Bone Dance

by Joan Boswell

  He wound down when Mr. Carstairs didn’t respond. He bent down over the wheelchair and raised his voice a notch. Speaking directly into Richard’s ear, he began again. “A coin!” he shouted. “With a hole. And funny writing.”

  He turned to Elaine and me. “Shoot! I think he’s asleep.” He shoved Richard’s shoulder delicately. Richard fell forward out of the wheel chair and onto the floor.

  “Oh, my stars! Oh, my soul! I think he’s dead!” Father Donald crossed himself rapidly several times.

  “Dead!” Elaine Carstairs threw herself down beside Richard. “He can’t be. He’s just fainted! The shock of the blackout! Someone call 911. Get some water!” She rolled him over and began to slap his cheeks gently. “Richard! Richard, dear. Wake up.”

  I knelt down beside her and lifted Richard’s limp hand. It was wet, and as I pushed up the French cuff of his shirt to take his pulse, I noticed it was wet also. He must have been fishing in the fountain for the coin despite Elaine’s disclaimer. No doubt she was too embarrassed to admit it.

  I felt no pulse and knew that he was dead.

  “Water!” cried Father Donald, latching onto something concrete he could do. He looked around wildly, and his eyes landed on the fountain. “Here! I’ll get some.” He whipped out his handkerchief, dropped it into the bowl and swished it around energetically. Scooping up the soaking cloth, he turned, knelt down, draped it across Richard’s face and began to pat the sodden mass.

  “Ow!” Father Donald cried suddenly, waving his thumb vigorously. “Something cut me!”

  Sure enough, great gobs of blood were now dripping onto the starched white shirtfront of the dead man.

  “Step back. Step back. Let me in.” It was Andy Bickerton, slipping into his official role. Obediently, people moved back, and Andy joined us on the floor next to Richard. “Dead, is he?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Did you call 911?”

  “They’re on the way, although I guess it’s too late. What happened?”

  “Looks like a heart attack,” I said.

  “I knew we should never have come to this dreadful affair.” Elaine’s voice rose hysterically. “It’s been wrong from the beginning. I begged Trevor, but he wouldn’t listen, and Richard was so angry. And now see what’s happened.”

  “Heart attack?” Andy frowned. “Then what’s all this blood?”

  “Oh, shoot! That’s me!” exclaimed Father Donald, waving his thumb now wrapped in the sodden handkerchief, which was rapidly turning red. “The fountain water is full of glass. I must have scooped some up with my handkerchief. Nasty sharp little bits, too. There should be a sign, well, maybe not a sign, but some kind of warning, although on the other hand, maybe it’s there to stop people stealing the money, although it’s a little extreme, if you ask me, not that I’m any sort of crime expert, but . . .”

  “Glass?” Andy interrupted. He had dealt with Father Donald before and knew how to cut to the chase.

  “Yes, glass. Look!” Father Donald held out a sharp shard. “It was stuck right in my thumb. Oh dear, and I’ve got blood on my best jacket. Dottie will be so upset with me.”

  I stood up, and Andy and I peered into the bowl. Sure enough, I could see several pieces of frosted glass on top of the coins. They hadn’t been there when Father Donald and I had inspected the fountain just before we made our way to say goodbye to Billy.

  I reached up to adjust the nearest spotlight so I could see more clearly into the bowl.

  “Careful!” Andy said sharply and grabbed my arm. “Look. The light bulb is broken. I think that’s the glass in the bowl.”

  “This is no time to worry about a two dollar spotlight. My husband is dead! What kind of idiot would think it funny to turn all the lights out.” Elaine broke into hysterical sobs. “Someone is going to pay for this!”

  “Someone? What do you mean, someone?” The words were out before I could stop them. Elaine was deliberately lying. “Mrs. Carstains, you know who turned the lights out. I saw you go ahead of me into the utility room. You would have heard Rita and Billy plotting to throw the main switch and steal the Money Cage.”

  “Whoa!” Andy held up his hand. “What’s this about stealing?”

  “When Rita Koff turned off the lights, Billy was going to make a run with the Money Cage, and no doubt, blame it on someone at the reception.” A gasp went up from the circle surrounding us. “The plan failed. Case closed.” I saw the bridal couple’s faces, Krystal’s red with anger, and Trevor’s white with shock. Krystal clutched Trevor’s arm and burst into loud sobs.

  Trevor pushed off Krystal’s hand and turned to help Elaine to her feet. Hugging her close, he said, “It’s all right, Mama. Your boy is here.”

  “Oh, Trevor, darling. It’s so terrible, but I can take comfort in knowing that you will never want for anything.” I saw a glint in her eyes, not of tears, but of elation.

  In a flash, I knew what had happened. Elaine had overheard not just that the lights were going out, but when the lights were going out. All she had to do was position Richard with his hand in the fountain, drop in one of the baby spots just before the appointed time, and let Nature do the rest. The hot spot would break in the cool water, sending enough of a current through the fountain to finish off Richard’s frail heart.

  By the time the lights were back on, she’d returned the spotlight to the trellis. If it hadn’t been for Father Donald’s zealous attempts to revive Richard, no one would have ever noticed one broken light or connected it with Richard’s death. I was sure Andy would find her fingerprints on the spotlight clip.

  I took Andy aside and whispered, “You’d better hold off the paramedics. I think this is a crime scene.”

  “Oh shoot! Does this mean they won’t be serving the sandwiches and squares?”

  Pat Wilson and Kris Wood have been friends for over thirty years, although they’ve seldom lived near each other. Instead, they’ve run businesses, written stories and collaborated on a multitude of projects all through mail, email, fax, telephone and the occasional brief visit.

  Pat is an international speaker. Kris is a certified gerontologist. Both are published authors.

  They now live next door to each other on Sober Island, Nova Scotia.

  The Night Chicago Died

  Bev Panasky

  It was the summer I just couldn’t catch a break.

  Day after day the sun beat down on the city, pushing temperatures into the high thirties and shoving tempers up with it. Cases were hard to come by—clients and criminals, everyone was staying home in air-conditioned comfort.

  I stood at the window pondering the dire state of the world in general and my life in particular when a sharp knock startled me.

  The office door swung open, and a woman in a crimson dress and heels stepped into the room. “I’m looking for Ronnie Wagner.”

  “That’s me.” I walked toward her, my hand stuck out. Shaking her hand was like holding a dead jellyfish.

  She glanced around the office with an expression of slight disgust, as though the carpet fuzzies might come to life and attack her. “I expected a man.”

  I’d heard that before. “Well, you’ve got me. Maybe I can help.”

  She surveyed the diplomas on the wall before perching on the chair opposite mine. “My name is Dawn Rapture, I’m in trouble and I need to hire a private investigator.”

  I did a mental eye-roll; a stripper name if I’d ever heard one. I took out a pad of paper. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  She fixed her baby blues on me. “The police think that I killed Gary Chicago.”

  Gary Chicago was one of the slickest, slimiest creatures ever to call Ottawa home. He liked to sell himself as the “accountant to the stars”. There was no trick, no loophole he hadn’t found. He could take drug or blood money, run it through the system and it would pop out as crisp as a nun’s underpants. All the players respected his talents, but I’d heard it said that maybe he knew a little too much about everyone’s finances for
comfort.

  “Why would they suspect you?” I asked.

  She looked away. “Gary and I were very close.”

  I could just picture it—the dream of all working girls, find a prince and live happily ever after. Except that all you’d get from kissing that toad was warty lips. “Did you have a reason to kill him?”

  Laughing, she pulled out a slim cigarette case. “Honey, everyone had a reason to kill him.”

  She ticked them off on her fingers: “Abe Ivanov was his business partner, he’s the one all the clients are flocking to now. There’s Salvatore Bolino—I don’t have to tell you about him.”

  Indeed she didn’t, he was just the biggest racketeer in this part of the province. He would have been a bit player in Toronto or Montreal, but around here, he was a big fish in a small pond. A very big fish with very big teeth.

  Another finger flicked up. “Of course there’s his wife, Nicole, and his Amazon daughter.”

  She crushed out her cigarette and stared off into space. “You know, he always wanted to play a certain song whenever we were together. That Barry Manilow one, you know the one, about giving and never taking.” She laughed, coming back to the present. “What did I care? He did the giving.”

  My dad always said that you don’t have to like someone to take their money. “I charge $300 a day plus expenses.” I wondered how many hours of swinging the pole it’d take for her to make that kind of money.

  She looked around. “A bit steep, isn’t it?”

  “Take it or leave it, you won’t find anyone cheaper.”

  She pulled out a wad of cash. “When can you start?”

  Abe Ivanov’s office was on the fringe of the Byward Market in a nondescript three-storey walk-up. At the top of the stairs, I stood in front of a glass door that said “Abraham Ivanov, Chartered Accountant”. Traces showed where Chicago’s name had been scratched off.

  The receptionist pointed me toward an ivory leather couch, where I found a copy of Car and Driver and flicked through the pages. After about twenty minutes, the door to the inner office flew open and out stalked Salvatore Bolino, two goons hot on his heels.

  “Miss Wagner?” Ivanov looked tired. “Would you care to come in?”

  He led me into a large office with a huge mahogany desk and hundreds of plants. I settled into a striped wing chair and set my tape recorder and business card on his desk. “Thank you for meeting with me,” I said.

  Ivanov shuffled over to the adjoining bathroom and came out with a watering can. “You’re looking into Gary’s death?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Some things are best left to the police, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve been hired privately to look into this matter.” I hit the RECORD button.

  “Ah yes, the little tramp hired you. Did she tell you that she was the one with the motive?”

  “What motive is that?” I asked.

  “He was going to leave her. A woman like that gets used to a certain lifestyle, and she isn’t too happy about losing it.” He turned toward me, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure you can sympathize, being a woman and all.”

  I wasn’t thrilled with the comparison. “How is that a motive? How would she be any better off with him dead?”

  He smiled. “I’ll tell you what happened. They planned a little rendezvous, and afterwards, when Gary told her it was over, she shot him.”

  “There’s one problem with your theory,” I said. “Ms. Rapture was working during the night in question. I’d be interested to know where you were.”

  He lifted an orchid, filled its tray and replaced it. “Do you call what that woman does working? Did she tell you if she had a few hours off between performances?”

  I shifted in the chair. “Mr. Ivanov, you’re avoiding my question. What were you doing on the night of July 13?”

  He turned to look at me, dark circled eyes staring out of a gray face, “Why should I tell you anything? Who do you think you are?” He slammed the watering can onto his desk. “I believe this interview is over.”

  I turned off the tape recorder, gathered the rest of my belongings and headed for the door.

  “Miss Wagner,” Ivanov called after me. “Stay out of this. There are some powerful people who won’t be too happy about you poking around in their business.”

  I stomped out of his office and down the stairs.

  That had gone badly. If everyone else was as forthcoming, I figured I could skip the investigation and buy Ms. Rapture a going-up-the-river present instead. I was fuming. Opening my purse, I dropped in the tape recorder and steno pad.

  “Don’t make a sound, ma belle,” a voice said in my ear as a hand clamped my upper arm like a vise. Before I could react, I was thrown sideways into the back seat of a large dark car, where I practically landed on one of Bolino’s goons.

  The man shoved me into the centre seat, leaned across and pulled the seat belt over my lap. He wrapped the loose end around his massive hand.

  The car door slammed, and we pulled away from the curb. “Hey!” I said, twisting to look out the rear window, “That’s my purse back there!”

  A big hand grabbed the top of my head and turned me forward. I clasped my trembling hands together and surveyed the interior of the car.

  We travelled three or four blocks before the driver’s eyes shifted to the rear-view mirror. “What you doing with Ivanov, ma belle?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, “I’m not doing anything.”

  Frenchie smiled. “Don’t be lying to me, or I will have to let Aldo get some answers from you. You don’t want that.”

  My companion jerked the seat belt, digging it into my stomach. “Okay,” I grunted. “I wanted to ask Ivanov some questions about Gary Chicago’s death, but he didn’t tell me anything.” I licked my lips. “I don’t know anything about anything. Honest.”

  “How do I know you are not lying?”

  “Have you ever talked to that guy? He asks more questions than he answers. I need a Tylenol after ten minutes with him.”

  Frenchie threw back his head and laughed. “It is true. It is true. That man should learn to just say it. Like the commercial, huh, Aldo? Just say it.”

  He pulled to the curb. Aldo let go of the belt and shoved me out onto the sidewalk.

  The front passenger window rolled down. “You stay out of this, ma belle. It is done. If you go looking for answers, you will only find trouble.”

  They pulled into traffic. Just another shiny blue Lincoln with a muddy license plate.

  I found my purse lying half on the sidewalk, half on the road. I gathered the contents that had spewed out. Everything was accounted for except my cell phone. I looked around. Something that looked suspiciously like a phone antenna stuck out from under the back wheel of a red Toyota.

  As I walked back to my car, I started to shake. Inside, I clutched my arms across my chest and rocked until the trembling stopped.

  No case was worth that, I concluded. Then I thought about the rent and the fact that I’d only been on the job for a couple of hours. I might have earned enough for a Big Mac, but that was about it.

  I decided to put in a few more hours, earn the three hundred I’d been paid, and call it a day.

  I swung into the Bank Street Dairy Queen. Once I’d stopped shaking, the heat had seeped back in, leaving me rubbery-limbed and parched.

  A Peanut Buster Parfait hit the spot. I sat in the almost empty parking lot and leaned back against the headrest. My neurons, no longer overheated, started firing a bit faster, and I realized there was an avenue of information that I hadn’t yet tapped. Tossing the empty container in the garbage, I trotted across the parking lot to a pay phone and dialled Sophie Burch’s number.

  “Good afternoon, Crown Attorney Thaddeus Skipp’s office.”

  “Hi, Sophie.”

  “Ronnie, what a surprise! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Sophie was the mother of an old boyfriend. Though the romance had soured,
she and I had remained friends. “Actually, I’m hoping you can tell me a few things. About Gary Chicago’s death.”

  There was a long pause, “You know I’m not supposed to talk about anything I hear around here. I could get fired. Or even charged. It’s a really big deal. Anyway, I don’t know anything.”

  “Come on, Soph, don’t give me that. You screen everything that goes into or out of Skipp’s office. Don’t tell me you don’t know anything.”

  I could hear her breathing on the line.

  “You owe me, and you know it,” I said.

  “That’s not fair! I’m going to pay you back!”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  Sophie’s voice shook, “I haven’t been to the casino in six months. I swear to God that part of my life is over.”

  “Look, I just had a run-in with some of Bolino’s friends, and it’s left me more than a little cranky.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “I gave you every cent I had to keep people like those from rearranging your body parts.”

  “I know, Ronnie!”

  “The least you could do is help me out.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Damn it! I cashed in my RRSPs for you!”

  “All right! All right! Just a minute.” I heard her door click shut.

  “What is it you want?”

  “Why don’t we just start with some yes/no questions?”

  Sophie sighed.

  “I take it Ms. Rapture is the main suspect,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Are they pursuing other avenues?”

  “No.”

  “Do they have decent evidence against her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “These are supposed to be yes/no questions,” she whispered.

  “Come on, Soph, I need a hint.”

  She sighed. “Not here. Not now.”