by Anna Porter
There were a lot of pauses at Masters’s end of the dialogue. With a bit of luck, David thought, Brenda would be letting off excess steam at the lawyer and be calm enough to answer his questions when it came his turn. When Masters got round to his own suspicions that Michael Ward might have taken the car and done the deed himself, Brenda Zimmerman went on for at least two minutes. That was her reaction to his telling her about the gun, as well.
“She says she can’t believe you found a gun here,” Masters said, cupping the phone with his hand. “She never knew Paul had one.”
“We’ll check it out,” David said, reaching for the receiver. “Mrs. Zimmerman?” he asked, when Masters gave it to him at last.
“What the hell...,” Brenda said softly. She sounded bewildered, rather than angry. “Philip says you have some more questions. Well...” Her silky, girlish voice immediately made David think of the painting in the living room.
“Detective Inspector David Parr,” David said. “I did promise Mr. Masters this wouldn’t take long. A couple of questions about the night of February 26th, if you wouldn’t mind. Can you please tell me where you were and what you were doing that evening after 9?”
“Dinner at the Griffithses’ that night. Don’t remember what time... Hmm... Oh yes. Yes. I had a most terrible headache. I don’t get headaches, you know. Never. Only that night, like needles in my head.” She spoke so softly and slowly he had trouble catching the separate words. “Had to go home early. That’s right. I think.”
“Do you remember what time that would have been?”
“Hmm... No. Can’t say I do. They were just finishing the meat. Some sort of gluey goulash. Sticksville. Martha was trying to please Paul by making goulash...” There was a tiny choking sound at the end of the line, then silence.
“Mrs. Zimmerman?”
“Paul hated goulash,” she said quite firmly. “Loathed it.”
“How did you get home?”
“Geoff.” Another gap, then: “Yes. Geoff drove me home.”
“And went back for Mr. Zimmerman?” David prompted.
“No. I think I gave him the rest of the evening off. Thursday, you said? Usually he was off Thursday nights.”
“Do you know what time Mr. Zimmerman returned?”
“I’m afraid...no, not that I recall. I took some pills so I could sleep. I had that horrible headache. Couldn’t have been too late, though...” She trailed off again.
“Would I be able to speak with Geoff now?”
“No. He’s gone for the day, I think. Maybe if you call again...” She faded into silence.
“It’s been very stressful for her,” Masters said when David hung up the phone. “Paul’s not even gone two weeks yet. And now this.” He slapped the base of the statue with one hand and looked at David accusingly. “She’s on tranquilizers.”
David was tempted to say something mildly apologetic, but he didn’t. He left abruptly for headquarters.
Twenty-Nine
THE CAT WAS CURLED into a soft ginger ball, its whiskers shivering expectantly as it stared up at Judith. Its expression, if cats can have expressions, was one of casual inquiry. It was settled on top of the TV set, in what must be a warm or particularly inviting spot for cats. Judith didn’t know a thing about cats, never having owned one or even lived under the same roof as one.
Marsha had a cat, aptly named Jezebel, who required constant attention and companionship, and who hated cat food. Judith was puzzled about Marsha’s devotion to the cat but tended to explain it to herself by imagining Jezebel was a substitute for children. Everyone needed to be needed by someone.
Judith, on the other hand, had all the reassurance she could handle. She had kids. That’s why the TV set was turned to something called Family Ties with an actor called Michael J. Fox, who looked about the same age as his mother, only shorter. In Hollywood age is measured by height.
She dropped her suitcase in the middle of the living room, decided to ignore the expectant cat, and raced upstairs to the sound of Madonna emanating from Jimmy’s room. She was so excited about seeing them again after five days that she forgot to knock on Jimmy’s door, flung it open, and barged in with a “Hello there, thank God you’re home.” Jimmy was doing some sort of a dance in the center of his room—head bent, arms out, fingers clicking. She wrapped him in her arms and hugged him tight.
“Jeez, Mom, where did you think I was?” he grumbled, but he did look pleased to see her, which was all the encouragement she required. “Did you go to Paris? For real?”
“New York and Paris,” Judith said, still holding on to him, breathing in his familiar smell of chewing gum and Head & Shoulders. “Have you grown again?” He was about an inch shorter than Judith, and catching up fast. He’d probably be as tall as James eventually. But not yet. Judith wanted so badly to cling to what was left of the little boy who had once clung to her. “I missed you,” she said, overcome with memories of Jimmy waddling around in his diapers.
“Missed you too,” he said, giving her a flat-palmed pat-pat on the back. “Was it fun in Paris?”
“Not much. I kept thinking of the time we were there together.” Gotta learn how to let go. “Anyway, I was working. Where’s Anne?”
“Talking to the guy with the fangs. We left in such a hurry, she didn’t say goodbye. They’ve been making up for it the last hour.” Jimmy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the closest he could come to dancing while talking to his mother.
“Fangs? You mean the 18-year-old from UCC?”
“Oh, he’s history. No, I mean the guy with the buck teeth from Northern. Someone should have stuck a retainer in his mouth when he was ten, then he’d only be ugly, not buck-toothed too. Skis like an avalanche, though; sweeps everyone off as he comes by. No turns, can’t control his skis.”
“How’s your skiing?”
“Great. Great. Love it.” He punctuated each word with swaying movements that combined dancing to Madonna and swishing downhill. “Dad says we should join the club so we can go up every weekend. Maybe buy a chalet in Collingwood.”
“Sure,” Judith said. “Did he give you the money?” But she was sorry she’d said that when she saw the hurt expression on Jimmy’s face. She’d promised herself on the plane not to go on about James, especially to Jimmy. She’d fallen in love with James once, when she was young, why shouldn’t Jimmy? She grinned to pretend she’d been joking. “I’ll go find Anne and make us all something to eat. Left a frozen lasagna for tonight. Still like that stuff, don’t you?”
“Love it,” Jimmy said. “Dad didn’t think we should have that Italian gloop. Too much starch is bad for a man’s libido—you know...” He was watching her warily as he prattled on about energy and carbohydrates.
Judith let her eyes wander around the room with its many familiar shapes—the mountainous hockey gear, Wayne Gretzky smiling encouragement on the wall, the brown bear called Paddy with his Blue Jays cap, the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, the 1986 team photo with Jimmy in his goalie outfit. The memory of that third-rate cannabis came flooding back and made her want to cry.
“What is it?” Jimmy was asking, his voice cracking as it often did when he was feeling emotional. “What’s wrong?” When she didn’t reply, he made a big production of a resigned, long-suffering sigh. “You want to go another round on that grass shit, right?”
“I don’t think so,” Judith said unhappily.
“You still figure I’m lying? That’s it, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” His voice alternated high and low as if he had a bad case of laryngitis, and Judith reached out again, her hands touching his tight bony shoulders; there were tears in her eyes because she loved him and because she was suddenly furious at herself for having suspected him. Jimmy didn’t lie about important things, only about minor stuff like breaking a plate or why he was late home from school when he’d hung around at the Towne Mall with his friends.
“No,” she said with conviction. And it suddenly struck her that the whole busine
ss with the cannabis could have been planned distraction, could have been set up by the person who’d climbed into the house last Tuesday night. At first the policeman had said there were signs of entry via Jimmy’s window. Then the baggie had got them all sidetracked. “It could,” mused Judith, “be all of a piece.”
“It could?” Jimmy asked.
“What if the same person who forced his way in to see an early draft of my Zimmerman story came by again last Friday night to paint our door red?”
“It isn’t red, it’s got a nice new coat of green,” Jimmy said. “How did you have time to do that?”
“I didn’t,” Judith said. “Someone threw paint at the door, and David repainted it.” He had arranged to have the window fixed, too.
“He did?”
She wasn’t about to tell him about the swastika. That was frightening. But maybe less so if it wasn’t put there by some crazed closet Nazi of her acquaintance, but someone who hated Zimmerman so much he’d tried to veer her off the story. Maybe someone who couldn’t stand the thought of a long puff-piece commemorating Zimmerman’s multifarious successes, his generosity, his personal forest in Israel, the soon-to-be-restored organ at Forest Hill Catholic.
“Mom,” Jimmy was saying. “Mom,” when she didn’t respond. “Earth calling Mom... What is it?”
And what if the same person hated him enough to kill him?
“Mom?”
“Yes. I was just wondering about that cat downstairs.”
“The cat?” Jimmy smiled his most ingratiating smile. “That’s Zoë. Dad gave her to me. Sort of a late Christmas present. You know. She’s totally trained and everything. She’ll be no trouble at all, Dad said you’d be sure to get used to her and Anne and I just love her.”
“Hi Mom. Can I go to a party tonight?” Anne called from the bathroom. “It’s a sort of start-of-term party. Everybody’s going...”
“Anne, the cat,” Jimmy shouted.
“Zoë? Isn’t she great, Mom? Don’t you love the way she’s made herself at home?” She had run upstairs three steps at a time, gave Judith a warm little peck on the cheek, and stood by fidgeting with something fluorescent green that had attached itself to her wrist. “You look just great, Mom. Super. Can I?” she asked again, bobbing up and down with excitement. “I haven’t seen my friends in over a week and I’m allowed to invite Rog, even...”
“The guy I was telling you about,” Jimmy said.
“What am I supposed to do with a cat?” Judith said weakly.
“Zoë takes care of herself, Mom. All cats do. They don’t have to be walked and that. Just put out their food once a day...”
“Jimmy’s going to do that, and he’ll clean out the kitty litter once a day, too, so it won’t smell, right?”
Jimmy gave her a dirty look, then returned to his pleading. “All cats need is a bit of comfort and love.” Was that off a record cover? A Christmas carol, so late? “And she can sleep in here...”
“I’m going to heat the lasagna,” Judith said, “then we’ll talk about the cat and the party.”
On her way through the living room she avoided a confrontation with Zoë.
Then all thoughts of the cat and her anger at James were swept from her mind. David called to say he had listened to Eva’s tape and he was going to exhume Paul Zimmerman’s body.
Thirty
THERE HAD BEEN TWO inches of snow overnight. Now in the early morning, it was rain and wet snow, with the temperature hovering above 0. The six men stood around the grave site, their hands deep in their pockets, shoulders drawn up, shuffling their feet to keep warm. David wore his heavy police parka, just like Giannini’s, the first time in months he had worn any part of his uniform. Giannini’s hood was pulled down over his face, the collar straight up, leaving a narrow slit for his eyes. The young pathologist with Yan had a down-filled winter jacket that was already dripping wet. He’d tried unsuccessfully to find shelter under the slender Manitoba maple by the stone angel that adorned the next grave. All that had marked this spot was a small gray stone with Zimmerman’s name on it. The four-cornered granite monument Brenda had ordered was still in preparation, Philip Masters had told David. He had offered no help in finding the grave, nor in helping to calm Brenda when David informed her of the exhumation.
“It’s your problem,” Masters had said tersely, and hung up on him.
David could still hear the sharp wailing sound that had emanated from Brenda’s throat when she had heard.
He had asked Arthur Zimmerman to come to Toronto for the formality of identifying the body. David was glad there was another relative to turn to—he’d always had difficulties dealing with hysterical women.
It had been 6:20 A.M. and still dark when they arrived. Now there were the beginnings of a gray, dismal dawn through the splattering drizzle.
“Lucky it’s only been a week,” Yan said through gritted teeth. He was smoking one of his nasty Camels. From time to time, as he sucked on it, the glow from the tip of the cigarette lit up his face under the wide-brimmed felt hat he had worn for the rain. “If he had been buried in December, it would take all day to get him out.”
The two grave-diggers were halfway into the hole already. “Are you sure you call them grave-diggers?” Giannini had asked in the car. “They have fancy names for everybody nowadays. Hell, even garbage men are sanitary engineers. Grave-diggers, Inspector—how the hell would the guy tell someone at a party what he does for a living? Jeez, imagine trying to get a girl to go home with you...” It was Giannini’s first experience of an exhumation. He was only 25. David reflected that they promoted men much faster nowadays then they used to. At 25 he’d still been pounding the beat, no idea he’d make it beyond staff sergeant, which was as far as his father ever got. The wet, cold early morning reminded him of his father’s funeral. The grave was somewhere in this cemetery. He never visited it. There had been nothing but distance between them, polite lack of communication. These days, though, he had begun to think more about his father. There had been 50 people at the funeral—all cops, except for his mother and one Crown attorney, who was drunk. He remembered wondering if that was all there had been to the old man’s life, gaining the respect of these awkward silent men who didn’t even know how to show grief. Otherwise, his life had passed unnoticed.
At least Zimmerman had made a difference.
“Good-looking coffin,” Yan said, making a high-pitched whistling noise to show his appreciation.
The lid was polished, glistening black wood with brass braces and a brass plaque in the center. As the men brushed the earth off, Parr could make out the raised lettering: PAUL ZIMMERMAN, 1928-1987.
“Son-of-a-bitch is gonna be heavy,” said one of the diggers. He took off his yellow plastic sou’wester and wiped his forehead on the back of his glove. “Mahogany, it looks like.”
The lacquered wood caught a glint off the storm lamps’ amber light and a touch of yellow from the sou’wester.
“Thing like that would set you back a few bucks, wouldn’t it?” said Yan. “Never could understand why people bother spending all that money on something they’ll never see, or even get to enjoy. Damn thing rots in a year or two down there, anyway.”
“Not mahogany. Lasts for years,” one of the grave-diggers said. “It’s fifteen to twenty thousand for a good one like this.”
The other man had cleared the earth from the side of the coffin and slipped a wedge, then a long canvas belt under it. “Better loosen it some more on your side, Jack.”
“Bloody cold,” Giannini grumbled to no one in particular.
“It’d go a damn sight faster if you guys lent a hand,” Jack told him. “Then we can all go and get warm.”
Giannini struggled with that idea for a moment, then shuffled forward an inch or two. “Yeah? What d’ya want me to do?”
Jack’s partner showed him where they wanted to push the canvas belt under the casket and out the other side, then attach both ends to the two bright red electric winches. �
��Have to hold them down so they won’t slip. Hard to get them properly anchored with the ground frozen. Can you get the big fella to help?”
David was already there, threading the belt into the red contraption. He figured he knew as much about the system—such as it was—as the cemetery staff. His 22nd exhumation. The two men with Independent Transport moved forward to see if they could help. They had been talking quietly to each other near the van. Parr knew them both from other times they had carried “his” bodies to the morgue. The older one with the mustache liked to tell young cops horror stories about corpses coming to life in their “meat wagon,” their long-nailed hands smashing through the glass divider.
The coffin emerged to the shrill whirring of the winches. “I’m going to have myself cremated,” Yan said. “My ashes scattered over Lake Ontario. Or up in Georgian Bay where I go fishing in the summer. No coffins, and no chance for some yahoo to carve me up, right, Bernie?” He winked at the pathologist.
They pushed the coffin onto the transport’s trolley. Yan put the official seal on the lid.
“It’ll be about 10 to 12 hours till they can open him up,” Yan said. “He’ll have to defrost first so they can drain off the embalming fluid. How long’s that going to take?” he asked the pathologist.
“Another four or five hours,” Bernie said. “We’ll have something for you by late tonight, I hope. At least we should be able to determine if he died of a heart attack.”
“Call me as soon as you can,” David said. “Giannini’s bringing Arthur Zimmerman down to identify him. That’s the son. Just get him in and out of there fast, okay?”
He walked Yan to his car and thanked him for getting the exhumation order as quickly as he had.
“You better be right, chum,” Yan told him. “Your ass is on the line for this one.”
“I know,” David said. He was thinking of Masters, more than likely at the legislature right now, waiting for an audience with the attorney-general.
