by Неизвестный
On the first page, a newspaper item was affixed to the black surface. Over time, the glue had smeared through the thin parchment and spoiled some of the copy, but I could still make out most of the words and therefore the gist of the story. A tiny black and white picture of a smiling, attractive woman accompanied the column. Mary (O’Reilly) Byrne, wife of Alfred Byrne, had been murdered in her own church. She was a frequent volunteer housekeeper at Sacred Heart, where she swept the floor, cleaned the pews, and dusted the statues. When the priest entered the church that evening, Mary was lying dead on the altar steps, stabbed in the heart. (A good place to be stabbed in the heart, Sacred Heart, I thought, feeling more than a little silly for some reason. I took another sip to fortify myself.) There were all kinds of accolades listed for Mrs. Byrne, which I skipped over because I had no idea who she was and therefore could not feel sorry for the people who had spouted them. Her family had been too distraught to speak to the reporter. The murder had taken place in St. Mary’s, Ontario.
The next page was another newspaper item, this one quite small but at least unmarked. “An eyewitness to the case of Mrs. Mary Byrne, murdered on the altar of her own church, Sacred Heart, reported seeing an elderly woman entering the building around the time of her death. We are asking this person to call Sergeant McCallum at police headquarters, as she may be instrumental in assisting with our inquiries.”
Page Three was another newspaper item altogether. Nothing more about Mary. This report was from Mission, British Columbia. I couldn’t find a date. Mrs. Ruby Lamont had been murdered at a deserted bus stop in the middle of the night. Again, lots of praise was heaped on Mrs. Lamont by the people who had known and loved her, along with confusion as to why she would be sitting at that particular bus stop at that particular hour. It was quite a distance from her home and she had left her husband and children sleeping peacefully, unaware that Mom had flown the coop. Roooby, don’t take your love to town, I hummed out loud. Curiously, Ruby had been stabbed in the heart, too.
Pages Four, Five and Six were also columns on the death of married women in small towns across Canada. Why on earth did Pom-Pom own this kind of macabre collection? Margaret Phelps had died in the field behind her house, just as she was bringing in some corn for dinner. Some place called Delmas, Saskatchewan. The date was listed as June 3, 1963. Vera O’Malley was murdered in Digby, Nova Scotia, walking along a path in the woods near her home. Constance Haynes was killed in Johnson’s Crossing, Yukon Territory, while on a hunting trip. All five women were highly admired by their friends. Every single one’s death had so upset her family that they would not speak to reporters. Every one of the deceased had been stabbed in the heart. In all, they had left fifteen children motherless.
I began to have a strange feeling in my stomach that was not helped along by the nuts and vodka. I had to do something. So I switched to red wine and chips and dip and kept reading.
The pages following those newspaper reports held a cornucopia of photos, all of people and places I’d never seen, not all glued in place. Some of the pictures fell out onto my lap. Smiling, attractive women bouncing small babies on their knees, or standing beside toddlers, protective hand on the children’s shoulders. Pom-Pom had also kept all kinds of other memorabilia: café napkins, bus tickets, leaves, a feather, a tiny piece of animal fur.
I flipped back to the newspaper portraits of the murdered women. There was definitely a resemblance, I thought—this one in the album could be Constance, this one good old Ruby. But the imagery was so faded and obscure, both in the newspapers and the scrapbook, that I couldn’t be certain.
Suddenly I felt compelled to return to the original photo album. I could swear I saw a resemblance to my father’s mother in the smiling visage of Mary Byrne. Had Pom-Pom’s first wife, my grandmother, been murdered by a serial killer? Had Pom-Pom followed this murderer all over Canada recording his deeds? Perhaps he’d had suspicions but no proof. Perhaps Pom-Pom had taken matters into his own hands and put an end to the culprit. But then I stomped on that fantasy. Pom-Pom’s name had not been Alfred Byrne. As far as I knew, he was Alfred, but my Dad’s last name was Sullivan, so I assumed…
Just then, the telephone rang again. I looked at the clock and sighed. My life was so predictable. Wednesdays at 7 p.m. on the dot, my friend Cara—my telephone friend at least, since she and I never get together except by this method—would call. Cara is an enormous woman in more ways than one. She is hugely fat, loud, and completely self- absorbed. She also inherited her father’s insurance company, so naturally James and I are insured to the hilt. I can’t really explain why I listen to her except to say that my life in the last three years has been that boring. We spend two hours at the least on the phone or at any rate, connected by the wire. Most of the time I put her on speaker and did my exercises, muttering uh-huh now and then so she’d know that I was still there. Not that she really cared. Once I’d even taped my responses so I could get ready for one of James’s charity events. This evening, however, I plopped back into my chair with the scrapbook on my lap, the chips and dip and bottle of very good red wine from James’s cellar on the side table, so I didn’t have to move. In fact, I was able to use the speaker method and continue to scrutinize the scrapbook. After a few minutes, however, Cara was frightened out of her mind when instead of uh-huh, I hollered Holy Shit into her ear.
At the back of the scrapbook, I had found six old-fashioned drivers’ licenses, passports and social insurance number cards. The pictures showed clearly that Alfred Byrne, Albert Lamont, Allan Phelps, Alan O’Malley, and Alfred Haynes were all the man I’d known as Pom-Pom. The man I had assumed was Alfred Sullivan, my father’s biological parent. No wonder my Dad had never wanted to talk about his mom. She’d been murdered. Not only that, I once again could no longer ignore the obvious – my grandfather had been a serial killer.
After I apologized to Cara for swearing so loudly she’d actually heard it through her incessant gabbing, I let the scrapbook slide to the floor and thought while my friend finished her narrative. How could Dad not have told me? I took my little girls to see this man, for God’s sake! (I forgot for a moment that I’d never told my father about those visits.) He had to have known something bad. It was the only explanation for the letters “I never should have told you. Please forgive me”. A shiver ran down my spine and I twitched, trying to hug myself out of the shock. I pictured my little girls, around eight and ten, sitting in that room with that man. I imagined his twisted grin as he stuck the knife into the hearts of women who loved him and who had borne his children.
It was very dark now and when I glanced up at the picture window, all I could see was my pale face reflected in the glass. Suddenly the quiet house was not so quiet. I heard groans, scrapes and ghouls. A small animal was rustling at the back door. A dog whined in the distance. I plopped back into my chair, pulling the soft throw around me, and stared at the scattered pages on the floor. Sipping my wine, which I now needed rather than wanted, I began to contemplate the enormity of my discovery. It would be easy enough to find my father’s birth records. Had he been born David Byrne? Pom-Pom’s cousin Veronica had been Sullivan; perhaps Dad had taken her name instead. What would the Right Honourable James Asquith-Smith do if he discovered he was married to the granddaughter of a serial killer? What would this information do to his career? He would certainly still be a media darling, but of a very different nature. The more I drank, the more I thought, the more an idea began to form quite deliciously. Realistically, the media could ruin my life too—and I loved my house, my possessions, my privileges, far too much to give them up. Not to mention my girls and how this infamy could stain the rest of their lives as well. Obviously, I had to keep the secret, though it did occur to me that I could use it to threaten James. Give up Elizabeth or I’ll reveal my heritage to the world.
Thoughts running wild, I picked up the small plastic box, incongruously marked “Family Recipe”. Inside, each of the index cards held one direction, carefully and clea
rly printed. “How to Make a Perfect Murder” it began. (1) Always have an airtight alibi. (2) Always dress as the opposite gender, in case an eyewitness sees you. (3) Always have your getaway planned. (4) Obtain extremely good fake identification, even if it’s expensive. (5) Always use a name close to your original (such as “Al”). (6) Be sure to be the beneficiary of a large insurance claim. (7) Disappear to a small town far from the current one.
This didn’t seem like much of a recipe to me, I thought, merely the ravings of a maniac to whom I was accidentally related. Once again, in that secret part of me that has to finally face up to the obvious, I knew what Pom-Pom had meant by, “Florry, you will know what to do with this”. I picked up all of the paraphernalia and threw it into the fireplace. I lit a match and watched as every bit of evidence of my grandfather’s perfidy curled into ash. Except the plastic recipe box, of course.
My life returned to normal after that, boring, predictable, dissatisfying, but more than comfortable. Spas and shopping, television and telephone, watching cleaners scrub the house or redecorate, waving good-bye and hello again to the geese, following the moods of the river. Until the night the police showed up at my door. Thereafter, my life irreversibly changed.
Ottawa Herald – Thursday, July 15, 2008
Beloved Politician Murdered
Highly celebrated Member of Parliament, The Right Honourable James Asquith-Smith, was found murdered last night at the Brookstreet Hotel, along with his personal assistant, Elizabeth Fleming. An eyewitness, a waiter at the hotel, reported seeing an old man entering the suite around 7:45 p.m. He was stooped but of average height, had long white hair, and wore large glasses. Shortly afterward, the same waiter delivered a pre-arranged room service order to the suite. Finding the door open, he went in and discovered the bodies. The couple had both died instantly from a stab wound to the heart.
A rumour that they were found dead in the king-sized bed has been dismissed. According to several sources, the MP and his PA often used the Brookstreet Hotel for highly sensitive issues. The MP’s wife, Florence Asquith-Smith, denied any hints that her husband may have been having an affair. “Elizabeth and James were strictly business associates,” she declared. Added their secretary, Hillary Barnes, “My employers often used the Brookstreet Hotel to work late at night, as it was private and close to both their homes.” The family’s lawyer told the media that Mrs. Smith is distraught and has been sequestered in her home with the couple’s two daughters. No further statements will be issued at this time.
Police have assured the public that they will find the man responsible for this terrible, tragic crime. “Mrs. Asquith-Smith is not a suspect,” Chief Superintendent Mark Webster said, responding to a media query. “She was at home on the telephone with a friend.” Cara Miller, daughter of the late millionaire Robert Miller of Miller Assurity, told The Herald that she was indeed the friend who was talking to Florence from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m., which removed Mrs. Smith from the crucial time frame. “Not that my dear friend Flo would be capable of such a thing,” Ms Miller declared, “but I know for a fact that she couldn’t have done it. She was at home talking to me.” Ms Miller has given several interviews to the media and plans to write a book.
The search for the man responsible for the crime continues. A sketch has been made public. Anyone with information is asked to call Chief Superintendent Mark Webster. Funeral services for the public and the family will be announced shortly.
A fairly short time later, I found a lovely, somewhat similar house on the ocean in Victoria, British Columbia, where I now live my quiet, satisfying life. A small brown chest sits in the front hall in a place of honour. Deep inside, I have placed a new scrapbook with new newspaper clippings and, of course, the small plastic recipe box.
Catherine Astolfo is the author of The Emily Taylor Mysteries, published by Imajin Books. Her short story, What Kelly did, published by NorthWord, won the Arthur Ellis Award in 2012. Catherine’s novels have been optioned for film by Sisbro & Co. Inc.
Visit Catherine at her Website
or at her Amazon Author Page
CORNER STORE
Donna Carrick
I’ve done many things in my thirty-one years. Some good; some falling short of noble.
If there’s one deed, or rather ‘un-deed’ that still fingers the chords of my memory, one oversight I wish I could put right, it would hearken back to a day sixteen years ago in our local convenience store.
To a girl by the name of Angelina Salvaggi.
It’s an excuse to say I was only fifteen at the time. Even then, I was no child, not really. In truth, Penelope Canon has never been naïve.
I was fully aware that child needed my help. I just didn’t know how to give it.
Aunt Rachel, send me once again to the corner store for milk. Let me go back in time, as if those sixteen years had never happened. Lend me your personal road map, the one that makes you always do the right thing, even though you’re half-crazy at the best of times.
Let me do that day again. Maybe this time I’ll be a better person.
***
Something didn't feel right.
The store was empty, except for me. It was dimly lit but clean, smelling of fresh bread, candy and a hint of vinegar.
I walked to the back where they kept the milk in tall coolers. At fifteen I was small, still am, in fact, but in good shape. I lifted the heavy bag with ease.
The owner, Sam Salvaggi, would normally be behind the counter. He lived with his family above the store. A pleasant man – always ready with a smile and a kind word.
There were two doors at the back of the store, near the dairy coolers. The door on the left led upstairs to the family home. The one on the right led into the storage area behind the refrigerators.
As I carried the milk to the front of the store, Sam’s eight-year-old daughter, Angelina, appeared. She came through the storage room door on the right of the coolers. I remember wondering what she’d been up to back there.
She was upset. Her eyes were red and she wouldn't look at me, even when I said hello.
She walked quickly, eyes down, through the store and out the front door, into the afternoon sunshine.
A few seconds later Sam, a man of mid-to-late thirties, came through the same door. He nodded, not looking at me, and followed me to the checkout counter.
“Good afternoon, Miss Canon,” he said, regaining his composure and meeting my gaze. “Lovely day out there.”
His smile was friendly if forced, and I put aside my uncomfortable thoughts of his crying daughter.
“It’s perfect. Wish it could stay like this all summer.”
“How is your Aunt?”
“She’s well, thank you.”
“Say hello for me. Tell her I’m expecting the new knitting magazine any day now.”
My Aunt Rachel loved to knit. Unless you enjoyed being ridiculed at school, you couldn’t wear anything she made, but that didn’t slow her down. Sam Salvaggi had a standing order for her favourite crafting magazines, and always set aside a copy for her when they arrived.
“I’ll let her know.”
I paid for the milk. It was a short walk home to Aunt Rachel's house down the street. I took my time, mulling over the encounter. Something nagged at the back of my mind, telling me I should find the girl, ask her if she was all right.
But I didn't do it. Instead I got distracted, as we sometimes do.
“Is that you, Penelope?”
“Yes, Aunt Rachel.”
“Good. Dinner’s ready. How was school?”
I put the milk away and sat down to one of my Aunt's eclectic meals, this one a strange assortment of undercooked greens and overcooked meat beside a slice of leftover pizza.
Aunt Rachel was no friend of Martha Stewart. On my Aunt’s table, presentation took a back seat to convenience every time.
I thought about mentioning the corner store encounter to my Aunt, but I was hungry and the pizza was good, and frankly I forgot.
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Shortly after that, Aunt Rachel sold the West End house and we moved to a condo in the East End of Toronto.
I thought about Angelina Salvaggi occasionally. Sometimes I’d dream about her – in a nagging, guilty kind of way. But for the most part I was able to push that memory down into the place where I stored my personal regrets.
Until now, sixteen years later.
It was Saturday morning, and on Saturdays I’d pick up the paper on my way to visit Aunt Rachel at the condo for brunch.
Usually I would cook, badly. We had that in common.
Something about the story made me feel uneasy.
I couldn't put my finger on it at first, but then I recognized the name in the caption: Salvaggi. It was an unusual one.
The photo alone wouldn’t have triggered my memory. After all, the sad but beautiful young woman on the front page of The Saturday Star bore no resemblance to that little girl from long ago.
Once I made the connection, I imagined I saw something familiar in her eyes, some look she'd retained from childhood.
I held the paper out to my Aunt.
“What is it, Penelope?” she asked, taking The Star.
“The girl. Do you remember her?”
“Salvaggi…. The name is familiar.”
“They owned the corner store near our old house, on Wayburn.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. Lovely family. Always had fresh bread and milk. The wife liked to knit.” She read the headline aloud. “Daughter returns home to nightmare.”
