We say our goodbyes. Unexpectedly, Richard reaches out, hugs me to him. He cares.
I pay the cheque at the front and head around the corner to my car. All is well, but I don’t feel well.
As I nudge my Mercedes, the love of my life, west to Yaletown, I consider Richard’s warning and go over what I know of Danny Mah, small-time operator. I comb through the details of his case, searching for any reason he might think I’m a traitor, but there’s no connection. No facts. But it doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do. It’s what’s Danny thinks, and in the criminal world, there are consequences for a lawyer betraying her client. I turn into my parking garage, and in the dim light, I look at my wrist and remember the dark marks as Danny’s nails drove into my flesh. I hurry to the elevator and the safety of home.
CHAPTER 11
MARIA RODRIGUEZ LOOKS AT ME across the boardroom table. Her dark eyes meet mine, then skitter off. She’s nervous. Perhaps it’s being in a law office for the first time. Perhaps it’s the video recorder silently blinking between us. Perhaps it’s something else altogether.
“Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. Rodriguez,” I say, trying to put her at ease. “I hope this won’t take too long. I just want to ask you a few questions about Mrs. Stanton.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll do my best.” Her voice is soft and lisping, with a hint of her native accent.
I’ve done my due diligence. Maria Rodriguez was born fifty-eight years ago in a village in northern Portugal. She emigrated to Canada with her husband in 1976 and found a place to live in East Vancouver near the docks. Her husband got work in a door factory; Maria stayed home with their son, born a year later. When her son completed grade school, she began doing domestic work for Olivia Stanton and eventually became her housekeeper cum caregiver. In recent years, her husband developed chronic heart disease. Her son, Antonio, runs a residential construction company. Maria hasn’t worked since Olivia’s death two years ago.
“Mrs. Rodriguez, we need to know as much as we can about the week or so before Mrs. Stanton died. You were very close to her, I understand.”
“Yes, I worked for her for almost twenty years. I miss her very much.” Maria’s eyes fill with tears and she unfolds the tissue scrunched in her fist, wipes the corner of her eye.
“I imagine you had your routines with Mrs. Stanton, things you did every day?
“Yes,” she sniffs into her tissue. “Every day except the weekend, I came in the morning, about nine thirty or ten. Sometimes she was already up, sometimes not. I made sure she had her breakfast, her morning pills. Then I did whatever needed to be done, clean the house, laundry. Around one, I made her a little lunch—she hardly ate anything. At five, before I left, I made her tea—some nice Earl Grey and a sandwich and cake for supper. Sometimes in the kitchen I left a snack in case she got hungry in the evening. And I put out pills beside her bed with a glass of water.”
“A routine,” I say.
“Yes. Except that some days were different. The days she would be sick, and I would be on the floor on my hands and knees, crying into my bucket while I cleaned the mess up. The days she would start to shake, and I would hold her to calm her. The days she passed out. The last time, I watched as she slipped from her chair. Gently, like a rag doll. I ran to her, but I didn’t get there in time. She was just lying there on the floor, not moving, and I thought, This is it. But when I picked her up and laid her on her bed, I felt her breath on my cheek. I was so happy, I hugged her to me and laughed—” she breaks off.
We sit in silence for a long moment.
“Did you ever take Mrs. Stanton out?” I ask when I can.
“Sometimes we would go for a little walk after lunch, if it wasn’t raining. Her daughter—Mrs. Quentin—would drive her when she needed to go shopping or to the doctor. Every month or so she would take Mrs. Stanton to Hill’s in Kerrisdale, to buy her a new dress or sweater or shawl. Even when she was sick, Mrs. Stanton liked to look nice, liked to get something pretty. A new thing gave her a little—how do you say—lift.”
“Mrs. Quentin was good to her?” I ask.
“Yes, she loved her very much. But Mrs. Quentin…”
I lean forward. “You can tell me, Mrs. Rodriguez. I need to know exactly how it was.”
“Mrs. Quentin was always worrying. She would call me many times in a day. Had I given Mrs. Stanton the right pills? How was she doing? Had she eaten her breakfast? Maybe she needed another pill, or maybe she had too many. She called her mother, too. And then, out of the blue I would see Mrs. Quentin’s car. She would run in, crying, and hug her mother.”
“Did this happen all the time?”
“No. Sometimes we wouldn’t see or hear from Mrs. Quentin for days. But then she would be back on the phone, wanting to see her mother, to take her off somewhere. And after, phoning, phoning, phoning.” She wipes her eye again. “It was very hard to see. Mrs. Stanton never said anything, but it was hard for her, too.”
“I can imagine.”
“Mr. Quentin told me that she is better now, new medicine,” she says, brightening.
“Yes, she seems well now.”
“I’m glad. Mrs. Quentin is a good person.”
“How was it in the days before Mrs. Stanton died? Was Mrs. Quentin calling often? Did she visit?”
Maria nods. “Off and on. Except the day—the day Mrs. Stanton died. She didn’t visit that day. But phoned, maybe.”
“Did anyone else visit that day?”
“Yes,” she says, more comfortable talking about details. She’s settled in, forgotten the recorder. “Three people—busy day. First, in the morning, Mr. Quentin. Then in the afternoon Mrs. Stanton’s friend Miss Baxter, and then after that the lawyer.”
I take note. Richard told me about Elsie Baxter’s visit, but this is the first I’ve heard of visits by Joseph and a lawyer.
“What led up to Mr. Quentin coming?” I ask.
“He just showed up in the morning to see Mrs. Stanton. Some business, I think.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He went into Mrs. Stanton’s room and shut the door. I left them, doing my work. But I passed the door and I heard Mrs. Stanton’s voice, loud. I was surprised. I knocked on the door and opened it.”
“What did you see?”
“Mrs. Stanton in her chair, a piece of paper in her hand. Mr. Quentin standing. Mrs. Stanton gave me a smile and said, Sorry, we were just discussing the will.” She studies her hands. “Something like that.”
“Did you speak with Mr. Quentin before he left?”
“Yes, I asked him if I could leave early. I was very worried about my husband—his heart, you see. He was so sick. He said, of course, as long as I left a sandwich for Mrs. Stanton’s supper and set out her evening pills.” She looks up. “Such a nice man, always so good to me.”
But apparently he didn’t always get along with Olivia. Why would she be raising her voice at Joseph? I make a mental note to follow this up later. “I think you said Miss Baxter came by next?”
“Yes, Miss Baxter came in the afternoon that day, I think. After lunch. I brought them tea.”
“Tell me about Miss Baxter.”
“She was”—she searches for the word—“forceful. Not like Mrs. Stanton who was always a lady. She wore long dresses with clumpy shoes and lots of scarves.”
“How often did she visit Mrs. Stanton?” I ask.
“Once or twice a month for tea. Sometimes they went out in the evening to meetings or a movie.”
“Do you remember what they talked about when Miss Baxter came to visit that last time?”
Maria shudders. “After I brought the tea, I closed the doors to the den to let them be private. But when I came in to take the cups, Miss Baxter was saying something about the law on getting a doctor to help you die. I didn’t like this talk. She stopped when I came in.” She pauses, remembering. “There was something funny, though.”
“What was that?”
“When Miss
Baxter left, I went to Mrs. Stanton to see if she needed anything. She said, Go away and leave me alone. I have things to do. Almost mad, like. She was always so kind to me, Mrs. Stanton. I worried a little.”
“What happened after she told you to go away?”
“I went back to the kitchen. I picked up the phone to call my husband—he was very ill. But Mrs. Stanton was talking on it. I don’t know to who. I hung up right away.”
The call to Black and Conway I’m guessing. “And then, later in the afternoon, the lawyer came?”
“Yes, just before I left. I answered the door and there was a tall young lady telling me she was from a law firm.”
“Did you get her name?”
“No.”
“Did Mrs. Stanton tell you why the lawyer was there?”
“I didn’t talk to Mrs. Stanton about it. I just showed the lawyer into her room and shut the door.”
“How long was she there?”
“I don’t know. I left for home shortly after.” Maria’s eyes fill again. “That was the last time I saw Mrs. Stanton. I feel so sorry, I never said goodbye.”
“I’m sure she forgives you, wherever she is, Mrs. Rodriguez,” I say softly, and offer her a fresh tissue.
Why did Olivia need to see a lawyer? I wonder as Maria wipes her tears. Did it have something to do with her will? And how do Elsie Baxter and Joseph fit in? One thing seems clear—nothing came of the lawyer’s visit—Olivia’s will stands as it was when it was made, two years before her death.
“Did Mrs. Stanton have any other visitors earlier that week?” I ask once Maria has recovered.
“Her grandson, Nicholas, the day before she died. In the afternoon sometime.”
I sit up. That first day at her house, Vera mentioned Nicholas had been there. It had led to an argument with her mother.
Maria goes on. “Before you ask, I don’t remember anything about their visit. Just after he arrived, I stepped out for some things we needed and he was gone when I came back.”
“Can you tell me about Nicholas?”
“Such a nice young man. Good-looking, good manners. Eyes—how shall I say it—like an artist. He’s very good to his grandmother, came to see her every week or two and phoned sometimes.”
“I understand that Nicholas attends law school,” I prompt.
“Yes, like his father. But I think he likes music better. He played the piano in a jazz band. Sometimes, when Nicholas came to visit, he played a little for Mrs. Stanton on her piano. She liked it very much, loved him very much.”
Joseph said they didn’t see much of Nicholas. It seems he was closer to his grandmother than to his parents. “Did Nicholas and his father get along?”
“Nicholas tried,” she says. “But he is gentle. Like his mother. I think—I think in his heart Nicholas doesn’t want to be a lawyer. It’s hard for him, hard for Mr. Quentin.”
“What made you think things were—not good—between Nicholas and his father, Mrs. Rodriguez?”
Maria shifts in her chair. She’s loyal, but she’s no longer an employee of the Quentins. I sit very still and wait, watching her decide. Perhaps against her better judgment, she offers me a morsel.
“Once when Mr. Quentin and Nicholas visited Mrs. Stanton together, I heard Mr. Quentin say Nicholas was spending too much time with his music and not enough studying.”
“How did Nicholas react to that?”
“He didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was upset. Mrs. Stanton said something like, Nicholas loves his music, needs his music; let him have it.” Maria lowers her voice. “Mrs. Stanton used to give Nicholas money without Mr. Quentin knowing.”
“Money?” I ask in surprise.
“Many times. For his music. Mrs. Quentin would drive Mrs. Stanton to the bank, then Nicholas would come to the house and Mrs. Stanton would give him bills. Always hundred-dollar bills. Always more than one, many more than one.” Maria blushes. “Maybe I shouldn’t look, but I see.”
A picture is forming in my mind. “How did Mrs. Quentin view the tension between her husband and her son?” I ask.
“She never said anything. I think she felt sorry for Nicholas, trying to be like his father, but she would never interfere. Only worry. Mrs. Quentin never went against her husband.”
A grey cast steals over Maria’s face—regret. Regret for what happened, regret for what she has told me. She has said too much, and she is tired.
“Can you think of anything else? Anything that might help us piece what happened together?”
Maria shakes her head. I flick off the recorder. I have enough, for now.
“I know this must have been very difficult. Thank you for being so honest,” I say. “By the way, how is your husband?”
She looks down. “He passed away two weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Rodriguez,” I say, and I mean it. “So much loss…”
She clutches her tissue. “Thank you.”
“You’ve been most helpful. And if you think of anything else, just call.”
I lead her out the door and put her in a limo. This once, Maria Rodriguez will not ride the bus. She hesitates before climbing into the back seat of the posh black car, then offers me a parting smile that carries the weight of the world. I repress the urge to hand her a hundred dollars of my own, but lawyers aren’t allowed to buy, or appear to be buying, witnesses.
Back in my office, I consider what I have learned. The glossy image of the perfect family is showing cracks. An ambitious father driving his only son in directions the son would rather not go. A son not daring to defy his father, but with his own ambitions. A mother caught between father and son. And behind the scenes, an indulgent grandmother trying to sort the tense family mess out with money.
I come back to Nicholas, the young man with his own dreams pinned in the middle of this toxic web. Betraying his father’s expectations. Watching his mother in her dance of delusion. On the take from his grandma, for who-knows-what dubious purposes. At the end of it all, a woman lies dead, murdered by someone.
I need to talk to Nicholas.
CHAPTER 12
TWO WEEKS PLUS A DAY or two until Vera Quentin’s trial for first-degree murder. The good news is that I know a lot more than I did a week ago. The bad news is that none of it brings me closer to who—if it was not my client—killed Olivia Stanton. The factotum that will plant the seed of reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind still eludes me.
The New Age gurus I try to avoid say that inspiration comes when you least expect it. Go for a walk, do some yoga; the idea your structured brain has been groping for will materialize full-blown, like wisdom from the brow of Athena. Despite my misgivings, I decide to take a day off from my labours and indulge in play.
The play I select is a ferry ride across False Creek to Granville Island Public Market. I will browse the teeming stalls for the latest gourmet offerings, wander through the booths of crafters and artists. I will lunch on the world’s best croissant outside Paris on a pier overlooking the water. Somewhere in the course of my trajectory, the sun will shaft through the intermittent clouds and I will see all in brilliant clarity. That, at least, is the plan.
“Going out?” Benson asks as I waltz by the front desk of the condo.
Benson may be just a concierge, but he takes the job seriously. Each morning he fits his small body into his uniform and places a braided blue cap on his shiny pate. He makes it his business to know every resident and their comings and goings.
“Yes, taking a little break from work,” I reply.
“Good,” he says, his wrinkled face smiling. “You deserve it.”
I give him a cheerful wave and set off.
Inside the great dome of the market building, I wander the vegetable stalls, filling my canvas shopping sack, and then head for Oyama, the best deli in the city. The clerk wraps up two shanks of confit de carnard—one of which I will warm for my dinner tonight, and the other I’ll save for later next week. Purchases made, I make my way to a cof
fee bar and settle in with a cappuccino. I’m on my first sip, still waiting for the inspiration I seek, when I hear my phone trill. It’s from Joseph Quentin: Jilly, something’s come up. Can I see you? Urgent.
I shift my personal plans as I type my reply: I’m at Granville Island Market. Lunch at Bridges? 12:30?
His response comes back: See you there.
I glance at my big watch: eleven forty-five. Lots of time. I finish my coffee and wend my way through the throngs that crowd the stalls down the docks and past the boats rocking in the harbour. At the Parisian bakery, I pick up a baguette to go with my duck leg and look in at a live-seafood shed. I stop at a tank of red-backed crabs. Some are crawling over the backs of others in a panicked quest for freedom, but most are content to paddle aimlessly in the water, convinced that all is well. I think again of Richard’s warning about Danny Mah and suppress a shiver. It’s nothing, I tell myself.
Bridges sits at the edge of the water, a yellow house surrounded by cedar-plank decking. As I approach, Joseph’s steel-grey BMW pulls to the door. He hands the key to a young man and crosses to me. “Jilly,” he says. Then abruptly, “Let’s go in.”
The place is busy. Would-be customers crowd the reception desk; waiters pass in the distance carrying laden trays. A distinguished man crosses to Joseph, the manager, I presume. I hear Joseph murmur, “Something quiet,” and the man leads us to a corner I did not know existed.
I order a cool glass of Poplar Grove Pinot Gris to match Joseph’s dark Cabernet Sauvignon. It’s Saturday and I’m not driving. We clink glasses and I take a small sip of the wine.
The unexpected call, the urgent demand to meet, the tension running under Joseph’s manner even as he chats with the manager—all tell me something is up. But it’s his show, and I decide to let him direct it.
“How’s the case going?” he asks.
I could share the little I’ve learned, but I stick to what Joseph already knows. “Vera is adamant that she won’t plead guilty. I’ve told her that her chances are zero to zilch and advised her to take Cy’s offer. She steadfastly refuses.”
“Déjà vu,” he says. “Just as with her other lawyers.”
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