by Ross Pennie
Hamish sipped from his glass, then reached for another helping of tomato-mozzarella salad. “When did they die?”
“The first one, six weeks ago,” Natasha said. “The last one, three weeks ago.”
Hamish rolled his eyes. “Julian Banbury didn’t waste any time looking at their brains. No point in stalling when you’ve got a once-in-a-lifetime crack at fame.”
“What do you mean?” said Natasha.
“He’s looking at seven cases of a brand-new form of CJD,” Hamish explained. “Unlike the other forms, it’s got a short incubation period, and from what you told me on the phone, Zol, a distinctive pathologic pattern in the brain. Tulips, was it?” Hamish smirked as if to say he thought the term was eccentric, even comical. “He must be counting on this variant being named after him.”
“Hmm,” Zol said. “Banbury Disease.” He raised his empty fork and poked the air with it. “But we don’t know for certain about the incubation period, eh? It might not be so short.”
Hamish speared the last nugget of mozzarella from the serving dish. “I think it has to be. Seven cases, right out of the blue and simultaneously? They must’ve contracted those prions quite recently.”
Natasha dabbed her lips with the corner of her serviette. “How recently, Dr. Wakefield?”
“Hard to say. But I’d estimate no more than two years before they first started showing symptoms.”
“Are you sure? Only two years?” cautioned Zol. What Hamish was proposing was a major departure from common doctrine about Creutzfeldt-Jakob. “That’s very short for CJD.”
“Well, no, I’m not sure. But I doubt it could be much longer.”
“Let me get this right,” said Zol. “You’re saying we should look for possible shared sources of prions no more than a couple of years before the first case started showing symptoms?”
Hamish shrugged. “We have to start somewhere.”
Natasha smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Sometimes you have to start with a hunch.”
Hamish aligned his knife and fork on his emptied plate, inspected their arrangement, then shifted them slightly. “I think we should look at these four latest cases in chronological order.” He lifted his serviette from his lap, folded it into a perfect square, and placed it on the table.
Zol cocked his head toward Natasha. “Okay then. Who was the first to show mental changes?”
“Delia Smart, the actress. She became ill four or five months before the others.”
Natasha extracted the woman’s chart from the pile beside her and extended it toward Zol.
“Zol!” Hamish said sharply. “Be careful. You’re going to get tomato all over the charts.”
Zol grabbed his serviette and looked pointedly at his hands, which had grazed the sauce on his plate. “Sorry.” He made a show of wiping away the oily film from his fingers. He held up both hands for Hamish to inspect. “How’s that?”
“Fine.”
Natasha stared at her plate. Though her eyes were hooded, her lips formed a tight, perceptive grin.
Zol took the chart and dropped it on the table beside his plate. He stared at its cover; his fingers hovered over it.
“Dr. Zol, are you okay?” She’d noticed the tremble in his fingers. She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “Was she a friend of the family?”
Zol closed his eyes and drew in the scent of sandalwood that enveloped her. At such close range he found it especially warm and comforting. “You’re very perceptive,” he said after a long draft from his water glass. “She was a regular customer at the restaurant where I worked in Stratford. A really fine lady. Always went out of her way to compliment the staff. It’s awful to think of her mind dissolving into nothing.”
Natasha held his gaze. Her expression said she understood his pain.
Hamish was unperturbed. “Did she act at the Festival?” he asked. “My mother used to drag me there every summer.”
Zol fingered the spoon beside his plate. “She was one of their stars. Portia, Lady Macbeth, Cleopatra.”
Hamish lifted his glass in a mock salute and chuckled. “It was so long ago that we don’t need to suppose you poisoned her, do we?”
Zol’s shoulders stiffened, and his cheeks burned. He stared at his plate. Hamish could be so damned insensitive. His digs were all the more biting because they were accidental. Over the years, Zol had learned to deal with bullies. Restaurant kitchens were full of them. But how did you handle the thoughtless gibes of a lonely scholar who was socially awkward? About a year ago, Zol had returned one of Hamish’s tactless volleys, and the guy pouted for a month.
Zol held his tongue. He couldn’t risk sending Hamish into a funk.
“How should we do this?” Natasha asked, her face still anxious. “Should we each take a chart, spend a few minutes with it, then present a summary?”
“But there are four charts,” Hamish said.
“That’s okay,” Natasha said. “I’ve had a head start. I’ll do two.”
Zol placed Natasha’s empty plate on top of his and moved the dishes to the far end of the table. He didn’t dare touch the Zenlike arrangement Hamish had created at his place. Natasha passed Hamish a chart, and for the next few minutes the room was quiet except for the rustling of paper.
When he’d judged that Natasha had finished reviewing the last page of her second chart, Zol said, “Are we ready?” Seeing the others nod, he patted Delia Smart’s chart with his palm. “Delia was the first to develop symptoms. I should lead off.”
He started with a story that had caught his eye a year ago. Delia Smart had withdrawn abruptly from the preliminary rehearsals of her role as Gertrude, Hamlet’s mother. It was rumoured she was unable to learn her lines. In her chart was the consultation letter from the neurologist who assessed her at the time and made a diagnosis of early onset dementia consistent with Alzheimer’s disease. Eight months later, in August, Delia spent a day in Emergency with a bladder infection. The nurses’ notes described her as weak, mute, and bedridden. She died at home on October tenth, having lost at least fifty pounds. The surprise in the autopsy was the evidence of CJD, not Alzheimer’s, and Banbury’s tulip-shaped plaques in her brain, concentrated in the amygdala.
“What’s the amygdala?” Natasha asked.
“Two almond-shaped structures deep in the brain,” Hamish explained. “One in each hemisphere.”
Natasha looked puzzled.
“Sorry,” Hamish said. “I keep forgetting you didn’t get into med school.”
Zol’s hands flew up as he leaned into the table. “Hamish. What the . . .”
Natasha looked at Zol, then lifted her eyebrows and shook her head, the gestures almost imperceptible.
Without missing a beat, Hamish raised his teaching finger and continued, “The brain, actually the cerebrum, has two sides, each called a hemisphere. And each has an amygdala. In the temporal lobe.” He pointed to the hospital chart in front of him. “My guy’s tulip plaques were concentrated there, too.”
“My cases, as well,” Natasha said, her eyes bright and alert. “Both of them.”
“Did they have memory problems?” Hamish said.
Natasha nodded.
“The amygdala plays a role in memory and regulates emotions, especially fear,” said Hamish.
Zol shrugged and held up his palms. “I don’t mind admitting I slept through neuroanatomy, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Tell us about your case, Hamish.”
Hamish swept his hand over his flat-top, then summarized his case.
Owen Renway, age forty-two, had worked for the Canada Revenue Agency as a delinquent-accounts officer. He died on October nineteenth, nine days after Delia Smart. He’d been on sick leave since May. The hospital chart contained only the barest details of his illness because he was never admitted to the hospital and not evaluated there as an outpatient. He must have seen a doctor at another clinic. On the evening of his death he vomited at home, choked until he turned purple, and was found without vital signs
when the paramedics arrived.
“All attempts to revive him on the scene and at Caledonian’s Emergency Department were unsuccessful,” said Hamish, closing the chart.
“Did the autopsy confirm the cause of death as suffocation after aspiration?” Zol asked.
Hamish made a face. “Yes, his lungs were full of vomit.”
“And his brain?”
“Same as the others.”
“All right,” said Zol. “Now it’s your turn, Natasha.”
“I’ll start with Rita Spinelli, age thirty-eight. She owned the Sunroom Boutique, an expensive dress shop on Concession Street. She died almost exactly like Danesh Patel.”
“How so?” Hamish asked.
“Hit by a truck when she wandered into four lanes of traffic.” Natasha explained that after three days in intensive care at Caledonian Medical Centre Rita was declared brain-dead. Her husband wanted to donate her organs, but the consulting neurologist in ICU put a stop to that upon learning she had memory problems, a change of personality, and hadn’t been able to run her business since August. He couldn’t rule out CJD. As it turned out, he was correct.
“Can you imagine if she’d donated her organs?” asked Zol. “We’d be looking at half a dozen more cases at least.”
Natasha closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“When you’re ready, Natasha, tell us about the fourth case,” said Zol.
“This one is really sad. She was only twenty-seven.”
Tonya Latkovic, a high-school math teacher, had been referred to Caledonian’s psychiatric clinic during the summer because of depression and forgetfulness. Except for a history of migraine headaches, she had always been healthy and vivacious. She showed no response to antidepressants, and when she couldn’t face returning to her classroom in September she was put on stress leave. In the middle of the night of October thirty-first she wandered off from the home she shared with her parents. The next day she was found dead at the bottom of the Escarpment.
Natasha fingered the iridescent black opal pendant she wore every day. Its teardrop shape seemed to glow of its own accord. “The Spectator published an interview with the woman who found the body while she was walking her dog. I remember reading it and thinking . . .” She clutched her arms to her chest.
Hamish shifted his chair closer to the table. “What did the autopsy show?”
“A fractured femur,” Natasha said. “She bled to death from a fractured femur. I didn’t know that could happen.”
Hamish raised his index finger to its professorial position. “Oh, yes,” he said, “it’s classic.”
Natasha looked at Zol and held his gaze, then lifted her eyebrows again as they covertly shared their understanding of the quirky young professor. “And of course,” she continued, “it showed CJD with tulip plaques, just like the others.”
The phone rang in the kitchen. Zol hoped it was Max or Ermalinda saying they’d seen their movie and were on the way home. No such luck. It was Peter Trinnock.
“So, Zol, how are things on the CJD business?”
Zol cleared his throat. “Banbury has just reported four new cases. We’re reviewing them now. Planning our strategy for the weekend.”
“You’ll have to do a lot more than plan. And who’s we?”
“Natasha and Hamish Wakefield.”
“Natasha who? Oh yes, the new girl. Why do you have her on the case? Why not Gibson? He’s got a lot more experience.”
“She’s got the nose for this sort of thing. Remember the E. coli at that Croatian wedding? It was Natasha who —”
“I hope you know what you’re doing. It’s all gonna be on the line on Monday afternoon. My office. Four o’clock.”
Trinnock hung up, and Zol leaned his head against the kitchen wall.
Damn. How was he going to find a watertight lead in three days? And was it going to lead straight to The Bard’s Table?
He plodded back to the dining room. He’d have given almost anything for a double Glenfarclas at that point, but he couldn’t take the chance that it might dull his grey cells.
“Dr. Zol,” Natasha said, the whites of her eyes radiating her concern. “Bad news?”
“That was Dr. Trinnock. He’s mad as hell.”
“He’s got nothing to be mad about,” Hamish said. “We didn’t plant these cases. We’re only trying to solve them.”
“But if we don’t do it fast, Toronto will be all over him. Ottawa, too.”
Hamish looked puzzled.
“The Canadian Food Inspection Agency.”
“Of course. Prions in the food chain are a federal responsibility.”
Restless, Zol stood behind the chair he’d been sitting in and gripped its back. “We’ve got three days to come up with the lead that will take us to the finish line.”
Hamish scowled, puffed his chest, then let out a long, loud tsk. “That’s ridiculous. He can’t expect . . .”
Natasha turned to a fresh page on her notepad. “I’m sure Dr. Trinnock doesn’t expect complete closure by Monday. Just a strong, plausible hypothesis for us to spend the next week nailing down.”
Zol wished he could share Natasha’s optimism. “Whatever way we look at it,” he said, “it’s going to be a hectic weekend.” Still standing, he rocked his chair on its back legs. A rattling sound came from a large leather bag that sat on the seat. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Sorry,” Natasha said, “I put it there. I meant to give it to you earlier. It was Joanna Vanderven’s. Her housekeeper gave it to me this morning.”
“It’s a Louis Vuitton,” Hamish said. “Very expensive. Unless, of course, it’s a knock-off.”
Zol looked at Hamish. “How do you —” At any other time he could have made hay out of this one at Hamish’s expense. But not now. Not tonight. “What’s in it?”
“All her medications,” Natasha said. “Her housekeeper kept them hidden after Joanna died.”
“But why did she give it to you?” Zol asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps she trusted me, saw me as a friend of Ermalinda’s.”
“We should have a good look at them,” Hamish said. “Remember — the toxicology lab found all those drugs in her blood.”
“But it’s not our business,” Zol said. “For God’s sake, we’ve got enough to worry about.”
Again, a raised finger from Hamish. “At this point, isn’t everything about these people our business?”
“Okay, you take the bag, Hamish. It’s now officially your baby.” Giving the man no chance to respond, Zol turned toward the kitchen. “I’m putting the coffee on.”
He had only taken three steps when the doorbell rang. He could see Colleen Woolton standing on the veranda, cradling a parcel.
Her bright gaze darted around the hallway as he led her in. “I suppose I’ve missed most of the meeting. It took longer than I expected to wrap up my other case. But it’s settled now.” She placed a hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. “You seemed to enjoy the Amarula this afternoon.” She pressed a brand-new bottle of the African liqueur into his hand and gave his arm a steadying squeeze. “Looks to me like you could use it right now.”
Seeing Colleen standing there looking fresh and confident, and remembering her sure-footed approach in her office this afternoon, Zol was sure he’d been right to bring her into the inner circle of the investigation. How else was he going to dig up tangible answers for Trinnock by Monday afternoon? If Hamish got uppity about Colleen’s involvement, well, too bad.
He pulled a hanger from the closet. “Here, let me take your coat and then . . . and then I’ll introduce you to Hamish and Natasha.”
She’d noticed the hesitation in his voice and shot him a puzzled look as she handed him her scarf and gloves.
“To be honest,” he admitted, “they’re not exactly expecting you. I didn’t know how to tell them I’d hired a private eye. Hamish can be a bit touchy.”
“For heaven’s sake, Zol, you make me sound
like an ill- mannered ex-cop out of a paperback novel.”
“Tell Hamish about your New England Journals. You’ll melt his pedantic little heart.”
CHAPTER 10
The next morning Zol arose feeling anxious and impatient. Anxious about having to face Douglas Matheson, Delia Smart’s husband. Impatient to get the interview over with and perhaps clear the pall hanging over The Bard’s Table and its dodgy meat. He dispatched Max to the TV room for a festival of Saturday-morning cartoons as soon as their last mouthfuls disappeared from their breakfast cereal bowls. He put the cartons of milk and juice in the fridge, picked up Dr. Osler’s Parker, and tried to jot down a list of questions for Douglas Matheson.
He found himself too distracted by thoughts of Colleen to concentrate on his task. When she’d stepped into the living room last evening, scented with jasmine and armed with a bottle of African Amarula, Hamish had greeted her with a frown. He was barely civil when Zol introduced her as a private investigator who would be consulting on the case. Hamish didn’t say it, but it was clear that he considered their CJD cluster strictly a medical matter, not the purview of a private eye better suited to photographing wayward husbands cavorting with their mistresses. But Hamish started to come around when Colleen explained that she once managed her husband’s internal-medicine practice; he softened when he heard she hadn’t had the heart to cancel her husband’s weekly subscription to the New England Journal of Medicine; he sat agape when she told him that she still read the editorials and the abstracts before placing every issue in Liam’s former study. Anyone in possession of a decade’s worth of NEJMs neatly ordered in a personal library secured Hamish’s immediate respect as a kindred spirit. Colleen had been quick to admit that she couldn’t explain the biochemistry of prions, but she proved to be fully aware of the infectious link between British cattle falling sick and the kingdom’s smouldering epidemic of human CJD. Yes, she was definitely going to be an asset to this case.
“Would you like a coffee, Dr. Szabo?” Douglas Matheson said to Zol an hour later as Matheson led the way to his living room in Dundas, the crunchy-granola town that huddled next to Hamilton and liked to think of itself as a Victorian village housing Caledonian’s professors and patrons of the arts. “I’ve learned to become quite independent in the kitchen since Delia took sick.”
