by Ross Pennie
“Sure,” Zol said, “sounds great. Natasha, it’s your baby. You start.”
Natasha adjusted her chair, cleared her throat, and read aloud from the screen.
* * *
Demographic Characteristics
Sex: 3 men, 4 women
Age: Range 27 to 58, Median 42, Mean 41.6
Ethnicity: Anglo-Saxon 4, Italian 1, Slavic 1, South Asian 1
Wealthy: Joanna V, Dr. McEwen, Rita S, Delia S, Owen R
Modest Income: Danesh P, Tonya L
* * *
Hamish turned to Zol. “When we looked at their addresses, we discovered that three live right here in your part of town.” He raised his hands, palms up. “They’re practically your neighbours.”
“You can’t call Vanderven my neighbour, Hamish,” Zol said. “He’s at the far end of Scenic.” There was no way he was going to let Hamish connect him with the victims. It was bad enough that Max had been eating the same damn Swiss chocolates as McEwen and Latkovic.
Colleen beamed Zol a reassuring smile and indicated the list of addresses. “Owen Renway and Tonya Latkovic were practically neighbours, as well, but farther east.”
Zol leaned into the soft down of the cushion at his back. “That leaves the Patels on their own in the far northeast, and Delia Smart over in Dundas,” he said. “Does this first table hint at anything?”
Three foreheads crinkled at him.
“No? Okay, what’s next?” Zol asked.
Natasha clicked, and the TV flashed three columns.
* * *
Occupation Spouse/Parents Occupation
Delia S: actress retired lawyer
Joanna V: former model auto-parts millionaire
Danesh P: car salesman homemaker
Owen R: tax collector lawyer
Tonya L: teacher, basketball coach steelworker, hospital cafeteria
Dr. McEwen: dentist homemaker
Rita S: dress-shop owner lawyer
* * *
Hamish pointed at the screen. “Three of the spouses are lawyers.” His clear voice was a surprise every time he opened his mouth.
“Do they work together?” Colleen asked.
“Kenyon Cheung gave me his card,” said Hamish. He pulled his wallet from a pocket and read from the card. “Sherman & MacIntyre, Barristers and Solicitors, ninety-nine Concession Street.”
Natasha flipped through the pages of a notepad dense with her handwriting. Her eyes filled with worry as though she’d lost something. “I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” she mumbled. “Yes. Yes, here it is. Rita Spinelli’s husband is with Delancey, Spinelli, and Munro. Hey. I thought the address sounded familiar. Same building, ninety-nine Concession.”
Zol’s stomach tightened. “I think I know where that is,” he said, forcing himself up from his chair. “Let me check the phone book.”
He pulled the directory from a kitchen drawer and turned to the Fs. At the sight of the address, he leaned against the counter and swore under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” asked Colleen when Zol entered the sunroom a moment later.
He ran his tinder-dry tongue against his teeth. “Ninety-nine Concession is the Escarpment Professional Building.” He swallowed hard. “I thought I recognized the number. Four Corners Fine Foods takes up half the ground floor.”
“But why look so glum?” said Hamish. “I thought the whole idea was to find connections.”
“Not with the grocery store where Max and I go shopping every week. And where the ladies feed him chocolates.”
Natasha dropped her eyes.
“Remember,” said Colleen, “we’re bound to find we’ve got things in common with these people.” Her bright eyes searched for consensus around the room. “But we can’t let it get to us.”
Zol gripped the back of Colleen’s chair with both hands, his heart racing. “I know, I know,” he said without conviction. He sensed the glow radiating from her body and stepped away from it. At that moment, he just couldn’t handle it. “What’s next?”
Natasha clicked and read again from the screen.
* * *
Past Surgery
Cholecystectomy: Joanna V, Owen R, Rita S
Appendectomy: Owen R, Dr. McEwen, Tonya L
Fractured Leg: Danesh P
Hysterectomy: Delia S
* * *
“The most recent surgery was Danesh Patel’s,” said Natasha. “Four years ago. They put a pin into his fractured tibia.”
“But none had neurosurgery,” said Zol. “And no organ transplants. Any blood transfusions?”
Hamish raised his tutoring finger. “Hard to be certain without an exhaustive review of charts in several different hospitals. But not to the knowledge of family members.”
“I guess it’s not that important,” Zol said. “So far, CJD has never been linked to blood products.”
Hamish’s finger remained stuck in tutoring mode. “There can always be a first time.”
Natasha coughed discreetly and moved on to the next screen.
* * *
Recent Health
Delia S: arthritis in her knees (cortisone injections); wrinkles (Extendo-Tox injections)
Joanna V: depression, anxiety, severe heartburn; several meds including antidepressant
Danesh P: perfect health until memory problems
Owen R: longstanding Tourette's syndrome
Tonya L: migraines (sumatriptan injections)
Dr. McEwen: swallowing difficulties, puréed diet, esophageal manipulations
Rita S: perfect health until memory problems
* * *
“Delia and Danesh worried about aging,” Natasha said. “Delia was getting Extendo-Tox for wrinkles, and Danesh dyed his hair.” She dropped her gaze and studied her hands for a moment. “My mum knows the family. It’s an open secret that Danesh fooled around.”
Colleen removed a stray thread from the fabric of her skirt. “Joanna and Rita were both in the fashion industry,” she said. “What did they do to keep looking young?”
“Joanna saw a dermatologist regularly,” Natasha said. “Her housekeeper said she got quite anxious before each visit. And Rita made a weekly trip to her favourite spa. Hair and nails.” Natasha’s ruby nails glowed against her yellow notepad. “I know the place. I’ve been there, as well.” She hid her hands beneath the table as crimson blotches sprouted at her throat. “Oh my gosh! Bright Day Spa. It’s on the second floor of that same building.”
Four pairs of eyes stared at the television. No one mentioned the aroma of fresh coffee wafting from Zol’s kitchen.
“Isn’t it ironic,” said Colleen, “how preoccupied they were with the appearance of the outside of their skulls, while a time bomb ticked away on the inside? You wonder what decisions they would have made if they’d known.”
“Indulged their vanity more intensely,” Hamish said, a cynical scowl clouding his face. “More hours of pampering, knowing they wouldn’t have much longer and might as well spoil themselves.”
“According to my mother, Danesh didn’t have the money for anything more expensive than hair dye,” Natasha said.
Zol paced behind the loveseat. “Really?”
“He was the most successful salesman at the dealership,” Natasha said, “but always crying broke. My mum could never understand it.”
Zol tapped his chin with his forefinger and squinted at the TV. “Maybe he had a few expensive habits his wife didn’t know about.”
“Were there needle tracks on his arms at autopsy?” Hamish asked.
Natasha shook her head emphatically. “No.”
“We’ll have to pay a visit to ninety-nine Concession to see what’s going on there,” said Zol. “But let’s move on to your next screen.”
* * *
Country of Birth Regions Visited Lived in England?
Delia S: Canada Caribbean, Europe, UK No
Joanna V: England Americas, Asia, Europe, UK Yes
Danesh P: India UK, USA Yes
&n
bsp; Owen R: Canada Caribbean, USA No
Tonya L: Canada USA No
Dr. McEwen: Canada Caribbean, UK, USA Yes
Delia S: Canada Caribbean, Europe, UK No
Rita S: Canada Caribbean, France, Italy No
* * *
“Staying close to home didn’t protect Tonya,” said Hamish. “And this makes it clear we can’t blame a diet of English beef.”
“Yeah,” said Zol, “Owen, Tonya, and Rita never set foot in England.”
“And remember,” said Colleen, “Danesh and Tonya were vegetarian.”
“Any chance they weren’t all that committed to it?” asked Hamish.
“Mrs. Patel is a tyrant in her kitchen,” Natasha replied. “I’d say Mr. Patel would never have dared eat meat.”
“And Tonya’s parents said she was very strict about her diet,” Colleen said. “Keeping fit for basketball.”
Hamish rolled his eyes. “Basketball?”
Colleen turned to Hamish. “Yes, she led St. Adele’s senior girls to the Ontario championships.”
Hamish scrunched his lips and shook his head in disgust. “What does keeping fit have to do with not eating meat?”
Colleen shrugged. “Just part of her routine, I suppose.” She glanced at Zol, her eyes betraying her frustration at Hamish’s negative attitude.
Again, Hamish rolled his eyes. “There’s just no science behind it,” he said. “And she was a math teacher, for heaven’s sake. Supposed to be the epitome of a logical thinker.”
“Just goes to show you,” Zol said, in his role as peace broker, “there’s logic on paper, and then there’s . . .” He looked at Colleen, inviting her to finish his sentiment.
“All those frailties that make us human?” she said.
Zol smiled inwardly at her perfect response. “And keep us all in business,” he added.
“I suppose,” said Hamish. “Tobacco, alcohol, and plain stupidity — infectious-disease practice would be pretty quiet without them.”
Colleen brushed a strand of golden hair from her cheek and sniffed the air. “That coffee smells awfully good, Zol.”
“Let’s stretch for a minute. Max and I made a batch of brownies this afternoon. He says they’re delicious.”
Colleen ran her tongue over her lips. “Sounds perfect.”
Zol loved the way she purred it: purrrh-fect. He poured the coffees at the kitchen counter then they all returned with their mugs to the sunroom. As he placed the plate of brownies on the coffee table, it was all he could do to restrain himself from asking Hamish to take Colleen’s chair so he could sit beside her on the loveseat.
Natasha took a bite of brownie. Her whole face smiled in satisfaction. She wiped her fingers with a paper serviette and tapped at the keyboard. “And this brings us to the food — my favourite part of public health.”
* * *
Grocery stores
Kelly's SuperMart (4 outlets) I and W Meats
All seven victims Joanna V
Owen R
Food Bargains Dr. McEwen
Danesh P
Tonya L Four Corners Fine Foods
Rita S Delia
Joanna V
Botticelli’s Owen R
Owen R Dr. McEwen
Rita S Rita S
(Tonya L)
Bombay Market
Danesh P
Owen R
* * *
Several moments passed while they read from the screen and drank from their mugs. Between mouthfuls of brownie they praised Max’s kitchen prowess, and Zol confessed that the extra chunks of chocolate had been his son’s idea.
Hamish wiped the bottom of his mug with a serviette and steadied it on his knee. “There’s an awful lot on this slide.”
“Sorry,” said Natasha. “Too much at once?”
“No, it’s fine,” Zol said. He pointed at the screen. “I notice they all shopped at Kelly’s.”
“But so does practically everyone in the city,” Hamish said. “They’ve got four big stores,”
“Yeah,” said Zol. “If the prions are coming from Kelly’s, God help us.”
“Four Corners might be more manageable,” said Natasha. “Smaller shop, only one outlet, and five or six of the seven cases shopped there.”
“Why the parentheses around Tonya’s name?” Zol asked.
“Because we’re not absolutely positive she was a customer,” said Colleen. “I found a box of Lorreaux chocolates on the desk in her bedroom. It’s only an assumption she bought them at Four Corners.”
Zol sighed and nodded. “Max will tell you that’s the only place around here you can find that brand — his favourite.” He realized the silliness of suggesting his seven-year-old was a connoisseur of fine chocolate. “I mean . . . not that he actually buys them.”
Natasha smiled then clicked at her keyboard. “Well — if we include Tonya, that means eighty-six percent of the cases are linked to Four Corners.”
“That is a strong correlation,” said Hamish.
“But don’t we have to have one hundred percent of the victims linked to one perpetrator?” Colleen asked.
Zol shook his head and swallowed a mouthful of brownie. “As long as —”
“Even the most successful epidemiological investigations,” Hamish said, his voice strong, his face intense, “rarely reveal a one-hundred-percent correlation with the contaminated source.” He raised his professorial hand. “For a variety of reasons, the link is missed or unapparent.” He counted out the reasons on his fingers: “One — people don’t realize they shared the source. Two — they’ve forgotten. Three — they’re afraid and won’t admit the connection. And four — they lie.”
Zol buried his nose in his mug and forced himself to control his guilty smile at yet another Hamishism. He looked up and caught the expression on Colleen’s face, which left no doubt she thought his friend could be overly pedantic. With time, she’d come to appreciate the big heart beneath all that brain.
Zol turned to Natasha. “What was the percent linkage of the E. coli cases to your Croatian wedding sausages?”
She lowered her gaze and paused. Zol was sure she was searching the depths of her prodigious memory. “Seventy-one point four,” she said, wiping a spot of chocolate from her fingernail.
“And in that case,” Zol said, sneaking in his own bit of professorial tone, “we were able to prove that the E. coli came from the sausages. They were undercooked, and culture-positive for the toxic strain.”
“So,” Colleen said, “we look for signs of a strong connection that’s not necessarily universal. And then we investigate for supportive details?”
“You got it,” said Zol.
“Any ideas,” Colleen asked, “about what all of them might have purchased at Four Corners?”
“Zol,” said Hamish, his voice its old harsh whisper, “what sort of chocolate did Max add to those brownies?”
They all gazed at the plate of half-consumed chocolate brownies on the coffee table.
Hamish’s hand flew to his mouth. “Not those Swiss ones he likes so much?”
“Nothing so fancy,” said Zol. “Just baking chocolate. But are we all thinking what I’ve been afraid to say? Everything is connected to those Lorreaux chocolates?”
“Looks like it,” said Hamish, again counting on his fingers. “One — there’s McEwen, who was addicted. Two — Owen bought them every week. Three — Tonya had them on her desk.”
“And Joanna Vanderven makes four,” Natasha added. “She ate them to calm her nerves.”
And look,” said Hamish, pointing at the screen, “Delia Smart shopped at Four Corners. She might have picked them up there, too.”
“I saw them in Rita Spinelli’s living room. You can’t miss that box with the black-and-yellow bird,” Natasha added.
Zol raised a palm. “Hold on,” he said. “Do we actually know that Rita Spinelli ate them? Maybe it was just her husband. And he’s not sick.”
“I didn’t ask,” Natasha said.
“But it would be easy to find out.” She glanced at her watch. “I can call him right now.”
Zol stared through the window. All he could see was the vast blackness of the sky hanging above the lake. He was afraid of Spinelli’s answer, but there was no avoiding it. He pointed toward the kitchen. “Phone’s on the wall beside the microwave.”
Two minutes later Natasha returned, picking her way across the scatter of rattan mats on the hardwood. She took her seat and wiped her face with a tissue. It was obvious she was feeling the collective weight of everyone’s gazes. “Yes,” she said, “Rita ate them. A lot.”
Hamish uncrossed his legs and brushed crumbs of brownie from his trousers into his palm. “Okay,” he said brightly, “including Rita, but not Delia Smart or Danesh Patel, the rate of correlation with those chocolates stands at . . . ?”
Natasha’s shoulders slumped as she answered. “Five out of seven. That’s . . . seventy-one point four percent.”
“Well then,” Hamish, said. “Same as the wedding sausages.”
CHAPTER 14
Zol heaved himself out of his chair and plodded to the kitchen to phone Delia Smart’s husband. By the ninth ring it was clear that Douglas Matheson wasn’t going to answer. Not tonight.
The enthusiasm for the investigation dissipated from the sun-room as soon as Zol left a message on Matheson’s machine and put down the phone. Natasha presented her final slides, but her voice sounded flat and tired. The others made only a few half-hearted comments. They buried themselves in their notes and promised to spend the next day hunting down assorted data missing from their assigned cases. No one lingered, not even Colleen. After he helped her into her coat, she fixed him with her gaze, squeezed his arm, and followed Hamish and Natasha out the door. Zol tipped the remaining brownies into the garbage and poured himself two fingers of Balvenie. The house, now utterly silent, felt like a mausoleum.
