Chloe Delaney shared space with a couple of other students in an apartment in a red brick walk-up, not unlike the one that Alison Beck lived in. It was in the same area of the city but was not near the river and was decidedly shabbier. Chloe was not at home, a roommate told Izzy McBain, eyeing her suspiciously around the door. “She’s in class. I think.”
Izzy drove to the university and found her way across campus from the parkade, past students bustling to class and others lounging in hallways. She knew her way around campus. She’d done a degree in criminology, straight out of high school. The place hadn’t changed all that much. She cut through a building, down a long corridor, past closed doors, voices droning inside, then followed a path that passed between grassy lawns and trees. Raindrops dripped down. The few students outside had their shoulders hunched. The rain had stopped but a wind had got up. Izzy pulled up the collar of her jacket and tucked her ponytail in so it wouldn’t blow into her face.
The Fine Arts building was newish, grey and glassy outside but inside it seemed grubby. So did its students, most of them dressed in shabby clothes, dark coloured, many spattered with paint. They carried large boards under their arms or lugged heavy backpacks. One of them showed her the way to the office. He pointed with ink-stained fingers.
A middle-aged woman frowned up at her from behind a computer. Izzy announced who she was and held up her ID. The woman hauled herself to her feet and reluctantly approached the front desk. Two other clerks, similarly engaged behind their computer screens, took notice but stayed where they were. Izzy realized that they had thought she was just another student. She should have braided her hair and fastened it up, like she did when she was in uniform. She explained that she needed to find Chloe Delaney. The woman sniffed.
“We don’t give out private information,” she informed her. Izzy tipped her head to one side.
“I need to speak to her,” she insisted. The woman did not budge. Another, older, called to her.
“Martha,” she said. “She’s police. You can make an exception.” Martha obliged, but took her time looking up the day’s class records. Eventually she placed a printout in front of Izzy. It showed that Chloe Delaney should be in a pottery class right now. There was a room number.
“Where do I find it?” asked Izzy. The woman indicated double doors to her right.
“Down there. To the end. Then turn left.” She watched Izzy go, watchful and wary as a guard dog.
In the hallways of this building, most doors had a window. Izzy glanced into some as she passed. In one, students stood at large easels, painting. In another, they sat astride small wooden benches, their drawings propped in front of them. In a third, cut-out photographs were being picked through and discussed. Izzy had never seen anywhere quite like it. The hallways were mostly empty.
She turned the corner and found the studio number that she needed at the end of another corridor. She opened the door. All the occupants wore loose cotton shirts or large aprons to protect their clothes. Some sat at pottery wheels, spinning round shapes. Others stood at tables, pounding lumps of clay, some red, some pale grey. One was rolling a sheet of it out flat. She spotted Chloe Delaney instantly, recognized her from her photo. Chloe had cropped dark hair, revealing a perfect oval skull and even, symmetrical features, a small, neat nose, a wide mouth and startlingly large eyes, rimmed in black liner. Her eyebrows were finely drawn, the fingers with which she handled the clay were slim and long, and, right now, caked in terracotta. The shirt she wore over torn jeans was spattered with reddish brown dirt and there was some smudged on her face.
“What do you want?” A man, apparently the instructor, stood behind one of the potters. He wore the same gear as his students and had a layer of stubbly beard.
“I need to speak to Chloe Delaney,” said Izzy.
“She’s busy. You’ll have to wait.” The man turned his attention back to his student’s work in progress.
“Constable Isabel McBain, RCMP,” said Izzy. She hadn’t wanted to state her credentials in front of the whole class but sometimes you had no option, especially when you looked as young as they did. She’d spoken loudly. The slapping of clay stopped. The wheels ceased spinning. One pot collapsed in on itself. “Oh, shit,” said the student.
“Clo,” said the instructor. “Get her out of here.”
Chloe Delaney reached for a sheet of plastic. “Just give me a minute to wrap this and clean up,” she said across the room. She held up a mud-stained hand, apologetic. Even dressed as she was, smeared with dirt, she looked pretty.
Five minutes later, she shook Izzy’s hand. Her own was warm and damp, traces of red clay stuck around short nails. She still wore the work shirt, obviously expecting to return to class. “We can go to the lounge.” She led the way back along the corridor and opened a side door.
It led to a sitting area, provided with sofas and chairs. One wall looked out onto a courtyard. It was grassed, with some ornamental trees. Pride of place was given to large sculptures, in stone and metal. One was constructed from sheets of coloured plastic. Wooden benches were conveniently placed to sit and contemplate each creation, but for now they were wet and deserted. A group of students was seated in earnest discussion in one corner of the room. They barely glanced as Chloe led the way to a couple of armchairs beside the window. No one was near. It wasn’t a bad place to talk.
Chloe Delaney tucked one leg up under her as she sat, loose limbed, graceful in spite of her grubbiness.
“Is this about Gerald Blaise and Professor Dyck?” she asked in a soft, low voice. “They’re both dead, right?”
“You were in a class this summer…” Izzy began, pulling a pen and notebook out of her pocket, ready to make notes.
“That’s right. Contemporary Canadian Theatre. I did it as an elective. Thought it might be interesting.”
“And was it?”
“Not really.” Chloe Delaney had a generous smile, perfect teeth. “Well, it was entertaining enough. He told us lots of stories about people he knew, fun, really. I knew a couple of the theatre students. They loved it. They knew who he was talking about. I thought he’d teach us more about the plays, but he didn’t.” She wasn’t reluctant to talk. She seemed eager to help.
“And Professor Dyck?”
“Harry? I hardly knew him. That’s the only theatre course I’ve ever taken.”
“But you went to a party at his house.”
“Oh, that.” Her nose squished as if she had smelled something bad. “The whole class was invited. It was kind of expected that we’d all show up. And there was a guy I liked that was going. Turned out he was taken.” She shrugged like it didn’t matter. It probably didn’t. A girl who looked like Chloe Delaney probably didn’t lack admirers.
“We were told that Gerald Blaise really liked you.”
“Can you believe it?” Chloe unwrapped her leg from under her and turned her large, dark eyes on Izzy. “Some of those old men just don’t know when to quit, do they?” she said. “He wouldn’t leave me alone. All smiles and a bit touchy, you know?” Her mouth puckered in distaste. “And his wife was there. She’s famous. I saw her watching through the kitchen door. It wasn’t like I was encouraging him. I had to signal to a friend to come rescue me. Went home not long after.”
“So, was that the end of it?
“No, it was not!” She leaned forward. Their heads were close. They could have been two girlfriends, confiding in one another. “He texted, later that night. Something about getting together after class for coffee. I wasn’t sure what to do. I mean, he was my prof, right? If I said no, would he give me a bad grade? I told one of my roommates. She said, go tell Harry. So I checked Professor Dyck’s office hours, he keeps them pasted on his door, and I stopped by on the Monday. Meantime, I got another text from Gerald. Had I received the first, was I okay? Just ignore him, my friend said, so I did.”
“You called him Gerald?”
“Sure. He told us to. In the arts, we call most of our instructors by their first names.”
“And Professor Dyck? What did he say when you told him?”
“He was just great!” Her wide smile brightened her face again. It made her look even younger than she was. She couldn’t be much over twenty, if that, a third of Gerald Blaise’s age. She could have been Izzy’s kid sister. “I showed him the texts. He said not to worry, he’d talk to Gerald and if I heard from him again I should tell him right away. My marks were okay so far, so he said that shouldn’t be a problem either. Told me to keep copies of my assignments and if it became an issue he would deal with it. But you know, it never was. Gerald stopped texting. He didn’t pay any more attention to me than he did to anyone else after that, and my marks were good. I got an A. That’s all I can tell you. Can I get back to class now?”
“Do you still have those texts?” Izzy asked. Of course she didn’t. It had happened a couple of months ago. The class had ended a week after. Chloe Delaney had got on with her life.
“And you didn’t see Professor Dyck again?”
“No. It’s so sad, isn’t it? What’s happened to him. All the theatre students are just devastated.”
“They liked him?”
“The ones that I know did. They don’t think much of the woman that’s taking over from him.”
“Who’s that?” Izzy asked, trying to pretend she wasn’t interested.
“Madeleine something. She’ll be in charge until they find a new department head and that could take forever. Look, I really should get back.” She stood up, shook hands again and walked away. One of the other students said, “Hi, Clo, how’re you doing?” as she passed them. They showed no interest at all in Izzy McBain.
Izzy splashed along a path, through the puddles. It was cold and damp outside, not much above zero, but the wind was at her back. Matt Stavros, her partner, was in class too, right now, in the Law building. He’d be done soon. She texted him. Meantime, she walked towards the college that housed the theatre department, her collar up. She could find out more about this Madeleine person while she was here. She passed students hurrying between classes. They paid her no attention.
The entrance to the theatre was at ground level, the door set back in a recess, stuffed with bunches of flowers, protected from the wind. There were photographs taped to the door itself, of Thom Dyck with his students, written notes, cards. A sign promoted a show to be presented in his honour. We’re Just Wild About Harry it was called. It seemed he had directed a student production and set it in the nineteen twenties. Shots from that show decorated the poster. Kids doing the Charleston, grinning. Thom Dyck looking happy. The students had ignored the police tape that blocked access to the doorway so they could lay their tributes. So did she. She ducked under it.
“Hey, you!” a voice hollered. She turned. “Oh, it’s you. Foxy Roxy’s sidekick,” said Cooper Jenkins. “Whatya doin’ here?”
She told him. She’d learned nothing much from Chloe Delaney and now she wanted to find out about a prof called Madeleine.
“Bissett,” he said. “She’s a bitch. I’d tell you but I’ve got a date coming up with your boss. I’ll fill her in.” And off he strode. Matt was walking towards her from the opposite direction. She waved, glad to see his friendly face.
“Let’s go grab a pizza,” she said, and tucked an arm through his.
Jem Sinclair had been taken into custody. He sat, looking mean and cool, in the chair that his younger brother had occupied on Sunday morning, a worker at his side, an older and tougher one than the one who had accompanied Zeke. Jem focused on a spot on the far wall, equidistant between Roxanne and Cooper Jenkins’ heads, not acknowledging their presence. He didn’t look much like his brother. Jem was slim, serious, his symmetrical features impassive, his lips and eyes arranged in narrow, horizontal lines. He was good-looking. Girls probably found him attractive. He’d been in trouble with the law since he was eleven and he understood the system well. He knew when he could keep silent and when he needed to reply. That wasn’t often.
He didn’t respond to questions about Gerald Blaise’s red Audi and how it had been driven to The Locks by his brother Zeke, or to the suggestion that, since he was good with knives, he might have carried out the murder himself. His eyes didn’t flicker when asked if he had taken Gerald’s condo keys from his key ring and helped himself to some items from his apartment. He sat, one foot placed casually across a knee, hands in his lap, apparently at ease, as though he was waiting for their questions to end. He reacted only once.
“You beat up on that pal of Zeke’s,” Coop said. “Cut him up while you were at it. Why was it so important to get him to shut up?”
“Nobody messes with my brother.” Jeremiah Sinclair turned a cold stare on him.
“Then tell us what you know about the Audi and its keys,” Roxanne said. “Do that, then we won’t have to talk to him again.”
Jem Sinclair’s black eyes turned to meet hers. “You heard me, bitch.” The threat was spoken quietly, intense with loathing. Roxanne almost flinched.
“Respect, Jeremiah,” Coop interjected. Jem Sinclair went back to studying the wall behind them. Roxanne had been threatened before. It came with the job and you didn’t back off in the face of it.
“Did you know the guy who owned the car?” she demanded. Jem said not a word. Roxanne gave up. Pursuing this line of questioning was getting them nowhere. They watched as Zeke’s handsome but dangerous brother was led out of the room, still ignoring them.
“I’m not going to find out about those missing keys,” she said to Coop. It was grey and wet outside, rain dripping off trees.
“Got time for a quick coffee?” He had reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, his hand cupped around the flame. “You can tell me what you’ve been up to and I’ll tell you all about Madeleine Bissett, the prof that had it in for Professor Dyck. The one that the university folks think might have wanted to get him out the way.”
It was almost time to pick up her son from her sister’s house, but she could text a message. Finn would be okay, he’d be happy playing with his cousin and their puppy and she knew her sister was home for the evening.
There was a coffee shop nearby. Cooper loaded his coffee with cream and sugar, as usual. She poured some tea. It came in a pretty ceramic pot, orange, to cheer up this wet day, said the server.
“Ladies first,” he said. She wasn’t going to argue. Budgie Torrance was still her main suspect, she told him. Budgie had the motive and she might have the means, especially if someone had collaborated with her.
“Not strong enough, is it?” Cooper Jenkins looked skeptical. “Why would anyone want to carry out a murder for her?”
“Money.” Rain had begun to drizzle down outside again.
“Maybe.” He wasn’t convinced. “There’s two murders. Why would she want the professor dead? He had nothing to do with Blaise wanting to leave her for another guy and take all his money with him.”
“Unless Professor Dyck knew something. Gerald Blaise liked to confide in him.” She lifted her cup. “Or maybe the two cases aren’t linked at all. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
“Not a chance.” Coop Jenkins reached into his pocket and pulled out some nicotine gum sticks. He unwrapped one and popped it in his mouth. “I don’t believe in those.”
“You just put out a cigarette,” she said.
“So? I like a smoke with my coffee.”
She drank some tea. If he wanted to kill himself with too much nicotine it wasn’t her problem.
“What about the missing art?” she asked. “Did Thomas Dyck collect paintings? Has anything been stolen from him?”
Cooper Jenkins slid his mug aside. He put his forearms on the table and leaned forward. He smelled of smoke.
“Nope,” he said. “Madeleine Bissett’s the one we need to check out. She’s a prof in the theatre department, was working there before Dyck, wanted the job that he got but she was too young back then, got passed over. And,” he paused for effect, “she hated Dyck’s guts. She’d been trying to get rid of him for years.”
“Says who?”
“Everybody. Staff. Other profs. Older students. They all knew. See, there was this smear campaign, about three years back. Someone said he’d been ‘consorting with boys.’ Younger students. Not young enough for it to be pedophilia, she couldn’t get him for that, but ‘unprofessional conduct.’” He drew quotation marks with his fingers. “There was an inquiry. Found nothing wrong. The students said so, the other profs. Dyck liked to hang out with the kids after rehearsals, stuff like that, that was all. Nothing to it, they said. Your guy stood up for him.”
“Gerald Blaise?”
“Yeah, him. Character witness. So there you have it. A connection.” He sat back again, pleased at having proved his point.
“How do you know it was her who started it? The smear campaign?”
“Because people said so.”
“And you’ve talked to her?”
“You bet.” He tucked the wad of gum into one cheek. It made his face even more lopsided. “Ambitious, you can tell. Dresses artsy but expensive. Lots of black. Shiny Doc Martens. Hair shaved on one side, you know the type. Has her buddies, ones that back her up, women like her. Feminists.” He watched her to see if she would react. Seemed to think it was funny when she didn’t. “They encourage her. Say she should have had the job all along. Publishes more, works harder, is smarter than poor old Dyck.”
“Where was she when the murders took place?”
“Home with her partner. Music prof. A guy. She’s not a lezzie.” He didn’t bother to see if Roxanne would respond this time. “She was with him the night that Blaise is supposed to have died. Tuesday morning, she had a meeting at eleven. Says she was in her office before, but not long. So, nothing great in the way of alibis.”
“Would she be capable of using a knife to kill someone?”
“Got a killer instinct,” Coop Jenkins drawled. “You can tell. And she’s fit. Works out. She swims. What do you know about Tamsin Longstaff?”
“Tamsin?” Roxanne lifted her cup. “Why are you asking?”
“This Bissett woman says that’s who we should be talking to. Says she had it in for both of them, Blaise and Dyck. She works at PTC, right?”
“She does,” said Roxanne Calloway. “Did Madeleine Bissett tell you why she thinks that?”
“She says Tamsin Longstaff was having it off with Gerald Blaise for years, then he got involved with Dyck a few years ago and broke it off with her, so she spread all these bad rumours about Dyck. Says she was the one who tried to get him fired, back then.”
“And now?”
“Well.” He spat the gum into its wrapper, folded it and dropped it into his coffee mug. “She says Longstaff’s the one who makes everything happen at the theatre. Blaise let her get on with it, he was dead lazy, so she was in charge and the board knew it. The place is all she really cares about these days, Madeleine says.” He pronounced her name syllable by syllable.
“How would she know that?”
“Oh, they’re good buddies. Go for drinks, girlie stuff, you know. So, she thinks, Bissett does, that Tamsin Longstaff found out that Blaise was going to quit on her and she lost it with him. Got mad enough at him to kill him. She’s pretty burned out, Bissett says. Works way too hard. Must have just cracked. But then,” Coop continued, “the board chose Thomas Dyck to be in charge of some committee or other after Blaise was gone. That pissed her off, so she got rid of him too.”
“Wow,” said Roxanne. “Good story. Conjecture, every bit of it.”
“Yeah. I need to check it out. At PTC. On your turf.” He grinned. “But that’s okay, right?” He wasn’t asking. He was telling.
“Let’s talk to her together,” she said. “I’ll see if she’s available tomorrow.”
“You do that.” Coop Jenkins stood. “But if we find out it’s her that did it, I get the credit, okay?”
Roxanne reached for her jacket. “And I need to talk to Madeleine Bissett too.”
“Be my guest,” he said. He waved goodbye as they reached the door. It was raining again. Roxanne pulled up her collar and hurried to her car.