is a little too convenient. Gang members are proud of their scarves. They go through the stomping ceremony to win the right to wear them. I can’t imagine any gang member casually dropping his scarf close to the body of someone he’d just murdered.”

  “Rival gangs have been known to battle,” Zack said. “A member of another gang might have ripped off the bandana during a fight and held on to it so he could use it to frame Red Rage later.”

  “We’re working on that possibility too,” Debbie said. “The first step is tracing the scarf to a specific member of Red Rage. If there is DNA on the scarf other than Cronus’s, and it matches the DNA of someone we have on file, we’ve scored – at the very least we’ve connected with a person who can supply a lead about what happened to the scarf.”

  “Will that person be able to tell you why someone killed Cronus, then placed his body on the hood of his car?” I said. My voice was bleak, and Zack reached out and took my hand.

  “I doubt if they’ll volunteer that information,” Debbie said. “I know what you’re getting at, Joanne. This whole gang angle doesn’t ring true. Cronus comes to you and tells you that there’s a plot to abduct a child from the opening of Racette-Hunter. Six hours later he’s murdered and dumped on his car in the parking lot behind the Sahara Club. The first hours of a police investigation are always tricky. We’re jumpy and if we get what we think could be a lead, it’s tempting to drop everything and follow it. This case has a lot of gang markers and we’ll check them out, but the fact that Cronus believed the photo he sent out was enough to thwart the kidnapping plan suggests something larger.”

  “I don’t suppose Cronus’s phone has turned up.”

  “Only in my dreams,” Debbie said. “So we soldier on. We continue to find out everything we can about the scene, the body, and the victim’s past, and hope we come up with something.”

  “So at this point we don’t know anything,” I said.

  “That’s right,” Debbie said. “But, Joanne, I promise you we will, and when that happens, I’ll let you know as much as I can.”

  As she stood to leave, Zack’s cell rang. He grimaced and mouthed Darryl Colby’s name. Debbie and I left him to it. When she and I exchanged goodbyes, Debbie’s face was soft with concern. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m scared to death.”

  Debbie laughed shortly. “That makes two of us,” she said. And then for the first time since I’d known her she embraced me. “We’ll get them,” she whispered and then she was gone.

  Zack was stil
l on the phone when I went back into the living room. “Open the windows,” he said. “Darryl’s on his way.”

  I sat on the couch and peeled off my pantyhose. Zack watched appreciatively. “Don’t ever do that again unless we can celebrate the moment.”

  “No time to celebrate now?”

  “No,” Zack said. “Darryl will be here in fifteen minutes.”

  “What’s the rush?” I said.

  “I have no idea. Darryl just said the matter was urgent.”

  “It must be urgent if Darryl’s coming here. The one time he encountered Pantera was not pleasant.”

  Zack laughed quietly at the memory. “It was pleasant for Pantera. He got to push his snout into Darryl’s ass and usher him out of the house.”

  “I’ll put the dogs upstairs,” I said. “I still shudder when I remember the size of Darryl’s dry cleaning bill.”

  I shepherded Willie and Pantera into our room. As I changed clothing, I summoned up my memories of Darryl Colby. There were mercifully few. The first time I met him was at a bar association Christmas party. He sang “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” in a big booming bass, and I told Zack that Darryl seemed like a lot of fun. Zack shuddered and said that, in the immortal words of Dr. Seuss, Darryl was as cuddly as a cactus and as charming as an eel and I’d be smart to stay away from him. Except for Darryl’s memorable encounter with Pantera I’d kept my distance.

  Darryl Colby was near the top of my list of people I never wanted to see standing on my doorstep, but seemingly my options were being whittled away. When he called from downstairs, I buzzed him in. His aftershave, heavy with the scent of musk, made my eyes water. He was tall, heavy-set, large-featured, and raven-haired. Before Darryl stepped over the threshold, he looked past me suspiciously.

  “I shut the dogs into one of the rooms upstairs,” I said.

  Darryl didn’t acknowledge my assurance that he was safe; in fact, he didn’t acknowledge my presence at all. Zack came out to meet him, hand extended in greeting. “It was good of you to meet me here, Darryl. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Darryl didn’t shake Zack’s hand, but he did place his order. “Double JD on the rocks,” he said. I led Darryl to the dining room. He put his briefcase on the table and waited. Zack wheeled back with three glasses of bourbon on the tray on his lap. He handed the drinks around.

  “Joanne will be joining us, Darryl,” he said. “Obviously the information in Cronus’s will affects us both and she should be here when you explain the specifics.”

  Darryl took a large sip from his glass. “That won’t take long,” he said. He removed a folder from his briefcase. “Here’s the will. I’ve couriered Cronus’s files to your office at Falconer Shreve. You have three floors of lawyers there. They won’t have any difficulty handling the legal work.”

  Zack raised an eyebrow. “You’re quitting?”

  “I want to be as far away from this as possible,” he said. Then he drained his glass and picked up his briefcase. “I hope you realize that Cronus has really fucked you.”

  “Was that his intent?” Zack said.

  Darryl shook his head. “No,” he said. “Cronus believed you were his one true friend.”

  “So why would he fuck me?”

  Darryl’s smile was both smug and cruel. “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he said. Then he left.

  When we heard the door close behind him, Zack picked up his glass. “So what do you think?”

  “I think I’m glad you pour generous drinks,” I said. “I’d better get dinner started. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Spaghetti,” Zack said. “I’ll take a look at the will and whatever other goodies Darryl brought us and then I’ll come and make a salad.”

  By the time Taylor came home from school, the spaghetti sauce was simmering but Zack was still hunched over his laptop. Our family tries to keep mealtime talk light and lively. That night Taylor carried the ball for the three of us. She’d had a very good day. She’d been invited to a sixteenth birthday party sleepover on a farm where the parents owned riding horses. Her new Latin teacher actually made Latin interesting, and best of all, her first-term schedule had three days with no first period classes, so she could paint at night and do homework in the morning.

  In its previous incarnation, the building in which we lived had been a warehouse where women kept their winter furs. The words COLD STORAGE, written in block letters three feet high, were still visible on the building’s faded cream brick. When Margot and her husband, Leland, moved into 325 Halifax Street, they planned to buy out the condo owners on the first floor and convert the space into offices for their development company, Peyben. Leland’s death changed everything. The last condo owner had moved out over a year ago, but Margot was still mulling over how best to use the space on the main floor. When Taylor could no longer work in her old studio, Margot offered her the use of a large, undeveloped room on the first floor. The offer was heaven-sent. Our building was secure and Taylor’s studio would be just an elevator ride away.

  As a thank-you, Taylor was painting a portrait of Margot with Declan and Lexi for a Christmas gift. After we’d cleaned up, Taylor went downstairs to work on the portrait, and Zack and I took our coffee out to the terrace. The rain had washed the air, and we positioned ourselves so the sun was warm on our faces. For a few minutes we were quiet, breathing in the scent of nicotiana, revelling in the peace of a perfect September evening.

  Zack broke the silence. “How was the luncheon for Bev?” he asked.

  “Emotional – especially at our table. I sat between Liz and Graham Meighen.”

  “That can’t have been easy.”

  “It wasn’t, but I’m glad Liz and I were seated next to each other. We both needed shoring up.”

  “How was Graham?”

  “Charming. He told a nice story about his relationship with Beverly. The punchline was that when she was four, Bev told her father she thought he was wrong about just about everything.”

  Zack laughed. “From the conversations I had with Beverly, I don’t think her opinion changed much on that score.”

  “It didn’t,” I said. “But according to Graham, he and Bev had a loving relationship. That was news to me, but Liz didn’t react.”

  “How is Liz?”

  “She’s struggling,” I said. “Bev will have been dead a year this Friday. Liz is hoping that once the anniversary has passed, she’ll be able to move forward.” I remembered the lines sorrow had carved in Liz’s gentle face. “It won’t be easy.”

  I picked up the carafe and poured us each more coffee. “Your turn now. What’s new on the Cronus situation?”

  Zack tented his fingers and breathed deeply. “Let’s see. I spent the last hour or so tracing Cronus’s holdings in North Central. It seems you and I are big winners in the game of slum Monopoly. Among other properties, we own a good chunk of Rose Street.”

  “Did you happen to notice if we own Number 12?”

  “Nope, but I can find out easily enough.”

  “Don’t bother. It’s so nice just to sit here and relax.”

  Zack sipped his coffee. “Agreed,” he said. “So what’s special about Number 12?”

  “The day I waited for the ambulance to come for Angela, the girl whose boyfriend threw her to the pavement, an old woman who lives at Number 12 came outside and quoted the Book of Revelation – a vivid description of the lake that burns with fire and sulphur for murderers and the sexually immoral.”

  Zack was pensive. “And this was directed at Angela?”

  “No. Angela is a sex worker, but the old woman said Angela was an innocent, and the lake was reserved for the evil ones, the ones who use the bodies of innocents and steal their souls.”

  Zack grimaced. “I wonder where that puts us on the continuum. Thanks to Cronus, you and I will never have to work another day in our lives, but our comfort will be financed by rent money from sex workers, addicts, alcoholics, and everybody else that polite
society considers subhuman.”

  “And we’ll be exploiting the people our campaign is promising to help.”

  “Yeah, and I guess that’s what Darryl was alluding to when he said Cronus fucked me. Jo, I don’t see how I can run for mayor when I own this real estate.”

  “I don’t either,” I said. “If we sell that property we’re going to make a lot of money and change nothing. The new owners will still be gouging people to pay for rat-infested substandard housing with black mould and faulty wiring.”

  “And the beat goes on,” Zack said. “The only way to deal with those houses is to do what Peyben is doing with The Village – tear the buildings down and start from scratch. I’m prepared to do that, but while the big machines tear down the old to make way for the new, the people who live in Cronus’s houses have nowhere to go.” Zack rubbed his temples. “It’s going to be tough promising to change the city when I can’t solve a problem in my own backyard.”

  “Do you want to quit the campaign?” I said.

  “No,” Zack said.

  “Then we’ll call a press conference tomorrow, explain the situation, and say that you’ll improve the properties you own as much as you can without disturbing the tenants, and as mayor you’ll work towards long-term solutions to the city’s housing problem.”

  Zack grinned. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “We’re going to take a lot of flack,” I said. “But we both know how to duck.” I picked up my coffee mug. “I’ll call Milo and get him to set up a press conference. Let’s do it on Rose Street – show that you’re prepared to face the problem head on. I’ll make sure Milo copies Slater Doyle on the announcement.”

  “So Ridgeway’s people can’t leak the contents of Cronus’s will,” Zack said admiringly. “What makes you think they’d even know?”

  “I imagine Darryl Colby will find a way to get the information to them. This is Regina. Everybody knows and everybody tells. You should probably give Brock a call. I’ll go over to Margot’s and fill her in.”