He rebooked his first meeting then emailed Sally with the rest of his appointments, asking her to make sure they were followed up. As usual, there was no answer on Bill’s cell. Dan left a message to say he’d do whatever he could for the Killingworths then picked up the phone and dialled the number for the Picton OPP. Saylor took his call.
“Detective Constable Saylor here.”
“Hey, Pete — Dan Sharp.”
The surprise in Saylor’s voice was audible. “Don’t tell me. It just occurred to you how brilliant my theory was and you’ve called to tell me so.”
“Bang on,” Dan said.
“And other than that?”
“I was just wondering. How much have you told the Killingworths about the investigation?”
Saylor hesitated. “Only that the death was considered suspicious.”
“Any personal details?”
“You mean the pregnancy? No — I spared them that. Remember, she’s not their family.”
“Then do me a favour. Let me break it to them. I’m going over there this afternoon.”
There was a pause as Saylor calculated this request and its consequences. “All right, but you didn’t hear it from me. And mum’s the word on my private theory, mind.”
Poplar Plains Crescent was the city’s most desirable mid-town street. A long-time WASP enclave, with rows of high-banked old money estates, it had begrudgingly given way to the ranks of wealthy immigrant families only in the past decade. Or maybe not so begrudgingly — there were just so many old money families left in Toronto, and not all of them wanted to live on a hill in an enchanted forest. Especially not now, with the newcomers changing the tone of everything.
Dan drove south, noting the declining numbers. He was momentarily stunned when he saw the one he wanted. The Killingworths’ in-town residence made their country home look like a summer cottage. Someone in the family had a preference for imposing structures. One of the grande dames of a bygone age, this was Bayreuth and Klingsor’s magic castle rolled into one.
Dan parked curbside and climbed the stone walk past a rose garden and the trunks of a dozen century-old trees. A servant answered his ring, a bent and withered ancient whose presence seemed to have been wrested from the earth. He stood there, grim in a hair-shirt, guarding the ancestral realms.
The walk-in foyer was lined with oak panels and overhung by the polished links of an eight-tiered chandelier. Terra cotta angels danced on the perimeter above the entrance. It might have been the first sight glimpsed by the dead entering Valhalla. Dan’s coat was hung in a closet the size of most people’s living rooms. A staircase twisted up and out of view. Dan recognized the glowering features of Nathaniel Macaulay — another oil portrait. This one clearly predated the one in Adolphustown. Still, the family forebear looked no friendlier at thirty-something than his aged self had. “Malevolent” was the word that came to mind. Dan wondered if they made portrait subjects sit on tacks back then.
He was shown into a sitting room and left alone, half-expecting to be given an admonishment not to touch the valuables. A damask weave sofa and two armchairs commanded centre stage; a vase of blossoms, gigantic and pale-pink, languished on an oval table. A fireplace with a cavity large enough to stand upright in filled the north wall. In medieval times, it might have served to feed the king and his men as they passed through on their way to the crusades. In the front window, lid cocked, a full-size grand piano waited expectantly, keys glittering like freshly minted teeth beside a gold-framed harp and standing cello. Dan wouldn’t have been surprised to see a circus troupe waiting in readiness, with a couple of prancing ponies and a small corps de ballet to complete the set. Was it Thom or his world that Bill was in love with? Dan mused.
After a moment’s wait, Thom entered with his mother. He was dressed in jeans and a white shirt and seemed to have recovered from his ordeal. He took Dan’s hand, greeting him with an earnest sobriety, like old comrades who’d been fighting the same battle for years. Lucille, somewhat more subdued, wore a chaste beige sweater over a long black knitted dress, possibly her attempt at mourning. In the room’s autumnal light she appeared more severe than Dan recalled, her face pinked with syllables of exhaustion or worry. He could see the family resemblance now, the wide, intelligent brow, the long, full cheekbones, the gold under-toned hair.
She offered him a hand. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy day to come all this way to see us,” she began, her voice suggesting fragility. She gestured toward the sofa. “Please, sit.”
Dan sat on the end near the fireplace. Thom sank into one of the wide chairs across from him. Lucille remained standing. Nervousness, Dan thought. Or maybe she intended to keep things brief.
She clasped her hands and addressed him directly. “As you know, we’re anxious to learn as much as we can about this terrible situation,” she began, her voice quickly regaining its equipoise. “Naturally, we’re shaken by this poor girl’s death. I can only imagine how her family must feel.” She stopped and looked at Thom. “My son and I thought — in light of what’s occurred — that it would be best if we were prepared for whatever might happen next. Bill McFarland felt you might be able to help.…”
Dan saw this as his cue to jump in with words of reassurance, possibly wisdom, though he doubted that what he had to say would fall into either category. “I might have a bit of information that will help,” he said. “I’ve been in touch with a constable at the Picton OPP detachment. I believe you already know they’re treating Daniella’s death as suspicious.”
“Yes,” Lucille said with a shiver. “That’s what’s so worrisome. It seems ghastly to think anyone could suspect that one of our guests might have had something to do with this. Have they considered that it might simply have been an accident?”
“I’m sure they have. It’s routine to treat a death as suspicious unless it was clearly the result of an accident. Without any witnesses, they have to consider other possibilities.”
Lucille absently fingered one of the pink blossoms. Begonia, Dan thought. Or maybe peony. He thought of tissue-paper pompoms used to decorate wedding cars. Not funeral flowers.
Lucille continued. “But several people have said she was quite inebriated before she fell overboard. A number of people saw her drinking heavily that evening. Surely they must realize it was a case of a tragic, drunken fall?”
“The autopsy revealed there was no alcohol in her system,” Dan said. “In fact, she hadn’t been drinking at all.”
“Is that possible?” Lucille’s face resumed its pensive look. “Even so, what makes them think it could be anything but an accident?”
“There was a large bruise on her forehead just under the hairline above her right temple. Thom saw it.”
Lucille looked to her son, who nodded. “And … that’s why they think she may have been murdered?”
“I don’t think the police would use the word ‘murder’ at this point. The bruise is one reason they’re treating the death as suspicious,” Dan said.
“Will we need alibis?” Thom said suddenly.
“They’ll probably ask people to state where they were once they determine when Daniella fell overboard,” Dan said. “The window of time in which it could have occurred is small. Can either of you say with accuracy where you were right before you heard of her disappearance? Or rather, Sebastiano’s disappearance, since that’s who people seemed to think had fallen overboard. If it comes to that, we may all have to prove where we were at the time.”
“I was with Bill,” Thom said, running a hand through his hair. “We went off for a little drink and a private chat. He was … concerned about something.”
“And I was in the stateroom with my guests the entire time,” Lucille said. “But still, do you think it will come to that?”
“I hope not,” Dan said. “In fact, I rather doubt it. The only people who might have to worry about providing alibis will be anyone who was wandering alone on the upper decks at the time Daniella disappeared.”
Lucille wrapped her arms around herself and looked over at Thom. “I guess it’s time to call Larry,” she said softly.
“Our family attorney,” Thom said, to Dan’s inquisitive glance.
Dan wondered why they’d hesitated to call him before now. His thought was interrupted by Lucille.
“I was hoping to keep this out of the papers,” she said grimly. “But it’s already been all over the news. The ‘troubled Killingworth family.’ They’ve even dragged up my husband’s disappearance.”
“I’m sorry to hear,” Dan said. “I hope things are resolved as quickly as possible.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a resigned smile, the gracious hostess whose concern is first and foremost for the comfort of her guest.
“Where is Sebastiano? If I may ask?”
Thom answered. “We’ve arranged for him to stay at a hotel downtown until the body is released. Then he’ll go home with Daniella. Under the circumstances, we thought it best that he was somewhere else.”
“Of course. It would be difficult to have him around. There is one other thing you might want to know,” Dan said, looking from mother to son. “Daniella was pregnant when she died.”
Thom’s face flushed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“How awful,” Lucille said quietly.
“My god,” Thom said, anger overtaking the shock. He turned to the fireplace. “These people were unbelievable!” His mother put a hand on his shoulder. Thom turned to face Dan again. “We had no idea. None!”
“It is quite incredible,” said Lucille. “To think that Thom was so thoroughly deceived by these people. Is there anything else we should know?”
“Not at the moment,” Dan said. “But I’ll let you know anything I find out — provided I have a legal right to do so.”
“I understand,” said Lucille. “We wouldn’t ask you to do anything that might compromise yourself.” She took his hand and squeezed it warmly. “You’ve done a great deal to ease our minds, Daniel. Thank you. Is there anything we can do for you?”
Dan’s eyes met hers. For a moment he wondered again why he was here. He couldn’t see that he’d done or said anything that might be of use. “Not at all. I’m happy you feel I’ve been helpful.”
“Then we won’t keep you,” Lucille said. “Thank you again. My son will see you to the door.” She swept out of the room with more assurance than when she’d entered, her conscience eased, her heels making small clicking sounds.
Thom sat shaking his head and looking down at the floor. “Fucking hell,” he said at last. “This is really awful.”
“I’m sorry things have turned out so badly,” Dan said.
“I can’t believe I trusted that guy. I mean, I’m not naïve. I knew I was helping him, but obviously he was just waiting to get his citizenship, then he would have dumped me and brought her in as his wife.”
“I doubt they would have got away with it,” Dan said.
“And the pregnancy! I guess I can tell you why I — why my mother and I — were shocked when you mentioned it. A good portion of my grandfather’s money is held in trust for the first great-grandchild.”
A clock chimed three. It had been less than half an hour since he arrived, but Dan felt he’d been there for ages. “Did Sebastiano know?”
“He knew.” Thom made a sound of disgust. “And I agreed to it. They duped me completely. The plan was for her to have a child with help from a fertility clinic after the wedding. But it was supposed to be my child! I might never have known!”
He looked tormented, as he had the morning they’d gone to identify Daniella’s body, as though truth had a demoralizing rather than an edifying effect on him. Thom was one of the ones who got no relief from the knowing, Dan saw.
Thom straightened suddenly and laid a hand on Dan’s knee. There was nothing lascivious in the gesture, his expression set beyond all that. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve really been great about everything. I’ll tell Bill how helpful you’ve been.”
“I was happy to help.”
Thom stood. In the hallway, Dan said, “I thought Bill was going to be here. His message gave me that impression.”
“No, I don’t think Bill intended to be here this afternoon. At least not that I was aware of.”
Something in Thom’s expression suggested otherwise. Dan ignored it. He busied himself with his leave-taking. The putting on of his jacket, followed by a patting of pockets and the double-checking — Ah, here they are! — for his keys. They both pretended to be taken in by this dumbshow. Thom’s self-assurance had returned. He shook his head sympathetically. “Maybe Bill changed his mind.”
“I must have misunderstood,” Dan said.
Thom opened the door and Dan stepped through into what was, all things considered, just another ordinary day. The world beyond seemed a little less dazzling than the one he was leaving. He hadn’t wanted to be there. Now that he was, he didn’t want to leave.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
The drive across St. Clair and down Bayview delivered him to his driveway in less than twenty minutes. He could have returned to the office, but he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate. On the way home, he mulled over his visit to the Killingworths. He hadn’t helped them in any way he could see. Had they simply wanted hand-holding? He pulled out his cell and left a message for Bill saying how the meeting went.
Ralph did an anxious little dance at the back door, wanting to be let out. Then he came back in and settled on his bed in the corner. Ked wasn’t due for another two hours. There was nothing further demanding Dan’s attention. Me Time, he told himself. It had been weeks since he’d been jogging. His leg muscles ached with anticipation.
He stood on the rise over Riverdale Park with its view of the downtown skyline. The city spread out like a medical cadaver, the skin peeled back to reveal the working organs, muscles, and nervous system. It seemed incredible to think he’d lived here for twenty years. He padded across the metal footbridge, down the stairs, and turned north. His run took him through a drainage tunnel echoing with the chirps of mechanical frogs — some civil servant’s idea of an ecological joke — under the arches of the Bloor Viaduct. Above, subway trains and rush hour traffic raced along as the 905-ers abandoned the city for another day.
His feet pounded the trail as his mind melded with the green space whizzing past. He climbed a gradient running headlong with the Don Valley Parkway — more cars escaping the city. Here the path headed toward Pottery Road and the supposed haven of leafy suburbs or, if you turned right instead of left, on to Scarborough, where it was said that bad Torontonians went when they died. (The good ones, presumably, going to Vancouver.)
A helicopter hovered overhead, stuck in the loop of rush-hour traffic reports. A posse of bikers passed in the other direction, heading for the lakeshore trail, always crowded with roller-bladers and dog walkers these days. Dan preferred the quiet of the valley where passersby were less frequently encountered.
Now and again, the Don River appeared through the trees in patches of brown flecked with yellow foam. Toronto was probably the only major city in the world to relinquish the chance to commercialize a river running through its centre. While that might have seemed an ecologically sound choice, in reality the river had been slowly poisoned by surreptitious chemical dumps and garbage spills, and left to fill instead with abandoned shopping carts, stolen bicycles, and cast-off tires. Merchants would have shown more concern for its appearance and welfare. Dan thought of Ked’s enthusiasm for the decrepit world of Blade Runner. Perhaps some enterprising young dreamer would one day populate the Don’s turgid depths with robotic fish to accompany the chirping of the mechanical frogs.
He came to the top of the rise. He’d meant to take this time to think about Bill, but instead he was worrying about water pollution. A chorus of images from the weekend jarred his thinking. He remembered the rush of betrayal he’d felt hearing Bill confess his love for Thom. It went a long way toward
explaining why Bill found intimacy so hard. Dan, on the other hand, had no such difficulties. It had been easy to devote himself to Bill, though common sense told him his lover wasn’t as dedicated in return. Did it ultimately matter? Was the cool affection Bill showed him enough? Maybe the other would grow with time. Or maybe he just needed to recognize when he’d been kicked in the balls.
With a sudden swoop, the helicopter turned away from the valley, disappearing in the clouds. He’d just topped the hill, his breathing nicely measured, when he saw the biker in full riding gear racing toward him. The guy braked a few feet off — the near-collision hadn’t really been that near, all things considered.
The biker flipped up his sun visor and smiled. Two travellers meeting on a lonely road. He leaned down to unstrap a water bottle from the bike frame. “Is this the way to Pottery Road?” he asked, taking several long gulps.
“No,” Dan said, breaking his pace. “This way heads down to the lake. You probably just passed Pottery Road. Didn’t you cross a roadway a few minutes back?”
The biker laughed softly and admitted he had.
“That was Pottery Road. If you head back and turn right under the bridge, you’ll hit Broadview. A left would take you to the Bayview Extension.”
The man nodded. He seemed to be checking Dan out. “Are you Dan Sharp?”
“Yes,” Dan said, perplexed. He usually had great recall for faces. Maybe it was the helmet. “Have we met?”
“Oh, you don’t know me,” the man said. “But I’ve heard of you. You date Bill McFarland, don’t you?”
Dan cocked his head curiously. “Yes.”
The man gave him a thorough once-over. “I saw you in a video. You’re pretty sizeable.”
Dan shook his head. “Who showed you a video of me?”
The man laughed like it was a private joke. “Bill did.”
The path extended in both directions, giving a good vantage to oncoming traffic. They were alone on a windy hill.
“Would you like a blow job?” the cyclist asked. “There’s no one around.”
Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 17
