by Howard Engel
“Teddie, tonight I’m just a camera. Lots of pictures, no judgments.”
“Bull! You can’t withhold making judgments any more than I can. We’re both human, aren’t we?”
“Maybe what I mean is I’m trying to be that fly on the wall you were talking about when we met two weeks ago. Have they been giving you a rough time?”
“No! That’s just the trouble! Everybody’s being so nice to me, it makes me nervous. They’re treating me like the Queen Mother. You try it sometime.”
“Thanks. So far I’ve been ignored by the people in the older generation. The bride and groom were civil, but that was because I was with Anna Abraham, who’s an old friend of Sherry’s. Ross thinks I’m with you.”
“Let him. It’ll do him good. Funny how I keep finding ways of making a man of my ex.”
“I guess dinner’s the next thing. Will that be a sit-down or a buffet?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
Ross Forbes walked by with Gary Carswell. Carswell looked back at us after Ross whispered something in his ear. The long line of the wedding rehearsal party moved into the club. I held the door for Teddie. We were in the wide corridor that led to the dining-room where I’d had lunch and to the other facilities the club had to offer. One of them, the General Brock Room, opened off to the left. People were pouring into the room like they hadn’t eaten in a week. A small group was gathered around Biddy Forbes outside the dining-room. Biddy was giving orders in a firm voice.
“Try the house again, Sherry. He may have gone back there and fallen asleep.”
“Norm’s calling there, now, Mum-Mum. Please don’t worry!”
“I’m not worried, child. I just want to know where he is. That’s all.” She looked rather frail standing there, but doughty, supported by her granddaughter. They made an interesting study, the two of them: both worried in their different ways. I was surprised that Sherry could withdraw from the drama of the wedding scenario to spare a moment for the older woman. Biddy, you could see, hated fuss. She was trying to get things moving again. Ross caught up with the front of the train again just as Caine returned from the phone.
“He’s not at the house,” he said. “Hasn’t been seen since around eleven the morning.”
“He isn’t in your suite here at the club either,” said Dr. Carswell, who reluctantly added more unhelpful news to the collecting pile.
“Well, I saw him here at the club,” Ross said. “He was boasting in the sauna that he was going to be the first of the wedding party to arrive at the church tonight.”
“Ross, dear, we know where he was. It’s where he is that’s important,” Biddy said.
“Well, that’s only where I saw him. That was hours ago.”
“We took a swim after our golf game,” Biddy said to the assembled crowd, as though that would explain everything. “He left me in the pool. He wasn’t in the pool when I left,” she said rapidly, showing some confusion.
“Now, Mother, don’t get excited. He’ll turn up. I never saw him pass up a good roast of beef, have you?”
“Oh, everything’s a joke to you, Ross!” the old lady scolded. “We might as well go in.” She took a step towards the open double doors, then added quietly to Ross, “I’m sorry I was sharp with you, my dear. You can see I’m not myself. But I don’t know why you’ve given up strong drink if you still intend to play the fool. Try to be more helpful. I need you to lean upon tonight. Indulge your old mother, there’s a dear.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
“I know, I know. Just mollycoddle me a little, dear,” she said. “He knows he should be here. It doesn’t look right, especially with Norman’s father here.”
“Try not to get yourself worked up,” Ross said, taking her arm. “You know what the doctor said.”
Biddy gave Ross a peck on the cheek and patted the hand supporting her. Together they swept into the room to join the throng in the dining-room. As soon as he had escorted his mother to a chair, Ross came back in this direction.
“Gary,” he called and Carswell turned. “Perhaps you could get some of the ushers to have a look around the club. He may be down in the card room.” He said this last bit looking me straight in the eye. Did he think I was my father’s keeper any more than he was his? I could almost see the Commander locked in a game of gin with my father. But Pa was rarely out at this time of day, and on a Friday night it was highly unlikely.
“Benny,” Teddie said to me, tugging at my arm, “I forgot to tell you. I got notice this afternoon that there’s going to be a meeting of the board of directors on Monday morning. Did you know about that?”
“No. They aren’t wasting any time, are they?”
“What do you mean?”
“One, they are going to let Caine in at the upper level, and two, I think they may try to demote Ross.”
Teddie mimed a surprised whistle, and rolled her lower lip into an expression of mock horror. “That will put the wind up them,” she said.
“Will they get away with it? How many fans does Ross have left on the board? I can guess which way you and the Commander might vote.”
“Benny! I never mix business and personal. Ross is a first-rate rat in his personal life, but he has his charms as a businessman. Apart from the little games he’s been playing with the tax people on my behalf, I mean. But, you have to admit he had to be clever to figure that out.”
“Teddie, I can never tell whose side you’re on.”
“That’s the key to my fascination, Benny. Don’t give me away.”
While this was going on, Dr. Carswell had pulled a few of the ushers from the General Brock Room, briefed them and sent them scampering through the club.
Inside the General Brock Room a buffet table of impressive length had been set up, and it stretched out in front of us burdened with good things. I counted three chef’s bonnets and began to salivate at once. A huge lump of beef was being carved by expert hands. As the dark outer layer came off, the moist pink interior was laid bare. I moved into that line that was already forming and collected cutlery, a cloth napkin and a warmed plate. Teddie Forbes was right behind me.
“He really put them through it, didn’t he?” she said.
“I should tell Ned Evans about him. He could direct some Shakespeare in Montecello Park this summer.” Ned worked at being the local drama impresario when he wasn’t drinking draft beer at the Harding House. “I guess directing people is how he got to be a canon, whatever a canon is.”
“A canon’s the rector of a cathedral, Benny. He takes over the parish chores so that the bishop can get on with bishopping.”
The line was moving along more quickly than I thought it would. Soon Teddie was being served. I’d let her move ahead of me when I saw other women ahead of their escorts. She took a nice piece of rare meat with roast potatoes. When it was my turn, I asked for a slice from the outside as well as some medium-well-done from a part of the roast that hadn’t been bothered much. I watched the white bonnet bob as the cook sliced off the pieces I wanted and carried them with his carving knife and fork to my plate. I told him which of the potatoes I craved and he gave them to me. I took the heaping plate from him and followed Teddie to a table. I could see that Anna was still conferring with Sherry and the other bridesmaids. Of course, Anna, as maid of honour, had special responsibilities. She was a little nervous about them, so I told her not to worry about me after we’d arrived. I was a little hurt to see that she’d taken me at my word.
No sooner had I placed my napkin in my lap and had started focusing on the feast ahead of me, when two of the young ushers came up to me. “Mr. Cooperman?”
“That’s right. What can I do for you?” I got a horrible feeling that started in my belly. My dinner was slipping through my fingers.
“Mr. Burgess—he’s the manager of the club—he’d like a word with you.”
“But I’m—”
“It’s important. There’s been an accident,” added the other usher. For a moment I
thought I was going to get the old heave-ho for barging into a private party, but the word “accident” put another taste in my mouth.
“Accident?”
“You’d better come with us. Mr. Burgess is just outside.” The faces of my mother and father went through my head. Was this the introduction to a major family change? I saw my father slumped over the card table with a pair of aces and a pair of eights in his hand. I saw my mother … I squeezed my eyes shut and got to my feet. Reluctantly, and with a glance at my plate of roast beef and potatoes, I followed the ushers, feeling a little hot under the collar at the interruption. Unless it had something to do with me personally, I was just another guest here. My Red Cross first-aid training became obsolete with the triangular bandage. I was no doctor.
I didn’t recognize Burgess at first. He looked like a lot of other dumpy dark-haired men that sweat a lot. He had done in his jacket. The shirt under it was wet through so that I could see the weave of his underwear top. There were beads of sweat standing on his upper lip as he took my hand. “Mr. Cooperman, how are you? It’s been at least five years since I saw you.”
That’s when I remembered him. Burgess was Jim Burgess, who ran the YMCA on Queen Street when I met him in 1985. His wife wanted an agreement for a trial separation and he’d grown suspicious. He wanted me to check out the missus before he divided up the assets. As I remembered, Burgess’s instincts were dead on. His wife was seeing a schoolteacher on the side and helping him with the costumes for the grade six pageant. Among other things.
“How are you, Mr. Burgess? Good to see you again.”
“Oh, Mr. Cooperman, this is a terrible thing. Just terrible.” I was about to cluck my tongue in sympathy and read him my office hours, when he turned to the ushers and told them how well he knew me of old and what a wonderfully helpful fellow I was. There was no getting away from him. “As soon as I saw you come in tonight, I said to myself I was going to speak to you, never suspecting for a minute, of course …”
“Never suspecting what exactly?”
“Why this, naturally.” I was being drawn away from the door of the dining-room and pulled along a pale green corridor. “In the year and a half that I’ve been here, Mr. Cooperman, nothing like this has happened. He produced a large white handkerchief and began mopping his brow and neck. “Oh, we had accidents at the Y—I don’t mean we had a perfect slate—but never anything like this.”
“Like what?” I asked, trying to keep up with Burgess. “Give me a hint.” Burgess kept up the pace as we came into the athletic section of the club, where men and women in shorts and sweatbands passed us carrying racquets and calmly going in the other direction. Whatever it was, the accident had not disrupted normal activities yet.
“It’s just through here,” he said, as though that was an answer. He led us through the door leading to the men’s locker-room and shower. It looked like an old friend. I could see bodies in various stages of undress as we moved by the doorway, past the old-fashioned upright scale, then the automatic hot-air dryer and into the steaming shower room. The room was empty, but the grey tile walls were still dripping. From the shower room there was nowhere to go except through the door marked POOL or the door next to it. I recognized the notice that came down hard on reading in the sauna. One of the other ushers was posted outside this second door. As soon as he saw us, he stood aside, as the manager opened the door. I caught the room’s hot breath on my face as I tried to make out what it was that Burgess wanted me to see.
The sauna was walled and shelved with golden planks of softwood. A series of benches rose upward from the front, a set of miniature bleachers leading up to the hottest part of the room. On the top shelf in the corner sat the Commander, wrapped in a blue Turkish towel. In spite of the wrapping, most of the Commander lay pink and exposed. I wondered for a moment what sort of trouble he could have got into that wouldn’t allow him to leave the sauna. Moisture was still dripping from his face to the great folds of his body.
“What’s going on?” I asked Murdo Forbes. “Can’t we talk somewhere else?”
The Commander didn’t move. The eyes that had at first seemed to be focused on me were bent on the middle distance. The stillness tugged at my throat. I looked around at Burgess, who was right behind me. “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”
“But I thought they told you,” he said. “Just look!”
I looked at the Commander. At his feet I saw discarded pages of a sodden newspaper with the newsprint turning almost green in the heat and under this light. Was that what he was complaining about? The newspaper? “Damn it, Mr. Burgess, it’s not up to me to enforce your by-laws.”
“By-laws? I’m talking about the Commander.”
“The Commander,” I said in a whisper, “can buy and sell this club. I’d be careful if I were you.”
“Mr. Cooperman. You misunderstand. I think he’s dead.”
That knocked the air out of me. Could anything as round and rosy, so fat and hot, also be dead? I looked back up at him. He hadn’t moved since the door to the sauna was opened. I climbed up the benches to the top of the bleachers where the Commander sat, leaning into a corner. I felt his neck. It was warm and sweaty.
My first thought, if it can be called that, was that the old man was sleeping off a heavy meal or too much to drink. But I knew better. He had skipped lunch and hadn’t had anything to drink. I was about to turn to Burgess with this information when I saw the blood, partly hidden by the towel and already looking dark and sticky. I could see it. I moved some of the newspaper and was immediately sorry. Great gouts of gore had landed on the duck-boards at his feet. In spite of the healthy, reddish look, in spite of the warmth of the body, it was plain that the Commander, Murdo Forbes, was dead.
TWENTY-FOUR
As I waited for the cops to arrive, I thought of my plate of roast beef back in the General Brock Room. I was strangely able to think of it growing cold at the same time I was staring at the notice outside the sauna door. I couldn’t see any reason for keeping the heat on in there, but I never liked to tamper with things at the scene of a crime if I can help it, especially when there are witnesses hanging around.
Burgess, the club manager, had gone to inform the police, when I convinced him that this was a formality that couldn’t be overlooked. I sent one of the ushers, a twenty-five-year-old kid named Brant or Clint, back to the dining-room to make sure nobody left until the police said they could. He was a big kid, built like a football linebacker, and I knew that even Ross Forbes at his most bullish would think twice before crossing him. I checked my watch. Eight o’clock on the nose. It would be ten before even the optimist would predict we’d be clear of this mess. I was never that optimistic. Again I thought of the food.
It was my old friend and sometime antagonist Staff Sergeant Chris Savas who arrived to take charge of the investigation. Savas and I had run into one another on a few cases. I knew him to be a good cop. In spite of those cold, metallic eyes, he was honest and even imaginative for a heavy-duty policeman. He took in his information from the uniformed police already on the scene. He spoke for a few minutes to Burgess, whose arms moved in my direction, as though he was blaming me for not turning off the heat in the sauna. Savas looked over at me, but there was no sign in his face that we had eaten Greek food together or that he had shared a communal teabag in my mother’s living-room. This was business, and if there was an advantage to be had from keeping everybody in a unbroken straight line, he intended to reap it. I didn’t envy him the investigation into the death of a leading citizen. Wherever he walked there were toes to step on, and each of those little piggies came equipped with lawyers and access to the media. No wonder he didn’t look like he was going to enjoy himself.
Savas strode into the General Brock Room and told everybody that the Commander was dead and that the circumstances were such that he had to ask them to submit to some questioning in order to determine the facts of the case. He thanked people for their cooperation before the firs
t of the objections was raised. It was Dr. Carswell.
“Sergeant, this is all very overwhelming. Wouldn’t it be better to let some of the family leave? They’ve had a nasty shock, and I’m sure your questions can wait until morning.”
“Gary’s right,” Caine put in. “We can attend you whenever you say in the morning at your office. I think that Mrs. Forbes at least should be allowed to go home.”
“Mrs. Forbes?” Savas was looking at the widow, who was standing up very tall and straight for such a recent widow.
“I will answer your questions, Sergeant. I will do— and I beg the others to as well—whatever I can to clear up the death of my husband.” I had told the usher to keep his mouth shut about what had happened in the men’s sauna, but there was no surprise when Savas broke the news. They had known and had had a chance to get a handle on the information. Apart from a chalk-white face, Miss Biddy was doing very well. Sherry, on the other hand, was sobbing into Norm Caine’s sweater. Was it the loss of her grandfather or was it the inevitable postponement of their wedding? I couldn’t tell. Carswell moved in to talk in whispers to Caine who then looked up from the blonde head on his shoulder.
Savas conferred with Burgess and quickly began questioning the family and the inner circle, while the rest of us sat, along with ushers, bridesmaids and the three chefs, waiting. People in gym wear and others were ushered in to find a place to sit as well. Anna separated herself from the core of the wedding party and rejoined me at the edge of the room. She took my hand but otherwise left me free to keep my eyes open.
By the time he had talked to about twenty people, Savas announced, through one of the uniformed men, that the rest of us were excused. He wanted our names and addresses and phone numbers, but our presence was no longer required. Anna grinned at me and we both headed for the double doors that had been closed. It had just pressed ten forty-five, but there would still be a few places open downtown where we could get a bite to eat. I didn’t get another look at any of the grieving family members as we went out. I was glad of that. I didn’t mind my job most of the time, but when it came to a dead grandfather, father and husband, I’d just as soon look the other way until the funeral is over. Death demands privacy, even if murder cries out for action. It was hard to do both at once.
