Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery

by Linda Moore

  “First I would go out and pick the hips, then he would wrap them.”

  “Rosehips?”

  There was an edge of disdain in her voice as she explained that there were several bushes that yielded good, large rosehips, and that when she was growing up her mother always made a winter tonic from them full of vitamin C and other good things.

  “Peter swore by it,” she added. “He said that’s why he so rarely got sick. Anyway, yes, that was our annual routine.”

  “So that Sunday in October you were making a winter tonic from the rosehips and Peter was wrapping the bushes. And what about pruning—some people prune in the fall, others leave it until the spring.”

  She looked directly at me for the first time and her impatience was showing.

  “You know, you can get this information from any common gardener’s guide, but if you must know, I take the dead canes out in the fall, but I don’t prune the bushes back until spring. Peter would always do a lot of tidying up all over the garden, trimming dead wood but not pruning per se.”

  “Daniel mentioned to me that Peter would cut the red arils off the yew tree in the fall. Why would he do that?”

  “It was just a precaution, that’s all.” I sensed that her annoyance was growing. Was it because I was getting close to something she didn’t want to discuss?

  “A precaution against what?” I pressed.

  “Those berries are very toxic. Occasionally, squirrels and birds would eat them and get sick, sometimes die. Most birds are not affected; the seeds go right through them undigested. And they’re a very bright red, very eye-catching. We certainly didn’t want over-curious children in the neighbourhood to eat them.”

  “So, obviously you were well aware of their danger. Was Peter trimming the arils from the tree that day?” I was watching her closely. I wondered if the others in the observation room could detect her increasing pulse rate. To me, it was palpable, a quiver under the surface, though she appeared to be completely still.

  “It’s quite possible.”

  “How would he normally dispose of these dangerous arils?”

  “He would put them in a large canvas bucket as he trimmed them off and then burn them in an incinerating barrel he kept in the garden. That way the seeds would not contaminate the compost.”

  “Was he burning things that day?”

  “No. He probably intended to do that later.”

  “But his chores were interrupted by a visitor?” I asked, carefully introducing the presence of Carl into the events of that day.

  She paused and shifted slightly in her chair. She crossed her legs. “That’s right.”

  “Was it unexpected?”

  “Peter received a call on his cellphone just prior to the visit.”

  “Did he tell you who was coming over?”

  “He said it was someone from the City who apparently had some urgent business. Peter was always making himself available to people when he should have been relaxing!” She was exhibiting a caring, wifely sort of exasperation here. On purpose, or was it genuine?

  “Did he tell you the person’s name?”

  “He said it was Carl somebody.”

  “Did you know this person, had you met him before?”

  “Do you suppose they’d let me have a cigarette in here?” She uncrossed her legs and shifted again, restlessly.

  “I doubt it. It seems to be a big no-no everywhere. Would you like some water?”

  “Not really.” She put her right hand on the interview table and restlessly drummed her fingers. I sensed my time with her was coming to an end.

  “So this person, Carl, arrived and was talking to Peter. Did Peter stay out in the garden, or did they come inside the house?”

  “They came inside for a moment. Peter washed his hands and I offered them some coffee.”

  “Did Peter wash his hands in the kitchen or in the bathroom off the front hall?”

  She darted a look at me that showed genuine irritation, perhaps because I was so familiar with her house.

  “In the bathroom,” she clipped.

  “Did you speak to this Carl person when he was in the kitchen with you?”

  “I was polite, of course.”

  “Did he ask you what you were making?”

  “He was interested. Some of the tonic was already cooling. I mixed it with apple juice to sweeten it and offered him a glass.”

  “Did he try it?”

  “I think so. I had to leave the room—someone came to the front door.”

  “Who?”

  “Mormons.” The answer surprised me. It seemed too convenient. Handy, anonymous callers suddenly arrive and remove her from the action. Was she lying? I decided to investigate her trip to the door, and asked her if she’d met up with Peter in the front hall.

  “Yes, I did as a matter of fact. He had just come out of the washroom. He was on his way upstairs to get a heavier sweater. I told him I’d get the door. He even said to me, ‘It’s probably the Mormons,’ and he was right. We seemed to be on their route.” She smiled as though she knew it was a good, thorough answer. Was this a game to her?

  I asked her what happened after the Mormons were dealt with.

  ”When I returned to the kitchen, the men had gone back out into the garden.”

  “Was the glass empty? The one you had poured for Carl.”

  “Yes, it was sitting by the sink.”

  “Did you wash it?”

  “Of course. I had a few things to wash up.” She let out an exasperated sigh, as though talking about washing dishes was a barely tolerable line of questioning that revealed my stupidity. She looked towards the door as though hoping someone would rescue her from the interview.

  “Then what happened?” I was pushing her steadily towards the moment of Peter’s death, and trying hard not to let her attitude affect the tone of my questions.

  She paused, and crossed her arms. “After a while, Carl came in to say something was seriously wrong with Peter and I called the ambulance. You know, I’m finding it very difficult to think about Peter’s death. Could I have a break?”

  “Perfectly understandable. How’s fifteen minutes?”

  She nodded.

  I looked at the policewoman and she opened the door for me. The sergeant entered as I went out.

  I went into the observation room.

  “You’ve got her talking,” Arbuckle said.

  “Do you think it’s true about the Mormons?”

  “Coming to the door? We can find out,” Arbuckle said.

  “It’s certainly true that they have come frequently in the past,” Daniel said.

  “And the rosehip tonic. That was a bit of good information I hadn’t expected.”

  “I know,” Harvie said. “And the tonic is something Peter liked and would drink, so it could well be the method of introducing the poison.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Exactly,” I chimed in. “I was just asking her about the roses in order to work my way around to the arils, but we got something very valuable there.”

  “How will we proceed after her break? Did you want to continue, Roz?” Harvie said.

  “I think I’ve hit a wall with her. What about you, Daniel?”

  “I can speak with her now,” Daniel said. He had recovered from his panic.

  Greta returned to the room and appeared to be much more relaxed. She must have gotten someone to take her out for a smoke.

  The sergeant brought Daniel in. He didn’t hesitate, but went right to her, bent over and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “What a surprise!” she said. She took his hands and held them for a moment.

  “How are you?” he asked her.

  “I miss your father.”

  “Me too. I’m working on getting you a lawyer. Someone Dad would have recommended.”

  She let his hands go. “I told them I don’t want a lawyer. But I do need someone to help get me out of here.”

  “You do, and I’ll have someone here first
thing next week.”

  “Thank you, Daniel. You’re your father’s son.” I could see the relief on Daniel’s face. He had presented the idea of the lawyer and she had accepted it. He smiled, then sat down and leaned into the table so he could see her face.

  “Mom, I want to ask you about something. It’s a memory I’ve had from when I was little.”

  “Oh yes?” Daniel’s question seemed to catch her interest. She looked at him curiously, her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand.

  “When grandmother was dying from cancer, you took me with you to Zurich—”

  “You were just seven or eight.” There was a fleeting moment of tenderness as she pictured him as a young boy.

  “That’s right.” He pushed on bravely. “We were in the big bedroom with her and she was in the bed, and she had a hold of your hand. I remember she was gripping it. She told you that you shouldn’t blame yourself for Grandpa’s death. She said that he killed himself. Is it true that Grandpa killed himself?”

  She paused and looked down at the table. Finally, she said, “He did, yes. I was sixteen years old. I left home after that. I couldn’t stay there.”

  “You’ve never talked to me about that.”

  She shook her head. “It was just too painful. You didn’t need to hear about it.”

  “Was it too painful because you blamed yourself? Was Grandma right about that?”

  “I think when someone commits suicide, people always wonder if it’s their fault. It’s such a hard thing to grasp, to understand.”

  “You’re right, because I remember Grandma saying that really it was her fault. And this is the part I’m really wondering about. She told you she never should have allowed Grandpa to move the boy into the house. What did she mean by that?”

  Greta looked momentarily startled by this question. But she quickly looked away and assumed a casual air.

  “I’m…not sure.”

  “Well, was there a boy that Grandpa moved into the house?”

  “Yes, a German boy. He was an orphan.”

  “Do you remember him?”

  “Barely.”

  “What was his name?”

  She shrugged and opened her hands, as though to indicate she had no idea.

  “Well, in my memory of what Grandma was saying to you that day, she said his name was Carl.”

  “Did she? Then it must have been. I can’t recall.”

  “How old was the boy? Was he your age?”

  “Look. It was a long time ago. I really don’t remember.” Her tone was icy and she had pulled back from the table. She was on edge now, and I knew that he was very vulnerable to her anger. Hang in, Daniel. You can do it.

  “Alright. So when you went away, you went to school?”

  “Yes, in France, to an international school in Paris. Eventually I went to college in England. That’s where I met your father.” I saw her tension ease as though she were on safer ground.

  “Did you know right away that you would marry him?”

  “We knew it was something special.” She leaned forward and put her hands on the table. “Please, Daniel. I can’t talk about him.” She was appealing to him now. He reached out and took one of her hands.

  “There are so many things you don’t want to talk about. It’s hard to…know you.”

  “I’ve always been a very private person. That’s just the way I am. Take it or leave it.”

  “But are you upset with me?”

  “No. It’s just…it isn’t easy talking about your father.”

  “Do you remember when I wanted to hire a private investigator after he died?”

  “Yes.” She pulled away and put her hands in her lap.

  “You didn’t want me to do that.”

  “Of course I didn’t. I don’t like our personal lives being dragged into the spotlight. It’s nobody’s business,” she said.

  “Was there a spotlight on you and your family when Grandpa committed suicide?” asked Daniel.

  “Yes, it was terrible. And look what you’ve stirred up here. Look at the mess we’re in now because of that investigation you started.” Her tone was accusing.

  He tensed. “But don’t you think my father deserves justice—if he was murdered.”

  “He wasn’t murdered. It was heart failure.”

  At that moment, the door opened and Arbuckle entered the interview room and stopped the interview. “Sorry to interrupt, but that’s all for today. Thank you for coming in, Daniel. I hope you had a good meeting. You can rest now Mrs. King. Take her back please.”

  Greta stood up and looked down at her son. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “The way it’s all turned out. I’m sorry.” She left quickly.

  “Shall we meet for a few minutes?” Arbuckle suggested.

  “How are you, Daniel?” I said.

  “I do feel so guilty about what’s happened to her. Was it okay?”

  “More than okay,” Arbuckle said. “Let’s go to my office.”

  We all found places to sit in his small office. There was an old credenza along the side that Harvie perched on while Daniel and I took the two unmatched chairs. Arbuckle stood for a moment behind his desk.

  “Thoughts?” he said.

  “Was there a reason you interrupted us when you did?” Daniel said.

  “Harvie and I would like her to open up about the relationship with Carl before we get to the poison. It’s the same reason I asked you not to reveal the poisoning evidence to her when I took you to see her the first time. And just now, when she maintained it was heart failure, you had no choice but to tell her how he died.”

  “That makes sense to me,” I said. “You did such a great job of getting her to talk about the past. I mean, she did acknowledge that her father killed himself and that there was a boy in the house. Slowly, we’re getting closer.” I was trying to keep his spirits up.

  “So. The day after tomorrow we’ll talk to her again. Friday morning?” Arbuckle said. “In the meantime, I’m going to have another go at Spiegle.”

  As everyone was making their way out of the station, I turned to the detective, “May I observe your next interview with Spiegle?”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  It was Wednesday, the night of the first Hamlet preview. I was obsessing over the interviews and the evidence, but I wanted Sophie to know I was thinking about her. I called her before I left work to see if she felt ready.

  “Oh, definitely. Time for an audience. I’m up for it.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. “I don’t know how much use I’ll be at this point. Everyone has so much to think about and remember.”

  “Well, if you’ve got any acting or text notes for me, I’ll be happy to get them afterwards, and I’m sure that goes for the others as well, Roz. I’m thrilled that you’re coming tonight.”

  “How are the lights?”

  “Margot’s still working like a demon, but it’s coming.”

  We talked about Margot’s determination to do a good job, and Sophie told me she’d had to put in a couple of all-nighters, but I realized this aspect of the production was not something Sophie needed to be worrying about at this point.

  “Well, I can’t wait. I’ll see you soon,” I said.

  I left the office and walked along Barrington, towards home, reviewing in my mind the interviews with Greta. It was so difficult to tell whether she was completely in control or in genuine denial about Carl’s presence in her life. We didn’t know with absolute certainty it had been Spiegle that her father had brought home. But the coincidence of him being from Zurich and the apparent involvement between them that McBride had witnessed at the King house pointed to this. And the previous day Carl had acknowledged that he knew her when they were kids. I was standing at Barrington and Duke ruminating, waiting for the light, when I heard a familiar beep.

  It was McBride, coming up Duke Street in Ruby Sube. He turned the corner and stopped in front of the
Delta Barrington to wait for me as I crossed the street. I bent down and looked in the passenger window.

  “Hop in, I’ll take you up the hill.” He took several items off the passenger seat and put them on the floor in the back.

  “Good,” I said, getting into the car. “I’m exhausted. I think I’m getting a sore throat and I have to get to the preview soon.” I looked in the back seat. McBride’s characteristic debris was everywhere, but there was no dog. “Where’s Molly?”

  “Probably sitting at the door waiting for me to come home and take her for a walk. How’s work?”

  “The interviews have begun. It’s slow going. No revelations yet, except for the rosehip tonic. Greta revealed that she made some the day Peter died and I think it’s relevant, somehow. She’s still not talking about Carl, but don’t worry, I’ll let you know when there’s a breakthrough. Where were you?” I said, digging in my bag for a throat lozenge.

  “Crikey, I just spent two hours in the passport office.” The light changed and he turned up Cogswell towards Brunswick.

  “Why…what are you, a masochist?”

  “Well, my passport’s expired. I have to get it renewed.”

  “What for? Are you planning on going somewhere?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Well…can you keep this to yourself?”

  “Duh. You know me.”

  “Sophie and I are getting hitched.”

  I stopped digging in my purse and looked at him with my mouth open. I was having trouble breathing. “What?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yeah, we are. On the Solstice. The night Hamlet closes.”

  “What? No, you’re not. That’s ridiculous! It’s crazy!”

  “No, it’s not ridiculous. It’s great. It’s a great, wonderful thing. We’re getting married at midnight and the next morning we’re blowing this popstand and going to Cuba for two weeks.”

  “McBride! For heaven’s sake!”

  “Roz. Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not—I’m—why are you telling me this! What am I supposed to do with this information! God, McBride, you’re so…distracting! I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, you know. Stop laughing at me. It’s not funny.”

  “Sorry. It’s just not quite the response I expected. Here’s your house.”