The Dead Letter

by Finley Martin

  “It’s a police case file…about a murder ten or eleven years ago. It may be connected to another death around the same time. I’ve been hired to see if there’s a connection.”

  “That’s fascinating. Really. Can you talk about it?”

  “Most of it’s no secret. It’s a closed case,” said Anne. Then she went on to describe the murder of Simone Villier in her Stratford office building, the police investigation that followed, and the subsequent arrest, conviction, and twenty-year sentence of John Dawson.

  Gwen leaned forward attentively in her chair as Anne recounted what she had learned about the murder. Then Anne reached into her desk and retrieved a separate file folder from which she took out Carolyn Jollimore’s last letter. As she read it, Gwen’s mouth opened in wonder.

  “Oh my god,” she said. “What will you do now?”

  “A lot of my work is just mind-numbing stuff. I have a pretty thorough idea of how this investigation developed. Next step is crossing t’s and dotting i’s. Inside the front cover is an index of contents. I like to check that everything is there that should be and that the documents match the inventory…interviews have pages numbered sequentially…and that nothing is missing.”

  “Can I help?” asked Gwen.

  Anne handed Gwen the index sheet. “Okay, dig in. You read out each item on the list. I’ll check and sort.”

  It took forty minutes to verify the completeness of the case file. It would have taken less if Anne hadn’t paused the process to scrutinize three of the documents. Two were notable curiosities: Schaeffer’s interview of Constable MacFarlane and MacFarlane’s arrest report of Dawson. The third document, one that sent a slight chill up her spine, was Constable Best’s interview of Carolyn Jollimore. She read it quickly without comment or change of expression and moved on.

  “Everything is there,” said Anne. She leaned back in her chair and centred the neatly stacked case file on her desk.

  “That was fun,” said Gwen.

  “Fun?” mocked Anne. “…and you said you never lied.”

  “I’d never seen a police file before. It was interesting. Details are important in my job as well. Loose ends can turn into big problems. While we’re on that subject, I have a question I’d like to ask…a rather important one.”

  Oh god, thought Anne, is she going to ask me to be a bridesmaid or something? Anne’s mind spun through a flurry of equally awkward options and hoped that the dismay in her mind hadn’t wilted the expression on her face. Already her cautious pause was becoming too long and telling.

  “Shoot,” said Anne.

  Gwen looked directly at Anne. She smiled apprehensively, took a slow breath, and asked: “Are you in love with Dit?”

  19.

  “He is beautiful,” she said.

  “You mean he’s hot,” said Jacqui, “…or a hunk…or the bomb.”

  Rada blushed. Both girls had been sitting together at a table in the school library and were staring across neat lines of desks and tables and carousels toward the blond head of Sig Valdimarsson.

  “A bomb,” said Rada.

  “The bomb,” corrected Jacqui. “So go over and say something to him.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “It’s easy. Grab an armload of books, walk by, and accidentally drop them as you pass. He’ll have to smile…make a joke…say something…or help you pick them up. That’ll be a start. Right?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “It’ll work. That’s how I met Bobby,” she said and reflected on the moment when she pretended to trip near Bobby Fogarty’s desk. Gray’s Anatomy, the biggest book she could find, had toppled out of her arms, struck Bobby’s temple, bent his glasses, and nicked his ear, and she ran to the principal’s office for a first-aid kit to patch his cut. “We’re very good friends now,” she added enthusiastically, trying to forget her mortification at the time.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why? What’s stopping you?”

  “Mr. Shadi.”

  Rada’s eyes shifted toward the supervising teacher of another class in the library.

  “He knows my father, and he would tell him that I am flirting with boys.”

  “So?”

  “It is not allowed.”

  “…but, if you can’t flirt, and you can’t date, how can you meet guys? I don’t get it.”

  “In my family, meeting boys is arranged…through friends of my parents, cousins, relatives…”

  “That seems like something out of a fairy tale or a Victorian novel.”

  “That’s the way things have always been.”

  “Are you happy with that?”

  “Sometimes I wish I were a Cinderella, and Prince Charming was searching the kingdom for me with a glass slipper.”

  “Real Prince Charmings are more like Sig over there. You have to dump an armful of books on their heads to wake them up. I could vouch for him to your parents. I’ve known Sig since grade four.”

  Rada looked longingly at Sig, and then hopelessly toward Jacqui. She said nothing.

  “So much for a social life,” said Jacqui as the bell rang.

  Both girls jumped up and gathered their books. Rada headed for algebra; Jacqui hurried for art class.

  Jacqui grabbed her work-in-progress stored in a cupboard at the back of the art classroom. It was a charcoal sketch of Bobby Fogarty. It was sketch number seven of him. Her closest friends noticed a similarity. So did Madame Desjardins, the art teacher. That made her proud and hopeful. Bobby’s birthday was coming up, and she was certain that matting the sketch in a fancy frame would make a wonderful present.

  “Très bien, Jacqueline,” said Madame Desjardins looking over Jacqui’s shoulder.

  “Merci,” said Jacqui in her best Island French.

  “Jacqueline, I am in need of a babysitter on Saturday evening. Are you available again?”

  “Yes, Madame. What time?”

  “Seven-thirty until twelve, okay?”

  Jacqui nodded.

  Madame patted her shoulder and returned to her desk to take attendance.

  20.

  Gwen’s question hovered above Anne’s head like a long blade in an unsteady hand. The nature of the question disturbed her just as much as the directness with which it had been delivered. Bluntness was not a common Island trait.

  Predictably, Anne had been stunned and silent. Gwen nonetheless sat beautifully poised and silent. She looked expectantly at Anne. Anne’s lips parted. Then, something caught her attention, and her eyes were drawn toward the open office door.

  Filling that empty door frame was Police Chief Jamie MacFarlane, his uniform crisply ironed and his shoes highly polished.

  He stopped short when he saw Gwen.

  “The door was open. Bad timing, I guess.”

  “As I was telling Gwen, there’s never a perfect time, but this is as good as it gets.”

  Gwen stood up.

  “Gwen, this is Stratford Police Chief Jamie MacFarlane. Chief, Gwen Fowler, Dit Malone’s fiancée.”

  “A pleasure,” he said, shaking her hand. Then he turned to Anne. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. We could meet another time.”

  “I was just about to leave anyway,” said Gwen. “We’ll talk again sometime soon, Anne.” She smiled softly, lowered her eyes, and turned toward the door.

  “I’ll get back to you on that,” Anne replied.

  MacFarlane’s head turned and followed Gwen as she left the room and closed the office door behind her. His lingering gaze at Gwen had not escaped Anne’s notice, and she felt a quiver of envy and agitation. Anne motioned him to a seat, and she settled behind her desk.

  MacFarlane was larger than most east-coast police officers. He stood about six-four and had a robust frame. His hair was greying, his features well-proportioned. He had penetrati
ng eyes. He was as daunting as he was handsome, but his most remarkable quality was his voice. It had resonance and depth that commanded attention.

  “Is it Anne or Billy that you go by?”

  “I’m Billy Darby at work and Anne Brown among friends. What’s up, Chief?”

  “The Villier case. I have some history with it. I knew Simone, the victim, and I thought perhaps I could give you some help.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a waste of time?” she said. Anne expected some reaction to her echo of his words to Ben: a twitch of lip, a tightening of shoulders, an embarrassed smile. However, she saw nothing but a blink of eyes, and the passing of an extra second or two before he replied.

  “You’ve been talking to Ben, then.” He began again in a reflective tone.

  “That’s right.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind on that,” he said. “But I could have phrased it more diplomatically. My concern here is that this case was worked to death eleven years ago. I know. I was there. A suspect was caught, the evidence was clear, the judge agreed, and John Dawson got a well-deserved twenty years for the terrible crime he committed. That leaves me confused. I’m not sure just what more you can achieve by picking away at this case.”

  “Maybe it’ll confirm what’s already been concluded; maybe it’ll correct a miscarriage of justice. One or the other, that’s my hope. That’s what an investigation should do, right?”

  “I see it opening up old wounds. A lot of people were devastated by Simone’s death. Most of them have tried to put the past behind them—not an easy thing to do—and they wouldn’t want to relive the agony of those months again.”

  “Do you mean they or you?”

  “Both, I guess. But I was thinking mostly about Bernadette Villier, Simone’s mother. She’s had a pretty tough life. Her husband died two years before the murder. He was a construction worker. He fell off a roof he was shingling and broke his neck. Simone was their only child. Bernadette started drinking. She’s been sober for a few years now. I helped out some. Hate to see a relapse.”

  “Why would you do that? Why would you step forward?”

  “You’ve read the police report by now. You know that I had a relationship with Simone, and I also felt some responsibility to Bernadette…as a friend. Simone and I were in love. We were planning to get married. Did you know that?”

  Anne shook her head.

  “So Bernadette would have been my mother-in-law if things had turned out differently…and…not many know this, but Simone was pregnant at the time. She was thrilled when she found out…she almost glowed…and then it was over…swept away in one senseless act. Now she’s dead, the baby, my son, never saw the light of day, Bernadette was nearly ruined, and my personal life became a shambles for a time. And that’s why I hope you’ll see that no good can come from digging up the past. Nobody wins…nobody.”

  MacFarlane stared at the floor. Anne saw sadness in his eyes. He struck her as a pathetic figure at that moment, like a distraught child. He may warrant some of her pity, she thought, but Edna Hibley seemed to need and deserve most of it.

  “I can sympathize with how you feel, Chief, but new evidence has come to my attention, and I can’t ignore it.”

  “Ben mentioned something about a letter. He showed me a copy, but I didn’t put much stock in it. Maybe it’s something that Dawson dreamed up in prison. Maybe it’s a crank.”

  Anne fished Carolyn Jollimore’s letter out of her desk drawer and passed it to MacFarlane.

  “Take a look. Her letter is dated, and the postmark is still visible on the envelope.”

  MacFarlane looked at it thoughtfully. He stiffened for a moment. Then he said, “It doesn’t prove that she wrote this letter, does it?”

  “Maybe not, but it raises questions…”

  “So far I haven’t heard anything that connects Carolyn Jollimore with Simone that isn’t complete speculation,” he said.

  “Simone’s murder was the only one at the time. What else could it refer to? This isn’t Halifax where there’s a couple of murders every Saturday night. And I’m not convinced that Carolyn Jollimore’s death was an accident either. It’s too coincidental. Something’s not right.”

  “So the author of the letter is dead. Is that what you’re telling me? Then there’s no evidence that this Jollimore woman was murdered, is there? Maybe she was careless. Maybe she was in some kind of mental state. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen that sort of thing. There’s all kinds of explanations. You’re not listening to the facts.” MacFarlane’s voice sharpened, and it reverberated in the room.

  “This letter is a fact, and my client wants an answer that explains it.”

  “Who’s your client? What’s his connection to this?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

  “So, you don’t want my help, then?”

  “All I’ve heard so far is an argument to quit this case. That’s not the help I’m looking for.”

  “How long have you been a private investigator?”

  “What’s your point, Chief?”

  “When you’ve been in law enforcement as long as I have, you’ll realize that, after the evidence is examined and the pieces fit, you turn the page. Our evidence was solid, we presented it to the Crown, and it stood up at trial. The report into Carolyn Jollimore’s death. What were the findings?”

  Anne said nothing. MacFarlane stared at her. Then he said, “Right. They found nothing. It was an accidental death.”

  “I think this letter may change their opinion on Carolyn’s death,” said Anne and returned the letter to its drawer.

  21.

  A perky receptionist with a necklace of braided flowers tattooed around her neck led Anne through a maze of beige cubicles and dividers to the office of Davidia Christian, manager of White Cross Medical.

  “Ms. Billy Darby to see you,” she said and disappeared.

  Davidia looked up from her computer screen and smiled. It was an unguarded, inviting smile, and Anne felt suddenly at ease.

  “You said you wanted to talk about Carolyn,” she said. It was almost a question. Anne nodded, and Davidia smiled even more broadly.

  “She was a dear friend,” she said. “Probably my best friend at the time. We were older than most of the other clerks in the office. We had more in common, I suppose. But what’s your interest in Carolyn? Did you know her?”

  “No,” said Anne. “I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the circumstances surrounding her death.”

  “That was ages ago, dear.”

  “I’m trying to clear up some loose ends for a client.”

  “Carolyn’s sister?”

  “Did you know her?”

  “I felt like I did. Carolyn and Edna were twins, and Carolyn liked to talk. They had quite a cross to bear. Their mother was doing poorly. Alzheimer’s, you know. Their mother was a bit difficult…I suppose that comes with the illness…but it was hard to keep caregivers to look after her. They’d come and go. The girls had to work out a schedule between themselves to care for her. That’s when Carolyn started her flex hours. White Cross was pretty progressive with things like that, even then.”

  “How did that change things for Carolyn?”

  “She had already worked here for several years…and she was an excellent worker, too…but, when things became difficult at home, she arranged an evening shift, four o’clock until midnight.”

  “Why those hours?”

  “It was a full shift, but it overlapped an hour with the regular shift. That way she could get up to speed on that day’s workload…and get up on the office gossip,” she giggled, and then added wistfully, “…and maybe for a little frivolous human contact, too. It also worked well with Edna’s nursing schedule. Carolyn would relieve Edna when she got home.”

  “And that worked out?”
r />   “Unless one of the daytime caregivers quit…which is what occurred just a couple weeks before Carolyn’s accident.”

  “Do you recall what happened?”

  “Well, she worked the week before Thanksgiving. I remember that, but Carolyn was out for most of the following week.”

  “Wasn’t that around the same time as the Villier murder?” asked Anne.

  “It was the Friday after the murder that she returned to work.”

  “You have a remarkable memory, Davidia. I can scarcely remember where I was last Friday.”

  “Neither can I, most of the time,” she laughed, “but the circumstances were different. It was comical actually…in a way. She came in for her evening shift as usual. I asked her what she thought about the murder, and she didn’t know what I was talking about. She said she hadn’t heard. I told her that it had happened over the long weekend. Too busy with her mum, I guess. I teased her about that, I tell ya. Told her that if it had been the end of the world, God would have to send a telegram to let her know. The murder happened right downstairs, ya know. Not here, of course, but over in Stratford where we had our offices then.”

  “And you say she worked before Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes, the whole week.”

  “How could you possibly remember that?”

  “I phoned her every evening she worked.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Carolyn was a Corrie fan. You know, Coronation Street, the British soap opera. If she was on evening shift, she’d miss the telecast. So I phoned to let her know what had happened.”

  “When’s the telecast?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “So you called her at seven or so.”

  “No, not until a little after eight. I like to watch The Price Is Right and Jeopardy. I always called after they were over. Not much on TV after that, just cop shows. Besides, that’s halfway through her shift. She always liked to take a little break…grab a bite of lunch then.”

  “You’re absolutely sure of the time.”

  “Like clockwork.”

  “How did the office staff react to the murder of Simone Villier?”