Murder in the Family

by Jeff Blackstock

  Her voice came back changed—the tone deeper, suddenly hostile. “Listen to me, Jeffrey. This is your father we’re talking about. How do you dare ask about something like this? Your mother’s death was a tragedy, of course. But it occurred a very long time ago. The whole matter has been closed for many, many years.”

  She was becoming increasingly heated, but I pushed ahead regardless. “Did you know that Dad’s department sent someone to Montreal to deal with the hospital and the police?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “I’m sure you can understand why Julie and I are concerned about this. We want—”

  “No, I can’t. Jeffrey, your mother is dead, and life is meant for the living. You need to put this whole thing behind you.”

  “Thanks for talking to me, Mary. May I call you if I have any more questions?”

  “No, you may certainly not. I do not wish to discuss this anymore, and neither should you. Goodbye, Jeffrey.” And she hung up.

  * * *

  —

  MY CONVERSATION WITH cousin Mary was a disaster from the family relations viewpoint, but far more importantly, it yielded vital information we hadn’t known previously. It was now undeniable that George had known the cause of Carol’s death, even though Mary wouldn’t say so explicitly.

  I called Julie to report on what I’d learned. Characteristically, she went straight to the heart of the matter.

  “So we have further confirmation that Dad’s meeting with the police wasn’t just routine, as he told us. They grilled him hard. They wanted to know if he’d killed his wife. Of course they did! Mary’s version is much more reliable. It makes perfect sense when a man’s wife has just died of arsenic poisoning.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Her story isn’t self-serving like Dad’s, either. And her hostility proves she wishes she hadn’t shared it with you—especially once she realized she was contradicting him. Did I get everything?”

  “I think you got it.”

  “Oh yeah,” Julie added, “I forgot about the life-is-for-the-living bit. We hadn’t thought of that, had we? I guess we should be grateful for the sermon.” We agreed at once: we needed to see Dad right away, before he got wind that I’d talked to Mary.

  16

  CONFRONTATION

  GEORGE AND INGRID were now living in Ottawa between postings, in a large house in upscale Rockcliffe Park. This was a piece of luck: Julie and I would be able to talk to him in person.

  I suggested we ask Doug if he wanted to be there, so he too could hear first-hand what Dad had to say. Julie thought that was a good idea. “Making any progress is going to depend on Dad,” she said. “He has to talk to the three of us.” She was more determined than ever to get the truth out of him. Now that we had greater certainty about how Mom had died, we were resolved that her murder wouldn’t be consigned to the garbage can of history.

  Julie and I knew we had to be thoroughly prepared. Dad was canny, and more than adroit at twisting the truth completely out of shape, leaving it unrecognizable—and leaving us with more questions than before, but no answers.

  First, we had to satisfy ourselves about one remaining question, which could turn out to be crucial: Had Dad ever told anyone else about the cause of Carol’s death? We had in mind someone who wasn’t a relative or a friend in Canada, who might alert him to what we were doing, but rather a person he couldn’t have avoided telling something.

  We decided to call María.

  We had María’s full name, her old telephone number, and the district where she and Martín had lived. With those pieces of information, the Argentine operator was able to find María’s current number and put us through to her.

  When she answered, we spoke in Spanish. “María, it’s Jeffrey and Julia. Do you remember us?” I hoped she could hear me over the crackling on the line.

  “Oh, Jeffrey! How could I ever forget you and Julia? I hear you still speaking in perfect Spanish!”

  “And we’ve never forgotten you, María. Now we’re finally able to speak to you again. How are you?”

  “I have had some health problems, so I am not working much anymore. But I am happy to be at home in the house we built when you were here.”

  “And Martín and Cristina?” I asked.

  “Martín is still working, but he is ready to retire as well. Cristina is still not married and lives with us.”

  “We wanted to let you know our grandfather died—Carol’s father.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry. Your grandfather and grandmother were very kind,” María said. She remembered the letter they’d written to her after Carol had died. They’d enclosed a watch that had been intended for Carol as a gift with an engraving for María to remember her by.

  “María, we want to thank you again on their behalf and ours for everything you did for our mother. And for us.”

  “There is no reason to thank me, Jeffrey. I loved your mother very much, and I loved you children too.”

  Cristina would tell me later that when María learned my mother had died, she said it was the worst day of her life.

  “We also wanted to ask you something, María.”

  “Yes?”

  “We went through our grandfather’s papers after he died. We found out what caused our mother’s death.”

  “I thought it was cancer of the cervix, like your father told me.”

  This was a shocker. I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece. “Dad told her it was cervical cancer,” I whispered to Julie. We looked at each other wordlessly, shaking our heads.

  “No, María, it wasn’t cancer. Our mother was poisoned. It was arsenic.”

  “Ay, por eso!” [“Aha, so that’s why!”]

  “Did you ever know anything about arsenic being in our house?” I asked. “Or hear anything about it?”

  “No, no.”

  “Can you tell us anything else about that time, anything that would help us?”

  “Your mother was very, very sick. All I know is what your father told me,” María said over the increasingly fuzzy line.

  “Was anyone else feeding her?” I asked.

  “No. Señora Krapf was very helpful when your mother was sick, but there was no one else feeding her that I can remember.”

  “I’m sorry, María, the line is becoming very bad. We’ll have to go.”

  “I hope you will keep in touch with me. Abrazos fuertes [big hugs].”

  “We will. Abrazos fuertes de nosotros,” I replied.

  So Dad had fed María a brazen lie, on a par with telling our grandfather that Carol had died of a tropical disease—yet another to add to the list. Julie and I weren’t completely surprised. But we were disappointed to learn that Dad had told her nothing about arsenic poisoning. It removed whatever vestige remained of our hope that he might prove innocent after all.

  In time, we came to understand why Dad would have chosen to tell María that particular lie. Our mother’s death had come as a shock to people who knew her in Buenos Aires. When someone as young, beautiful, full of life, and popular as she was died suddenly, they wanted to know—needed to know—the reason why. If there was no explanation, they’d start looking for one. Nature abhors a vacuum, as Dad liked to say. The expatriate rumour mill would have gone into high gear, and maids were always one of the main conduits for gossip.

  Dad also knew from his government training that in managing situations like this, the objective is to put an end to speculation as swiftly as possible. An explanation like cervical cancer would have done just that. Most people didn’t understand cancer as well as we do today, apart from the fact that it was often fatal, and there were few effective treatments. This particular cancer was considered “a woman’s problem,” to be kept private—not a proper subject for polite conversation in the conservative 1950s. Since we’d be leaving Argentina soon, Dad wouldn’t have
to answer any further questions there. And what were the chances that anyone in Buenos Aires would check up on his story years later from thousands of miles away?

  María’s honesty and directness in telling us about the fairy tale Dad had spun only confirmed our belief in her. Sadly, when Julie and I would call her a few years later, Martín would tell us that María had died.

  * * *

  —

  JULIE AND I discussed our next moves. Some part of myself was amazed that the man we were talking about was our father. I saw him now in a very different light from the godlike figure of my past. For that transformation I had Julie to thank in part—but mostly Dad himself.

  How, exactly, do you deal with a character like George Blackstock? He was extremely intelligent, slippery, unconstrained by moral conscience. Judging from the way he’d dealt with our grandparents, he could be ruthless in getting what he wanted. If we gave him too much information, he’d concoct a new story that would leave just enough doubt to be possible. If we pushed too hard, we’d give him an excuse to walk away from his crazy, cruel, ungrateful kids. If we didn’t push hard enough, he’d walk all over us. We couldn’t trust him for a second.

  “How long before we talk to him?” Julie asked.

  “I think we’re there,” I said. “The only thing that might open him up is some kind of shock treatment.”

  “If he won’t tell us the truth, I don’t want anything more to do with him. I don’t want to hear one more phony alibi.”

  “Once he knows we want to meet, he’ll figure we’ve found something out.”

  “But for me to believe him,” she said, “he’ll have to admit knowing all along why Mom died. I don’t see how he can talk his way out of it, but he’ll try. You know Dad: Mr. Smooth.”

  “He can’t just say he knew nothing and did nothing for twenty-five years.”

  “It’s getting to be a hall of mirrors,” Julie said. “He knows that we know that he’s circulated completely different explanations to different people.”

  “Slippery” didn’t even begin to describe our father.

  * * *

  —

  I PHONED DAD at home in Ottawa and told him Julie and I wanted to get together with him.

  “Of course, Jeff,” he said. “What about?”

  “She and I have some concerns about our mother’s death. We’ve got to meet with you as soon as possible.”

  “Got to meet? That sounds rather dramatic. What’s the urgency, if I may ask?”

  “It’s important to us.”

  “Can you give me some idea what you’re looking for?”

  “We have some questions about what happened. We’re hoping you can help us.”

  “Okay, but I don’t know how much I’ll be able to add. As you’re aware, I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “We can talk more about it when we meet, Dad.”

  “Can you at least give me some specifics, Jeff? It would help me to provide more considered responses.”

  “Well, we’re interested in knowing about our cook in Buenos Aires.”

  I’d been hoping to avoid getting into a discussion with him before meeting. But I also knew he’d try to pry information out of me, and, if possible, I wanted to allay his fears of an ambush.

  “I see,” he said. “Interesting you should mention Alejandra. She was a strange person. Anything else?”

  “Various things. We’d like to know more about what happened in Montreal.”

  “What about Montreal? I’ve told you everything I can.”

  “We’d just like to be sure we have all the information possible, Dad. We’d like to include Doug as well. We’ve never all sat down together as a family to talk about this. We think it would be useful. Valuable.” I was appealing to his paternalistic side.

  “All right, then. If sitting down together would help, I’ll join in, of course.”

  * * *

  —

  I PHONED DOUG, now living at Canadian Forces Base Petawawa, a couple of hours’ drive from Ottawa, and filled him in. He agreed to come to the meeting. I knew he wouldn’t want to be left out.

  We’d meet Dad after dinner at the apartment where Marie and I lived in a downtown Ottawa neighbourhood called Sandy Hill. Though we were no longer students, it was student-style accommodation—an old house near the University of Ottawa campus, with creaky floors, cracked walls, exposed pipes going to the apartment upstairs. We would have been far more comfortable at Dad’s house, but he’d probably be more at ease in the privacy of our place. We knew he wouldn’t want to include Ingrid in the discussion. Neither did we. This was strictly between us and our father. Marie went out for the evening.

  It was chilly late-October weather. Doug and Julie arrived a couple of hours before Dad, so we could talk things over and get settled. We had pizza at the simple oak dining table given to me by my grandparents, sitting on uncomfortable Victorian chairs from Dad’s mother. Somehow, I’d wound up with them after Granny’s death five years earlier.

  After going over the events around the time of Mom’s death and afterwards, I asked Doug if he saw why we needed answers from Dad.

  “Of course, Jeff. But I don’t know what you and Julie expect to gain. It all happened a long time ago.”

  “Some of it not so long ago,” Julie said.

  Maybe it was my legal education taking over, but I felt we all had to be clear on the main issues. “We need to ask Dad the tough questions,” I told Doug. “How can he deny ever knowing the cause of death when everyone else seemed to know? Why didn’t he try to find out? We want to know why his version of the police interview in Montreal is so radically different from Mary’s. Among other things.”

  “Yes, Jeff,” Doug said. “I know that.”

  “But you don’t seem terribly concerned about it,” Julie said.

  “I’ve never heard his explanation before.”

  * * *

  —

  I SHOWED DAD in through the kitchen, and the four of us sat down around the dining table. He hung his fall windbreaker over the back of his chair. He didn’t look nervous, just vigilant, wearing his usual air of calm control. We were his children—what could he fear from us?

  I led off. “As you must realize, Dad, it was a horrible shock to learn our mother died of arsenic poisoning. And then learn nothing was ever done about it. The three of us need this opportunity to hear how you see it.”

  “Well, as I’ve already said, it’s really very simple: nobody ever informed me what had happened.” He spoke very matter-of-factly.

  “Julie and I have been looking into it some more, because—”

  “What exactly do you mean, ‘looking into it’?” he demanded, staring indignantly at me.

  “We visited the Montreal Neurological Institute. We spoke to one of the doctors who treated Mom. He told us the arsenic was discovered shortly after she died, even though the full autopsy report wasn’t released until later. He confirmed she was poisoned through her food. Our grandfather found the autopsy report, and it showed she’d been poisoned over a period of months. Apparently, she received the final, massive dose just before leaving Argentina.”

  This seemed to be more than Dad wanted to hear. He started to intervene, but I held up my hand to stop him. I wanted to review for him and Doug the full picture of what we knew before he hijacked the conversation. I was all too familiar with Dad’s diversionary tactics: he’d steer us into a time-wasting exercise, going back and forth over the same old alibis, fragmenting the story into bits and pieces until there was nothing left of it.

  “Dad, the doctor at the MNI was clear with us: it wasn’t a case of suicide or accidental death. Mom was deliberately poisoned. The police were called in as soon as the cause was suspected. And by the way, we’ve also spoken to Mary.” For once, Dad’s rigid expression changed, betraying surprise. “She told
us the police questioned you aggressively. As she remembered it, they were trying to determine if you’d killed Mom.”

  “Well, I really—”

  “So you can see how troubling this is for us.”

  “I really can’t, Jeff. I had no idea what your mother died of until you told me five years ago. I had no idea the police were investigating anything. There was a routine questionnaire, a police functionary asked me questions. I assumed it was standard procedure. Maybe Mary understood it differently, but she didn’t say so at the time.”

  “You know,” I said, fed up with his recitation of the same old lies, “that’s a huge discrepancy in interpretation. Wouldn’t you say Mary is a reliable person?”

  “Wait a minute, now. As you can imagine, I was pretty distracted right then. I may have missed a lot of what was happening. My wife had just died. I was trying to deal with that emotionally. I was thinking of you kids and what I was going to tell you. I was thinking of your grandparents and what I was going to tell them. There were funeral arrangements to make, transportation arrangements. There were forms to fill out. I needed to get in touch with the department. There was a lot going on in my mind, and I probably wasn’t all there, as they say.”

  By this time, Dad was crouched forward, his hands in his lap, speaking to the table. “May I have a glass of water, please? My throat is a little dry. I think I may be coming down with something.”

  I got a glass of water, and Dad took a long drink.

  “Now, where were we?” he continued.

  “The police in Montreal,” Julie interjected.

  “Right.” He paused to take another drink of water, leaned back in his chair for a few seconds, and stared at the ceiling before continuing.

  “I don’t remember them being particularly aggressive. I suppose they had to ask some difficult questions. That’s their job. They were asking what they would ask anyone in those circumstances. It wasn’t to be taken personally, and I didn’t. But I really don’t remember the questions or what I said at the time. I was in a daze, as anyone would be. If the police had anything to pursue, I assumed they’d be back in touch with me. The same with the hospital. When I didn’t hear from either of them, I naturally concluded they had nothing to tell or ask me.”