by Joan Boswell
“How you doing, Teddy?”
“Oh, same as usual, Julie, just frigging fine.” Teddy used the back of his latex gloved hand to push his gold-rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. The only other visible feature was his greying black mustache. The rest of his body was encased in the standard white coveralls and cap of the Ident team.
“Okay, if I come in?”
“Sure. You know the drill. Grab a suit. Don’t touch. Yada, yada.”
Julie donned her outfit, complete with white hospital-style booties, and went straight over to the bed. It was hard to get an impression of what Mary Margaret McGuire had looked like. The bullet hole between her eyes had shredded the flesh, leaving a grotesque opening in it’s wake.
Julie looked the body over, noting the high-necked white polyester blouse, now stained with blood, the pale grey suedene jumper, the shrunken hands clasped at the waist, with liver spots creeping out from under white lace cuffs. She stepped back against the wall and made a sketch of the room. “Any wild guesses?”
“There should be a bullet somewhere in there, so you’ll have one thing to go on. As for the door, lots of partials on the lock. We’ll see what we can do for you.”
“Any other prints?”
“Not many. Some fuzzy latents. Overlays mainly. Nothing’s been wiped, just added to.”
She took a couple of steps forward and looked around the room, trying for a sense of Mary Margaret McGuire’s life. Light ash dresser and chest of drawers along one wall, Queen Anne chair, light coloured round end table and pink tub chair at the far end under the window, TV on a dark bookcase, and the bed.
The story was on the walls, every inch covered by frames, some photos, some paintings, others apparently poems cut from magazines. A closer look later on would give her an overview of all those years of living.
Julie checked the inside of the door, careful not to touch the handle and lock. She’d seen several like this model in her recent tours of seniors’ residences. The lock ensured the privacy her mom was so insistent upon, even if the rules discouraged it. Doors were to be kept unlocked at all times, except when the resident went out.
Too bad. It meant an open invitation for the killer.
Julie took a few minutes to look around the garden before entering the residence the next morning. Lots of colourful flowers bordered several seating areas. Her mom would enjoy that. It would help take her mind off the growing realization of what she could no longer manage to do. Simple tasks, often. Her mom was right, it was time, but Julie’s guilt just wouldn’t quit.
Ogilvy Manor had been on Julie’s list for a visit. What an introduction.
These were not thoughts for today’s agenda, though. She’d read a copy of the ballistics report before leaving the station. The weapon in question was a .45, but the shell casing didn’t have the usual U.S. markings. Possibly German. And it was old. She hoped there would be more answers by the end of the day.
But for now, all she had was questions. Why had no one heard the shot? And how had the murderer been able to lock the door when leaving? The two keys that McGuire had been allotted were found in the room. The staff keys were accounted for. And why bother to lock it? Unless the perp had wanted to buy time. A resident needing those extra few minutes to settle back into his or her own room. At slow speed. And wait for the heart rate to slow back down to normal.
Julie had timed her arrival for the end of the breakfast hour. Several residents were already ambling along the hall towards the elevator. It took her a few minutes to track down McGuire’s neighbour and several more to steer her into the interview room.
“Did you see anyone visiting Mrs. McGuire just before supper last evening, Mrs. Edgecombe?”
“Nope. That’s the time I watch my show, Law and Order.”
Julie had to lean closer to distinguish the words from the slow exhaling of breath, almost a hiss. Fortunately, her mother could still be understood, when she so chose. Selective speaking, the kids had dubbed it.
Enid Edgecombe dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief rolled in her right hand. “Watch it every day, and I don’t like to be interrupted. You see the noise, the shooting and such, gets too loud, so I take my hearing aid out. Then I turn up the volume so I can hear the talking.”
That explains why no one heard anything unusual, thought Julie. “Do you remember when you last saw Mrs. McGuire?”
“Yesterday afternoon, I think.”
“About what time was that?”
“Right about when the afternoon’s program was to start. They thought they’d treat us to a bunch of twittering schoolgirls trying to be a choir. I left when they were starting. I saw Mrs. McGuire, just didn’t talk to her. She was going into the nurse’s office to get her pills.”
“Had Mrs. McGuire talked about anything unusual lately? Or if she was worried about something?”
“Nope. Just the chocolates. She was always looking forward to having a chocolate. She loved chocolate. But do you think she’d ever share? Two years we’ve lived here, right next door, and not once did she share her precious chocolates.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me, Mrs. Edgecombe?”
“Only that if you were looking for the most likely dead body around here, it should be that snotty Mrs. Franconi,” she wheezed. “Goes around with her nose stuck up in the air all the time. Talks about how famous she was, how much better than the rest of us. Wouldn’t have surprised me one bit if she turned up dead one day.”
Edgecombe sniffed into her handkerchief. “She says she was an opera star, you know. Tries showing off singing the high notes whenever there’s a sing-a-long, but old Joe Park is always telling her to stuff it, and she gets all huffy and carries on about her days onstage, although she’s never shown anyone a program book or newspaper article. Not that we’d pay any attention. She won’t even invite anyone into her room. I’d sure like to get in there and have a peak.”
“How did Mrs. McGuire feel about her?” Julie asked.
“How did she feel? Like the rest of us, of course. Thought the woman was hard to stomach.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No. She didn’t need to. I could tell. Especially after the fight those two had.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I didn’t hear what they were saying, ‘cause they were out on the patio, standing in the cold wind, although the sun was out that day. But I could tell they were arguing, and it looked like McGuire got the better of her that time.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, last month some time. Must have been late in the month, after the snow went, because Mrs. McGuire wasn’t one for going out for a walk in the snow.”
“Can you think of any other time you’ve noticed the two of them together arguing?”
Her eyebrows scrunched into two penciled lines. “No. It’s only that Mrs. McGuire once said something funny about her. Real funny.”
“What was that?”
“Oh, something about Mrs. Franconi was going to keep her in chocolate. Now, isn’t that strange?”
Julie knocked on the door to room 209 and had to repeat it a few seconds later. “Mrs. Franconi, are you in there?”
The door opened inward a few inches, and a voice asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m with the police. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Maybe she did mind. She hesitated opening the door long enough for Julie to wonder about protocol with the elderly. She couldn’t just barge in, but she sure as hell didn’t have grounds for a search warrant.
Julie wasn’t prepared for Franconi. The auburn wig was obvious, but only on closer look did Julie notice the masses of wrinkles woven beneath a layer of foundation. This wasn’t a body withered with age but one with layers of padding wearing a very stylish coatdress. She commented on it.
“You like it, my dear?” Her accent was thick, Italian, but understandable. “I made it myself. I make all of my clothing myself because I have never bo
ught off the rack. In my younger days, I travelled Europe as a renowned opera singer, and my gowns were gorgeous. Simply gorgeous, and always made by a seamstress. Now, I cannot sleep at night, so I amuse myself by making my clothes. I even design them myself.”
“You’re very talented.”
“Oh, yes, my dear. I have many talents, but they are not appreciated here. These people have no culture. They cannot begin to know what my life has been about. The fame, the money. Until the war came, and then I could travel no more. And my Guido, he was wounded by the Germans, so we came to Canada, then he got sick so I spent my years taking care of him. Until he died, ten years ago. I do not sleep through the night since then.”
Julie murmured something intended to be comforting before proceeding. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Mrs. McGuire.”
“Yes, but why me?”
“We’re questioning everyone in the residence. Did you see Mrs. McGuire yesterday?”
“No.”
“What did you think of her?”
“Think of her? I tell you this, she was not one of the nasty ones, looking down on me because I come from the old country or the others who are jealous because of my celebrity.”
“Were you friends? Did you do things together? Take tea, go for walks?”
“No, I keep to myself these days. People here are too mean.”
“Did the two of you ever argue?”
Franconi drew in a deep breath, as if to give voice to an aria. Julie braced herself.
“No. Not argue. I just tell you she was different from the others.”
“Someone mentioned seeing you two arguing.”
“That is all they do around here, make up stories and spread them. Probably upset that I talk to her and not them. Envy takes on many shapes, you know.”
Julie tried Ernie Sorens’ room next. She finally found him downstairs in the lounge.
“Mr. Sorens, remember me? I’m Detective Kellog. We spoke in the hall yesterday, the day of Mrs. McGuire’s death.”
Sorens looked startled, then took his time in giving her the once-over. “Sure, I remember you, doll. Those legs. The legs of a Great Dane you’ve got. Long’n lanky. Makes you a mite taller than me, but I don’t mind.”
She pegged Sorens at about five feet tops, which made her extra eight inches feel positively towering.
He moved his cane closer to her. “I’m kinda partial to blondes, too. Why don’t you come along to my room and we’ll, you know, have some fun.”
“I am on duty, Mr. Sorens.” Julie bit back a smile. “I need to ask you a few questions. I’ve got an office down the hall.”
Sorens hobbled in front of her to the room and waited for her to precede him through the door. She thought she felt a light tap on her right hip as she walked past him, but couldn’t be certain. Sorens looked pleased with himself as he eased into the chair across from her. He was whistling the same tune, “Blueberry Hill”.
“Now, Mr. Sorens...”
“Wilfred, or Wilfie, doll.”
She tried again, “What can you tell me about Mrs. McGuire?”
“Aw, she was a sourpuss. Probably hadn’t got lucky in decades, that one. You can tell those around here that’s getting it once in a while, and those who aren’t. That’s what keeps you young, you know.”
“You mentioned last time that Mrs. McGuire would go sniffing around for secrets. What did you mean by that?”
Sorens kept one hand on his cane and scratched his chin with the other, watching her the whole time. “Need a shave. That’s another thing that keeps on going or should I say, growing.” He chuckled. “Anyways, I didn’t mean anything by it, doll. I like to talk, that’s all. We all of us in here have things that help pass the time. I talk. Some play cards all day. Joe Park, he’s always sitting in the lounge, tinkling the ivories. Mrs. McGuire liked to snoop. Getting at people’s secrets was her thing. Now talking, that’s harmless. So are cards and the piano. But secrets, well you know, there’s plenty of those, what with the...” He winked. “You know?”
“I imagine this isn’t a place where secrets are safe.” Julie tried a casual smile. “Why don’t you tell me about this...you know.”
Sorens let out a snort, which turned into a coughing fit. He pulled a creased handkerchief from his pant pocket and wiped his mouth once he’d gotten his coughing under control. “I can tell you, one has nothing to do with the other. Besides, talk is, it’s one of those serial killers, and some of the guys have got a pool going as to who’ll be next.”
“You’re kidding.”
Sorens shrugged. “Gotta do something to lighten the time. That’s what I call it, doing time until your number’s up. So’s you make it one hell of a party, and that’s okay. Not even thoughts of murder can throw you.”
Julie shook her head. “Okay, but I’d like to hear about what’s been going on, even if you think it’s not related. Why don’t you tell me all about it, and then we’ll be sure.” She smiled and lightly touched his arm. She’d try it his way.
Sorens looked at her hand, squared his shoulders, placed both his hands on the handle of his cane and grinned. “So, do you think I’ll need my lawyer for this?”
“Are you implicated?”
“Not in the murder, doll. And not directly in the service, although I do help with the flow of traffic, so to speak.”
“You’re welcome to call your lawyer, Mr. Sorens, but it doesn’t sound too damaging so far.”
“Okey dokey, then. Here goes. There’s a male resident here, who shall remain nameless, who contracts the services of members of the fairer sex for other residents as needed.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Sure am, doll. He knows several show breeds from the Seniors Bingo Centre down the street, and he lines them up, for a slight fee. In between games, you know.”
Julie managed to shut down the images threatening to pour into her mind. “And do these women get paid for their services?”
“Not really. Cab fare mainly, and maybe some money to stake them to a few games.”
He leaned towards Julie, lowering his voice. “You’re not going to do anything about this, are you, doll? I mean, we aren’t hurtin’ anyone. Like I said, gotta have some fun. Gives ya something to look forward to, besides a nail clipping or the monthly birthday bash.”
Julie sat in silence a few minutes, wondering what the hell she would do with this. Give it to vice? Not too likely.
“Who’s running the service, Mr. Sorens?”
“Wilfie. Aw, I can’t tell you that, doll. No matter how much I’d like to. I’m an honorable fella.”
She decided to let it go for the moment. It did seem an unlikely scenario for murder. Unless McGuire had tried her hand at blackmail. A good motive for murder and maybe a little something for a sweet tooth.
Sophia Franconi was no faster in opening the door this second time.
“Sorry to disturb you again, but I have to ask you a few more questions. I hope you don’t mind.” Julie smiled and edged her way in, so there’d be no chance of refusal.
She looks flustered, Julie thought. A good start. “I got to thinking about your opera days and what a glamorous time it must have been.”
Franconi motioned Julie into a chair, suddenly the relaxed hostess. “Oh, my dear, it was. You cannot imagine how exciting it was. Nobility came to hear me. I was showered with flowers and romantic offers. That was the thing in those days, you know. I had the men adoring me.”
“And then the war changed all that.”
“Yes. We escaped from Mussolini, Guido and I, and with some help from admirers of mine, made our way to New York. And then, we go to Montreal.”
“What did you do there? Did you resume your singing career?”
Franconi fumbled with the tissue box on the end table. At last, she found a tissue and an answer. “Not really. I teach singing for a while, and then, I nurse Guido. He had emphysema. A terrible time. And then kidney failure. M
y poor Guido.” She used the tissue to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“Mrs. Franconi...what did Mrs. McGuire have on you?”
“What?” She paled, highlighting telltale age lines that she’d hoped to hide with makeup. “I do not know what you mean.”
“I think you do. I think Mrs. McGuire found out something about your past and was blackmailing you. You see, she told someone you’d be keeping her in chocolates. You two argued, maybe she wanted more money, whatever. And you couldn’t take it any more, so you used that old German handgun you’ve been keeping, and you shot Mrs. McGuire.”
Was she right? It sounded logical. Mrs. McGuire’s past history. The gun was a stretch, but possible. There could be other explanations, of course. It all depended on how badly Mrs. Franconi wanted to keep her secret. If there even was one.
“It’s over now. You need to tell me about it, Mrs. Franconi. We need to put it all to rest. Please.”
Franconi pushed herself out of her seat and stood there a moment, head bowed, gripping the arm of the chair. Her eyes brimmed with tears when she raised her head and slowly looked around the room.
“It is not much, is it? My son does not come often. His wife is jealous of our relationship. They have all my furniture, though. My fine crystals, the silverware. And this is all I have for myself. This and my memories.”
She walked the few steps to the window and stood staring out. “My memories are all of Europe and my fame. How they loved me! And then, in Montreal, there was no work. My name was not known. In those days, there was not much money for opera. We needed money, to pay the doctor. Guido one day met a man who promised great wealth. He took the job but never let me know what he did. And then, the man offered me a chance to sing again.”
She paused to dab at her eyes with her handkerchief. “On stage at a dance hall. And when the customers did not understand my voice was trained for opera, I become one of his showgirls. Oh, yes, I was once again in a costume. But not much of it.” She made a sound, part laugh, part moan.
“Was that the secret you were protecting?”
She nodded and walked over to her chair. “Mrs. McGuire was nosy, mean person. She comes into my room one day when I am out walking and finds my metal box. The lock does not work so well any more. Like a lot of things. Like my voice.” She swallowed hard. “Inside the box I keep old newspaper clippings—I should have burned years ago. One is of Guido when the police arrest him and his boss. I have lost so much about Guido, I keep all the clippings. He was not a bad man. He only did what his boss tells him. And for that, he goes to jail. There was a picture of me, too, in a costume. “She spat out the word this time.
