by Linda Moore
“Can I see the yew stone?” I asked, changing the subject.
The letter carved into the stone looked like a tilted backward letter “Z”—a kind of zigzag that in itself represented a double-ended staff of life and death and would have been originally carved from a yew tree. Sophie was reading this information to me from the little paper that was in the box.
“It’s number thirteen in the runic alphabet. It says here the oldest existing yew tree is possibly nine thousand years old. The yew is considered a very magical, sacred tree—the tree of life—but with its enormous, far-reaching roots it also represents death and the underworld.” She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, and the yew can also mean assertiveness, masculine aggression, or master of the estate.”
“You know, this is all starting to make sense. The runes were Scandinavian, weren’t they? That might explain why clever Shakespeare would have Claudius use the yew to kill Old Hamlet the Dane, thereby becoming the new master of the estate, in this case the King of Denmark.”
A sudden knock at the door took our attention. McBride and Molly hadn’t wasted any time getting across town.
McBride settled himself in the wingback with a glass of orange juice and soda water—his current choice of non-alcoholic beverage—while Sophie whipped up a bread and milk special for Molly in the kitchen. Molly could make a variety of soft noises that McBride called whispers, and it sounded as though the two of them were actually having a conversation. I asked McBride how our client Daniel King was doing.
“He’s a wreck. He looks like he hasn’t slept since his father died and when I told him about the brutal little encounter I had in the parking lot, and my anonymous caller being too spooked to show up, he took it quite hard—since it likely proves his theory. I was sorry I had nothing solid for him except the certainty that we’re on the right track. He’d like us to keep going.”
“And at some point you asked him about the yew trees?”
“I just got him to describe all the plants and shrubbery around the property if he could. He also mentioned foxglove, which is on your list.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Digitalis. Too much can stop the heart, but it’s the wrong time of year to access it. If garden digitalis was used to poison Peter King, then this was planned several months ago.”
“It seems King was an avid gardener. Daniel said he would often come home in early June to help out with the spring landscaping.”
Sophie had entered the room with a new cup of hot chai. The aromatic scent of the sweet spice drifted over us.
“So I gather Daniel King doesn’t live in Nova Scotia,” she said.
“No. He’s an architect with a firm in the Niagara district in Ontario, and he’s got to head back to meet some deadlines for his current project. In fact,” McBride paused, looking at Sophie as she sat down on the couch, “it’s a theatre building he’s designing.”
“Really? I’d love to see it.” Sophie made herself comfortable opposite McBride.
“What about Peter’s wife—Mrs. King?” I asked. “What’s her story? Is she also a gardener?”
“Daniel said she puts most of her landscaping talents into cultivating rose bushes. She’s presently in London, England. Went over after the funeral. Apparently has an old friend there. He gave me a contact number for her in case we need to reach her.”
“So Daniel’s leaving when?”
“Early tomorrow morning,” he said.
“And Gertrude’s away in London. Well, tomorrow I’ll go and see if I can get some foliage and berries off the yews on their property and have them tested.”
“Good plan,” he said. “And it’s Greta.”
“Right. Greta. Did I say Gertrude? What about you?” I asked him.
“I’ve finally got a response from the Mayor’s Office. I’ve been trying to set up a meeting with him to find out exactly who the City was consorting with both overseas and locally before the Europa deal collapsed. And I’m curious about his take on Peter King’s involvement in it all. So I’ll be seeing him tomorrow.”
Molly wandered into the room, her nails clacking on the hardwood floor, and came and stood in front of Sophie, giving her the look that meant could she climb up on the couch.
“Come on,” Sophie said, patting the cushion. Molly climbed up, turned around twice and settled, putting her head on Sophie’s lap. Sophie scratched her ears affectionately and looked intently through the candlelight at McBride.
“You know what? I gotta go,” I said. “The cat. Let’s have the regular coffee meet tomorrow at nine, McBride. And hey, if you’re smart you’ll stay and get Soph to do a tarot reading for you.”
He looked dumbstruck as I got my coat. Making my exit, I could hear Sophie telling McBride to focus in on his situation and shuffle the cards slowly. I smiled all the way home.
Chapter Six
“So how was the tarot reading?” I asked McBride the next morning when we met up at Steve O Reno’s Cappuccino on Brunswick Street.
“Oh I took a rain check.”
“What? Oh no, poor Sophie…that makes two rain checks on the tarot readings. So what did you do, just leave? Honestly, McBride, you wouldn’t know an opportunity if you fell over it.”
“Reiki.”
“What?”
“Yeah…she reikied me. Did you know she was certified?”
“Really.”
“You wouldn’t believe how hot her hands get.”
“How hot her…What—were you naked?”
“Well Roz, you left me there.”
“McBride! Then what did you do?”
“Afterwards? We played Scrabble.”
“Oh—you’re—you’re just messing around with my head, aren’t you?”
“No Roz. It’s all true. Ask her.”
“But you don’t even like Scrabble.”
“I know. We were like a summit meeting between two alien cultures.”
“But you found common ground?”
“Common floor—we found common floor.”
“You—you mean—are you saying you did it on the floor?” I sputtered.
“Well, the rug. She has a pretty nice one.”
“Oh my god! When did you get home?”
“I haven’t been home. I have to get there soon because Andy’s coming in with his gear to check the place out, and then I’m off to that meeting with the Mayor.” With that he swallowed the dregs of his coffee and stood up, suppressing a big grin. “See ya later!”
“Bye, McBride. Let me know what Andy…” I trailed off. Watching him go out the door practically dancing, I suddenly felt horribly lonely. Great—I’d watched two of my favourite people find each other, and now I felt left out. Time to grow up, Roz. Get real, and go to work on getting those yew berries tested.
I finished my coffee, got into Old Solid, and headed for the South End. The Kings had a grand old manor on Inglis just west of Robie. I pulled into the driveway, and got some large pruning shears out of the trunk. I hoped I would find yew branches with the arils still on them. I walked through the latched gate at the side of the house that led into the backyard. Over against the far fence opposite the house there was a variety of evergreen trees and shrubs, and that’s where I headed. I walked past a mulched, circular bed surrounded by a burlap windbreak stapled to wooden stakes. Within the circle were several kinds of rose bushes, all individually wrapped in burlap. Must be Greta’s rose garden tucked in for the winter, I thought, and then I spotted the dark green yew tree on the corner of the property. I moved towards it, cross-referencing with the pictures and descriptive information I had brought with me.
This yew was in fact not a shrub at all but a large tree that reached up about twenty-five feet, and it had substantial girth. I started looking through the branches carefully. The yew foliage was so dense, I realized I should have brought a flashlight, but suddenly I spotted some of the dried scarlet arils near the trunk on two of the lower limbs. So this tree was a female. I took my pruner
s and leaned in through the thick growth as far as I could. “Thank you Madame Yew,” I said aloud, cutting the two small branches off and slowly backing out, untangling them as I went.
“Are you a gardener or something? What are you doing?”
I started and turned quickly. “Oh heavens! I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. God, you caught me talking to a tree. You must be Daniel King.”
Standing in the snow in a dressing gown and boots was a man in his early thirties. His eyes were red, as though he had been weeping or drinking.
“Yes, I am,” he said.
“I apologize for trespassing, I thought you had gone back to Ontario this morning, or I would have rung the bell. I’m Rosalind, a researcher for McBride. I just um—well—I’m checking for poisons basically. Are you okay?”
“Not really,” he said.
“Can I do anything for you? I mean, do you need a drive to the airport or anything?”
“I’ve decided to go tomorrow. I didn’t sleep—nightmares—I just feel so…”
“—helpless,” I said, finishing his sentence.
“More like haunted. But yes, helpless too. I mean he’s gone. He’s dead and gone, but I can’t stop dreaming about him.”
“Do you mind if I come in? Could we talk for a bit?”
“Please,” he said. “I’ll put the coffee on.”
“I’ll just put these branches in my trunk, if you don’t mind my taking them.”
“Be my guest. My father would always cut off most of the arils within reach in the fall—you can see places where it’s been trimmed. This was one of my father’s favourite trees—known for longevity. And located as it is on the edge of the property, it’s supposed to be a symbol of protection too. All very ironic, eh?”
“Well, it’s kind of a double-edged sword,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I understand the yew is also a symbol of death and transformation.”
“Come ‘round to the side door.”
As I walked out to my car, I reminded myself I needed to take care. Speaking directly with clients was not my territory. Still, he looked so devastated. Surely a little commiseration would not be out of place. Besides I didn’t set up the meeting. McBride told me Daniel would be gone. The truth was I had instantly felt an overwhelming empathy for the man. I knocked on the door.
“Just come on in,” he yelled. “It’s open.” I stomped the snow off on the horse-hair mat, and bent down to take my boots off. I went up three steps and into a large beautiful kitchen. It had a green slate floor and the walls and cupboards were painted a lovely pale yellow. The harvest table sat in front of a large bay window looking out to the back garden.
The dressing gown was gone. He had put on a fleece pullover and a pair of sweat pants. “What do you take?” he asked.
“Just milk,” I said, removing my jacket.
“Sit down. Here I’ll take that,” he said and walked out into a hall towards the front closet. Though he’d been staying in the house, it felt empty. I sat and looked out into the snowy garden.
“Must be gorgeous in the summer,” I said.
“My father’s pride and joy.”
“Your father seems like he was a really spectacular person,” I said. “I mean—close to nature.”
“Yes, that’s it—he was—he revered nature. In the last few years, preserving nature was becoming more and more central to his work and his life.” He set a mug of hot coffee in front of me and sat down across the table. We both looked out into the garden.
“Daniel,” I said, deciding to cut to the chase. “What do you think happened to him?”
“I just know,” he replied, “that my father didn’t suddenly die of heart failure. He was in great shape and he was gearing up to go into battle. We emailed each other fairly regularly because he travelled so much. He had sent me a message only a week before his death saying that the project he was involved in was really heating up—potentially another Cochabamba.”
“Cochabamba?” I asked.
“It’s a city in Bolivia where the people rose up against a conglomerate led by the US-based Bechtel Corporation. Under pressure from the World Bank in ’98, Bolivia signed with Bechtel to take over the management of the entire Cochabamba water system. People’s water rates rose immediately by 200 to 300 percent. Those who couldn’t or wouldn’t pay were cut off and they revolted. Ultimately there was bloodshed because the government used the military and the police to force people to bend to the corporation’s demands. But eventually, the fight became a ‘cause célèbre’ and the entire country got involved. Commerce became paralyzed by strikes and protests. Finally the government caved in and threw the corporation out.
“It was a major triumph in the battle to keep the resource in public hands—part of ‘the commons’ as my father would say. He was a lawyer and over the last decade, he had become an expert on international trade law. He got deeply involved in the Bolivia situation. After that he began devoting himself full-time to what has been dubbed ‘The Water Wars.’ In the last several years, his testimony has frequently been instrumental in the rejection of corporate privatization schemes.”
“Amazing,” I said.
“Truly.”
“Peter King. It’s the karma of names,” I said.
“I don’t follow,” he said.
“King,” I said and proceeded to quote, ‘Thus the Kings of old, rich in virtue and in harmony with the time, fostered and nurtured all beings.’”
“And that’s from?” he asked.
“Do you know the I Ching?” I said.
“I know what you’re referring to.”
“Well, that quote is from the section called The Image in the I Ching hexagram—The Unexpected. I was just reading it the other day and it stuck with me. It really fits doesn’t it? The gist is about the true value of Nature and the Spirit, and the danger of bringing about misfortune by manipulating nature for selfish motives. You know—the whole mess we’re in on the planet basically.”
“Well, if I’m right about my father, he may well have met with misfortune due to the greed of others.”
“No kidding,” I said. “Your father had demonstrated on numerous occasions that he was a serious opponent to this kind of profiteering. So if, as you say, he was readying for another battle and using his expertise to halt their activities around the world, it makes total sense they would want to get him out of the way. Does McBride know about that email your father sent you, and did your father indicate where this new battle would be taking place?”
“I believe it was a country in West Africa, but he often kept his travel plans confidential since it was a major part of his work. I gave McBride a copy of that email the first time we met, and now there’s this awful assault that’s happened to McBride and the fact that whoever called him with information is afraid to come forward. You don’t have to be a brain surgeon to see that something very suspicious is going on. Oh god, it’s so frustrating!”
“You can count on McBride,” I said. “Really, Daniel—he’ll come through for you.”
“But I just feel totally isolated. It’s like everyone’s moved on. And it’s only been a month—not even.”
“What about your mother?” I asked. “Surely you’re supporting each other through this?”
There, sitting at the table with me, he just fell apart. Uh oh, I thought. I’ve clearly hit a nerve. I reached over to the countertop behind me, grabbed the box of tissue that was sitting there, and set it on the table in front of him.
“Sorry to be so emotional,” he said. “This is crazy, I just can’t seem to pull myself together.”
“Is it something specific about your mother?”
“I love my mother. She was devoted to my father, and he adored her. It’s just—I found her behaviour so strange after the funeral.”
“How do you mean?”
“She’s always been very private but she was unusually distant. She was…in a rush. She just wanted t
o get out of here. He had named me the executor of his estate, so naturally I was staying on to take care of things, and as you say, I assumed that we’d be helping each other through it. But she…she decided to go to London. She has an old school chum there. Marjorie. They’ve always been very close, and most likely she’s just dealing with her grief in the best way she knows how.”
“But you did express your concerns to your mother about what you thought may have happened to your father.”
“I didn’t at first. She was so grief-stricken—crying all the time. I didn’t think she could handle the idea that he may have been murdered, though I believed she’d have to face it when the Medical Examiner’s report came out. But when it was declared a death by natural causes—heart failure—I certainly let her know how I felt. I mean, I was in shock. I’d been convinced they would find something amiss. And once the Medical Examiner’s official report was in and the death certificate was signed it was a done deal—the police were not interested in pursuing it.”
“So, am I correct in understanding that there was no actual autopsy?”
“The post-mortem examination on my father was external only—no examination of internal organs or toxicology testing. I was really bewildered by that and I wanted to go through whatever channels necessary to have them do a ‘forensic’ or ‘medico-legal’ autopsy, which is carried out in the case of unexplained or unnatural deaths. Well, my mother was dead set against it. She thought it was sordid and uncalled for, and she was angry with me. She wanted everything taken care of quickly and with a maximum of dignity and decorum—for my father’s sake. So we had a tidy funeral and the next thing I knew, she was packing her bags, saying she needed some time to recover.
“Then, my insomnia set in. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. I told her I might hire a private investigator and she just shook her head and said, ‘It won’t bring him back. We have to get over this. It takes time. Don’t waste your money.’ And then she was gone.”
“Tell me, do you have a list of everyone who attended the funeral?” I asked.
“There’s a guestbook that people signed, but I don’t know if everyone did. There’s a video too.”
