by Howard Engel
“I know that the Bede Bunch gets Liz’s estate and that the Bede Bunch was founded by Ramsden.”
“But what you don’t know is that the Guild of the Venerable Bede doesn’t exist.”
“What!”
“That’s right. The Bede Bunch has always been Ramsden’s back pocket. It isn’t a legal entity.”
“But don’t they give away lots of money to worthy causes?”
“Don’t you? Don’t I when I’ve got it? There’s no rule that says a private citizen can’t endow a scholarship or pay plane fares. You may find out that the guild has given away less than it likes to think it has. Ramsden didn’t keep books. There was no reason why he should. The Bunch was just another arm of his own activities. I’m sure that he had a bank account in the Bede name, but he could add or subtract from what was there whenever he wanted to.”
“So, what you’re saying is that Liz’s money and property went directly to her sole executor? Why didn’t that come out at the inquest?”
“Nobody was curious enough to ask. The old girls in the Bunch trusted Ramsden. He gave them a place to meet and hold a singsong every week or so. He told them what good deeds their money was doing and, to a great extent, he wasn’t telling fibs.”
“But the Oldridge estate was a tidy sum of money with the potential of getting bigger.”
“I don’t see any of the old girls sending for the Public Trustee.” That’s the office that would make sure that Ramsden’s right hand knew what his left hand was doing. The Public Trustee makes sure we all stay honest.
“How the hell did he think he could get away with it?”
“As long as the whole transaction was done in the name of the Guild, there would be no outcry. Don’t forget that Thurleigh had an ally in Temperley, the bank manager. He could make Ramsden look whiter than white if he had to.”
“So,” I said, after letting this piece of news settle over me, “it all boils down to the fact that Ramsden’s three cousins will inherit Liz’s property and money.”
“They would have, except for a little clause in the Oldridge will which will stop her estate from plunging into his.” McLay lighted a fresh cigarette with an old-fashioned wooden match. “If Ramsden hadn’t died so quickly after Liz, he would have got the lot, through the Bede Bunch. But the will is quite clear: in the event of his death, the estate reverted to one of the other minor beneficiaries.”
I pulled out a pencil and a scrap of paper “Can you give me a name?” I asked. Rupe looked at me and smiled. It was friendlier than saying no. I began to backpedal to see what more I could learn.
“Wait a minute, if the estate was to go to the Bede Bunch, how could Ramsden’s fate figure one way or the other?”
“Since I knew about Ramsden’s relationship with the Bunch, I couldn’t just put it in the will that way. Then nobody would inherit. The will clearly spells out Ramsden’s relationship with the Bunch.”
“Then Oldridge knew?”
“Of course not! She was well past reading anything by the time the will was written. And Ramsden accepted my explanation.”
“So, the old woman never knew.”
“I went around to see her, to see if I could explain it, but it was well beyond her. She said she trusted me and patted my hand.”
“That’s quite a compliment. I don’t think she trusted many.”
“I had no idea Ramsden was not allowing her access to her safety deposit box. That was arranged with the bank. That son of a bitch Temperley! I had no part in that.”
“Why did you tell me this, Rupe?”
“No clients to protect any more. Better to serve the common good. You know. All that stuff. Sorry I bit your ear off when you came in. It’s been a terrible day. The sun has not been seen. I’ve been invited to resign from the firm. I’ve only been here for ten months! Hell, Benny, look at this place! Damn it! Can you imagine that I’m not a credit to all this? I don’t pinch asses and I don’t bed the customers. Unlike some. I think the young, oh so young, Mr. Devlin has ideas of taking this weary partnership into fast water. I’m being chucked overboard to lighten the load.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You’re sorry? Last thing in the world I need is your—!”
“You said ‘Unlike some,’ Rupe. Do you mean anyone in particular? This could be important.”
“Young Devlin last week going off to have lunch with the great Julian Newby! Ha! When do they unveil that public monument? Oh, he was plenty discreet about his affair with Dora Ramsden. Wouldn’t want that model of public virtue, his wife, to find out. Wouldn’t do for the head of the Independent Foundation of the Women of the Commonwealth to have a husband in the divorce court.”
“Who are you talking about? Newby or Devlin?”
“Joanne Newby is head of the IFWC, Benny; Tilly Devlin isn’t up to much yet, but give her time. She’s like her husband. Just give her time.”
“Does that mean there was bad blood between Ramsden and Newby? They still did business together.”
“Ramsden would have been the last to know. Head in red, white and blue clouds of past glory: that was Thurleigh Ramsden. No, he didn’t know about them. Newby wouldn’t allow that.”
“This Julian Newby is getting more and more complicated.”
“Julian has only one game. It’s called control. He wants to manage everything. There can be no loose ends with Julian Newby. He never gives TV interviews, you know. You know why? The esteemed leader of the Grantham bar could not tolerate a situation where he isn’t in charge of both the questions and the answers. That’s why he stays away from the courtroom when he can; lets his partners do the criminal work and litigation. Newby stays close to business.”
“I see,” I said, maybe seeing about half of what he said.
“Newby takes Devlin to lunch. McLay gets his walking papers almost directly afterwards. Funny the way we all play into his hands.”
“I wish I could do something.”
“Like hell you do! Everybody suddenly wants to be Meals on Wheels for good old Rupe! I’ll be damned if I seek your solicitude. Or anybody else’s!” He had pulled himself up to his feet on his side of the mound of paper and teetered over it. A sudden gesture sent a score of documents to the floor.
“Rupe, I know some of the people who worry about you. I know who they are, I mean. I’d say you’re damned lucky in your friends. Maybe luckier than you deserve.”
“You can give me this place without you in it, Cooperman!”
“And leave you to soak up more of your self-pity. You know, Rupe, if I were you I’d stay drunk. It beats trying to figure out what’s going on in this crazy place. And it hands people like Newby a fine set of illustrations for what he’s always saying about you.”
“Try the door and the stairs, Cooperman!”
“Sure, I’m on my way. And thanks, by the way. You’ve been a bigger help than most.”
“The door’s that way! Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion!”
I got out of there as fast as I could as his grip around the neck of his bottle tightened.
TWENTY-SIX
I was about to open the door that would let me back out onto King Street, when I heard my name called in a voice that was close to breaking. I turned and was looking into the frightened face of Antonia Wishart. She was haggard and, as I said, frightened.
“Mr. Cooperman, may I talk to you for just a minute? You don’t know me, but Rupe has mentioned you a few times. I’ve got to speak to somebody. I’ve never seen him so low. I’m scared for him.”
“Mrs. Wishart, you’re not quite a stranger. Nobody is in a town this size. How can I help?”
“I can’t reach him any more. I used to make a difference. I don’t know what to say.” I took my hand from the door and turned towards her. Before I had put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, she began to collapse into me. I grabbed her and held her close until the sobs that started racking her body began to subside. I heard myself saying: “There, the
re; there, there,” and rubbing her back because I couldn’t think of anything less futile to do with her.
“My friends call me ‘Benny,’ why don’t you start there,” I said in my most reassuring voice. When she grew calmer and I’d stopped my massage of her vertebrae, I pulled her out the door and into the coffee shop across the road next to the market.
It was deserted of all but the most stalwart of the Christmas shoppers. The rough, red faces of those with market stalls had long ago driven their trucks back into the hinterland, leaving the back tables empty for the likes of Antonia Wishart and me.
I couldn’t get a good look at her for some time, because she was rubbing her eyes with a man-sized handkerchief. I got glimpses of red eyes and matching nose and cheeks. I helped her pull off the coat she had hanging on her shoulders. The waitress brought two coffees without being asked. They already had milk or cream in them. I couldn’t wait to taste whether the sugar had gone in as well. I tried mine. The sugar was in place. All I had to do was to stir it until the desired degree of sweetness was achieved. I took my time and kept my mouth otherwise shut. By the time I’d finished my coffee and was waiting for a refill, Mrs. Wishart was blowing her nose and trying to pull herself together. After she had replaced the handkerchief in her expensive leather handbag, she looked at me for the first time. “Thanks,” she said. “I keep forgetting I’m not made of granite.”
“Drink some coffee,” I said and she picked up her cup, almost at once. Neither of us spoke while the waitress refilled my cup. When she’d returned to the dark front of the shop, Mrs. Wishart let me see a whisper of a smile.
“Why do you care so much?” I asked, then wished I hadn’t said it.
“The usual reason, I guess,” she said, struggling with a cigarette and taking a deep drag when it was finally alight. “I don’t suppose you’d understand.”
“I think I know a little. But why is he taking this defeat harder than all the others?”
“He thinks this place is the last law office in town he hasn’t somehow let down. Now he’s as good as blacklisted all over town.”
“There are a few places up Niagara Street he hasn’t tried. And there’s always my cousin Melvyn. No, I think it’s more than that. It’s because he thinks Julian Newby has taken a personal hand in this. Do you think it’s true?”
“Julian likes to pull strings,” she said. For a woman who a few minutes earlier had been a moist handkerchief and a spasm of sobs, she had pulled herself together remarkably. The cords in her neck sometimes tightened as she fought to regain her composure. “I used to think he wanted to be the richest man in town, but I was wrong. It’s power he’s in love with, not money He’s happy making Steve Morella rich. He knows that he was the one who made it happen.”
“Why does he dislike Rupe?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes, I really want to know.”
“I could tell you that he thinks Rupe is giving law a bad name in this town. And he’d be right; Rupe’s had a hard life. But the reason Julian hates him is because of me.” She paused before answering my unspoken question. “I was with Julian before I went with Rupe.”
“I see. Julian Newby is quite the man. I just heard about him and Dora Ramsden.”
“Dora? Oh, he knew Dora first long before she married. If Thurleigh knew about it, he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.”
“But you’ll admit, he does get around.”
“Dora and I were good friends. We were, I mean, before Julian saw me coming home very late one night from the Byline Ball. I was with Orv, of course, and Julian told me I was like magic.” I could believe Newby’s assessment of Antonia Wishart. Of course, now she looked terrible, with her face blotchy from crying and her hair in a mess, but she had all the right makings. The good bones were there in her face; her figure was more than ample but she carried herself well. I could almost see glimpses of the magic Newby had noticed.
I didn’t realize I’d been staring at Antonia until she began speaking again. I couldn’t see whether I blushed or not. Maybe she liked it. Maybe there isn’t enough magic in the world sometimes.
“Mr. Cooperman, there’s something that 1 should give you.” I probably looked blank, because she said the same thing again in different words. While she was doing this, she rooted around in her bag and brought out a rather soiled and much-folded piece of paper, which she handed across to me. I opened it and read. It was a handwritten list of numbered companies, small companies and corporations. The list nearly filled the page.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“Rupe would never give it to you. It’s his pride. He wants everybody to think that his handling of Sue Ellen Morella’s divorce was all his own doing. But this is what made the settlement possible. It’s all of Steve’s shadowy holdings, the ones he didn’t want her to know about.”
“You took it from Rupe’s files?”
“And he’s never to know that.”
“You want me to use it to get back at Newby? You want me to use it to smear him? You know I can’t do that. Not even to please a lady.” I tried to hand the paper back to her, but she held up her palm.
“Keep it anyway. I don’t want it any more.” I took it and stuffed it into my inside breast pocket.
“Can you tell me why Rupe is trying to kill himself with drink?”
“It’s the wounds he got in Korea. His legs still give him a lot of pain. He drinks rather than take drugs. He came back from Korea with a morphine addiction. He replaced the one addiction with another.”
“He could get help for all of that, you know.”
“Sure, I know. Damn it, even he knows. But he won’t do anything about it.
“You could help.”
“I’ve been helping. I’ve tried. But I can’t do any more as long as my mother’s alive. I can’t complicate that part of my life right now. It’s bad enough as it is.”
“And when your mother passes on?”
“‘Dies,’ that’s the word. When she dies, I’ll be able to write my own script, not follow someone else’s scenario.”
“Will Orv be able to swallow that?” I asked.
“Orv’s married to a television station. And he’s welcome to it. He’s never been unfaithful to the station and never will be. I can’t make myself jealous, Mr. Cooperman. CXAN won hands down. I’m not contesting the decision.”
“You’re feeling a little better, I think?”
“Do you have to go somewhere?”
“No.”
“Then just sit here with me for another minute. Okay?”
I sat with her without saying anything for another ten minutes. We sipped our coffee and when we had both finished we got up and left the coffee shop. For a minute, I thought it was snowing again.
I walked Antonia Wishart to her Volvo, parked behind City Hall. She held my hand briefly before shutting the door and I watched her back out of the space and drive out into traffic on Church Street. I’d been right about one thing: it was snowing.
Coming back to the office I tried to remember a thought that was only semi-visible in my memory. It had something to do with the list of Morella’s assets. I’d seen that writing somewhere before.
TWENTY-SEVEN
First thing Tuesday morning I wrestled with the blue pages at the back of my telephone book. I tried a number of government numbers and got lost in making electronic choices with my Touch Tone buttons, choices I had no interest in and choices that kept me away from what I really wanted, which was to speak to a human being. I finally got one at the end of an 800 number in Thunder Bay, Ontario. I explained my problem and was shunted about the freight yard until I came to the roundhouse known as Mr. Stevenson. God bless Mr. Stevenson. May his life be long, may his children honour him until he is overwhelmed by years and riches. I gave him some names and dates and, in return, he gave me information— some of which I had already guessed—that I wrote down for future reference.
Next, I phoned Jo
e Castaldi, an old friend who worked in the Hamilton Police Department’s records department. I gave him the date of Dora Ramsden’s fatal accident on the Burlington Skyway and he gave me—finally, after some minutes spent in the limbo called “hold”—the details of the accident report and the name of the garage that towed the car off the bridge.
I phoned the garage and confirmed that Stavro Kouloukis, the owner, would be in all day. I looked at my watch after I hung up. I didn’t want to take a long drive out of town, but what could I do? It would be too easy for him to put me off over the telephone. I had to talk to Kouloukis face to face.
The drive along the Queen Elizabeth Way to Burlington runs through flat beach country, studded with vineyards and orchards, where they haven’t been displaced by industry. To my right, I caught glimpses of the lake, looking dark and treacherous. To my left, the snow-covered fields ran up to the foot of the escarpment that followed me all the way from Grantham. In general the roads were clear, but they were dirty and wet. I had to keep washing the windshield every time a truck went by in the other direction. It took about ten minutes longer than I’d figured; the directions I’d been given were sound, but I took a wrong turn and got confused somewhere under the Skyway bridge. At least the old canal bridge was down when I crossed and the garage, when I came to it, was well marked.
Stavro Kouloukis was a small man in grease-stained coveralls, who grinned at me like a matinée idol with teeth that were so real and well looked after they looked like cheap fakes.
“Sure, I remember that wreck! She was some mess! Red ’89 Toyota. Sure, what do you want to know for?”
I explained who I was and what I was doing. He looked me up and down, searching for confirmation in my clothes, and finally took me into a small, dirty office with walls covered with pictures of soccer teams at rest and in motion. He flipped through a record book that looked cleaner than I expected and rested a dirty finger on the note he was looking for.
“Yeah! Here it is,” he said, as though all I wanted was to confirm that it existed.
“May I have a peek?” I asked, and he moved out of the way slowly, like that hadn’t been negotiated in advance.
