Friday morning found the city encased in ice. The sun shone bright, making buildings and frosted grass sparkle; the air was crisp and cold and the roads were lethal. Crews were out doing their valiant best with sand and salt but cars kept sliding off highways and landing in ditches and radio stations advised which streets it was best to avoid due to collisions. Roxanne Calloway crawled her car to her sister’s driveway and dropped off her son. She watched him slide his way up the path to the house. A tow truck drove by, dragging an SUV with the front fender bashed in.
The clock on her dashboard said it was just after 8:30 and her appointment with Dr. Madeleine Bissett was not until ten, but she began to edge her way to the university. Normally, she would have driven there in fifteen minutes but on this morning it took over an hour of stop and go in an endless traffic queue spewing exhaust fumes. Then she had to drive all the way to the top level of the university parkade to find a vacant spot. Fortunately, the paths that criss-crossed campus had been sanded to allow for safe walking at a reasonable pace. She was almost on time when she spotted Izzy McBain, sitting on a picnic table near the front door of the theatre building, wearing a winter parka, hood up, thumbing at her phone with fingerless mitts.
“Relax,” said Izzy. “Bissett’s running late. I got here early. Dropped Matt off. He had a class.” Roxanne dropped onto the bench beside her. Izzy told her about Chloe Delaney, squinting into the sun. “I don’t think she knows much, but that Blaise guy sure fancied himself. She’s cute. And really young.”
“Let’s get inside,” said Roxanne. She wasn’t dressed as warmly as Izzy and she was cold. Inside, heat blasted down corridors as students scurried to class. The theatre department’s secretary had not quite recovered from the shock of Professor Dyck’s sudden death. She had a box of tissues to hand in case a memory caused tears to well up.
“Lovely man,” she said. “Respectful. Kind. Wonderful to work with and the students loved him.” She was more circumspect with regard to Dr. Bissett.
“I’m not surprised she’s late for your meeting,” she said. “Happens all the time, not just when the roads are bad.” Meantime, she unlocked Thom Dyck’s door for them. “The police, the other ones, have been through it all,” she said, obviously curious as to why the RCMP were now snooping around.
“We just need a quick look.” Roxanne had no intention of telling her anything.
Ident had removed any computer equipment that had been on Dyck’s desk. Two walls were stacked, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves, filled with neatly arranged books, binders, papers. A window ran the length of another, facing north, away from the sun’s glare.
“There’s Dr. Bissett coming now.” The secretary pointed at a figure in black approaching along a path, wearing a large hooded black cape, a long leather skirt and boots to match.
“Looks like a bat,” said Izzy McBain.
Before long, they were escorted to another office. The professor hung the cape up on a hanger behind the door and indicated two upright chairs that faced her desk. She didn’t smile. She was too cool for that. Now she took her seat, laced her fingers in front of her and sighed.
“Such a busy time,” she said. “So much to do in the wake of Dr. Dyck’s unfortunate demise.” And here she was having her precious time eaten up yet again by the police, she implied. She had a faint British accent, evident in precise enunciation and a lengthening of the vowel sounds. She had studied for her PhD in the U.K., she answered, preening at being asked. She spoke as if she inhabited a Victorian novel. “It is unfortunate, so unfortunate.” She herself had a full schedule and now there was a department to run, plus the student council had decided to present this benefit show in honour of poor Thomas. “One could not say no.”
“The city police are investigating,” she continued. “And you are RCMP? May I ask why you are involved?” She pronounced the word like an upper-class Englishwoman, with a diphthong.
“We are investigating the death of Gerald Blaise,” Roxanne explained.
“And?”
“You knew him?”
“I did. Of course. You think the two deaths are connected?” Like Frank Moran before her, Madeleine Bissett apparently preferred to ask the questions herself.
“Tamsin Longstaff is a friend of yours?” Roxanne asked back.
“Indeed, she is. Why do you wish to know about Tamsin?”
Izzy was looking from one to the other as the questions bounced back and forth, like watching a tennis game.
“She may have told you about how things were run at the theatre. About her relationship with Gerald Blaise,” Roxanne hinted. The professor unlaced her fingers and swivelled her chair so she could gaze out the window.
“I see,” she said, as she considered how she might reply. Roxanne and Izzy waited.
“Tamsin is a very dear friend,” she said, having made her decision. “Has been for many years. She does wonderful work at PTC, she is an absolute treasure. She is the person who keeps the place running, has done for years. Gerald Blaise was a bit of a loose cannon, if you ask me, but Tamsin was able to keep him under control. Ensure he didn’t make any rash decisions, didn’t blow the budget.”
“She was once romantically involved with Gerald. Wasn’t she?”
The lips pursed. Gimlet eyes turned on Roxanne. “I see. You’ve discovered quite a bit already, haven’t you?” she queried, not expecting an answer. Then she sighed again, as though having to tell this was a great burden.
“Tamsin adored Gerald,” she remarked. “His death has been very hard on her. You must be kind to her, officer.”
Roxanne remembered the tight-lipped, constrained expression on Tamsin Longstaff’s face when she had seen the dead body at the morgue. “He was married to Annabel Torrance and he had a lot of affairs. The one with Tamsin was long over,” she felt compelled to point out.
“Indeed. But she was still close to him.”
“How close?”
“Oh, nothing like that. You’re right, it was years ago. But their relationship had evolved.” There was that old pronunciation again. “She became his right arm. He depended on her. Theirs was a true and lasting partnership of a different kind.”
“And if Gerald Blaise was going to leave PTC, it was about to end.”
“But was he? If Tamsin thought that she never told me,” Madeleine Bissett cut in, too quickly. Roxanne didn’t believe her.
“She confided in you. Over a drink or two.”
“She did. Still does. And I hope she will continue to do so,” declared Dr. Bissett. “Of course, Tamsin is older than me. By quite a few years. She’s getting close to retirement age, over sixty, although she doesn’t look it. A change of leadership at the theatre is unfortunate at this point in her career. She expected Gerald to be there for another five years. By then she might have been ready to retire herself. She would have helped the board find a new artistic director, made sure the theatre was in good financial shape, and then bowed out, graciously. She had it all planned. She told me, more than once. Killing Gerald right now wouldn’t make any sense at all, so if that is what you are imagining, I suggest you put that idea aside. And Tamsin has quite enough on her plate trying to keep things going in the wake of that dreadful murder without you casting blame in her direction.”
Roxanne could see Izzy McBain supressing a smile as Dr. Bissett continued to talk down to them in her affected accent. Madeleine Bissett might think of herself as knowledgeable and very smart but she didn’t seem to realize that she had just incriminated her friend, lent credence to the theory that Tamsin could have reacted badly on hearing that Gerald Blaise did intend to leave his job, wrecking her own plan for the final few years of her career.
“Is she for real?” asked Izzy as they walked back across campus afterwards. Where the sun hit the ground, the ice had melted. Where it hadn’t, the grass was still crusted with frost. “What a drama queen. Who does she think she is? Helen Mirren? Did you see those pictures she had on her wall?” There had been a large abstract painting hanging behind Madeleine Bissett’s head. It was not the only one. Roxanne had counted three others. They were smaller but also darkly dramatic. “One of them looks a bit like one of Annie Chan’s.” Roxanne had forgotten that Izzy had visited Annie’s house in the Interlake and had seen some of her work.
“You’re right,” said Roxanne. “And if she buys paintings, she had something in common with Gerald Blaise. But right now, I’m more interested in what she knows about Tamsin Longstaff.”
“So how come we’re going to talk to Margo Wishart again?”
They were walking towards the Fine Arts building. Margo had said she’d be free after class, and there had been no message to say that the icy highway had deterred her from driving into Winnipeg that morning.
“Because we’re here, and she’s been checking stuff out. About all that art Gerald had.” Roxanne’s phone buzzed. Tracy Ross. “I need to take this. I’ll catch up to you.” She watched Izzy stride away, her ponytail bobbing behind her. She stepped off the path to allow a clutch of students to pass but stayed in a patch of sunlight.
“You wanna talk to me?” The voice at the other end of the phone was loud, with a trace of an Anishinaabe accent.
“I do,” said Roxanne. “Is Zeke still with you?”
“Yep. You talked to him already.” The answer was wary.
“I have. I just have a question…”
“Just one?” Zeke’s aunt interrupted her.
“I think so.”
“You can ask it on the phone? I don’t need to bring him in to see you?”
“Can I talk to him now?” Roxanne asked.
“Hey, Zeke,” she heard Tracy Ross call, “that woman from the RCMP wants to ask you something.” Then she was back on the line. “Just one question. Okay? That’s all.”
“That should be it.”
“Better be. I’ll be listening.” Tracy Ross, Mama Bear, wasn’t at all scared of some woman sergeant from the RCMP.
“Hi.” Zeke sounded reluctant to talk.
“You remember the keys you said you found in the red Audi?”
“Yeah.”
“The ones you said you threw in the river?”
“Right.” He sounded less wary, now that he had some idea of why she was calling. “I got rid of them, told ya already.”
“Was there just the car key on the ring?” she asked. “Or were there house keys as well?”
There was silence at the other end. She could picture Zeke Sinclair screwing up his face, trying to figure out why she wanted to know.
“Don’t think so,” he finally said.
“So there was just a car key?”
“It was one of those fancy ones.” She could hear the shrug in his voice. Telling her this didn’t matter much to him. “A big one, the kind that has buttons you push and the key pops out. There was a little key as well. A yellow one.”
“The kind you’d open a padlock with?” she prompted. “Or a mailbox?”
“Yeah, sure, like that. And a leather tag, for that Volkswagen place in St. James.”
“Nothing else? You’re sure?”
“Maybe another key, but not for a house,” said Zeke Sinclair. “We done?”
“You sure?”
“I said so, didn’t I?” She could hear an edge creeping into his voice.
“Go eat your Cheerios,” she heard Tracy say. Zeke must be having a late breakfast. “You got what you wanted?” snapped the aunt’s voice again.
“He’s been very helpful,” said Roxanne. “Tell him thanks from me.”
“The cop says thanks,” she heard Tracy say loudly. “You want to talk to him again, you call me first. Right?” And she hung up.
Roxanne walked along the path, pocketing her phone. Zeke was probably telling the truth. The car keys were gone. A padlock key could be for many things. A storage locker, a box, a door, anywhere. And had Gerald kept the missing house keys on the same ring? It wouldn’t be difficult to find out. Budgie Torrance would know. So would Tamsin Longstaff. If they were gone, the killer probably had taken them.
Roxanne received a warmer reception than Izzy had done the previous day at the front desk of the Fine Arts building. Perhaps it was because she looked less like a student, was older, appeared more professional in her tailored black wool coat, with her cap of neatly trimmed red hair. She displayed her ID and was greeted with a thin smile. Dr. Wishart was summoned and soon led her upstairs. Her office was tiny.
“I’m a mere sessional,” she said. “I share it. Mine is the tidy side.” One half of the desk was littered with papers, books. On the other was a MacBook, a paper notebook, some written notes and a telephone. A fabric hanging was suspended behind Margo’s side, a nude drawing in black ink on the other. There were two bookshelves, one Margo’s, the other her colleague’s. On top of the neat one there was an espresso maker, cups and a carton of milk. Izzy sat in the only visitor chair, drinking a latte.
“I made one for you. Margo showed me how.” She pointed at a cup.
“Aren’t those machines great? Shall I get you one as a wedding present?” Margo stopped on her way into the hallway to fetch another chair.
“We’re not getting married,” said Izzy. “What’s my mom been saying now?”
“She talks to Roberta,” Margo laughed. “She’s telling people it’ll maybe be this summer.”
“She wishes.” Izzy drank her coffee. “The house is going up fast,” she called after Margo’s disappearing back. “She expects we’ll move in.”
“You won’t?” Roxanne had expected that Izzy and Matt would stay in town while he worked on his degree, but the new house in the Interlake was only an hour’s commute away.
“Haven’t decided yet.” Izzy shrugged.
Margo’s desk lay along one wall. She returned and passed Roxanne a chair, then sat on the same side as her guests. They formed a cozy trio as they sipped their lattes, but Roxanne hadn’t come here to listen to neighbourhood gossip. She pointed to the notes on Margo’s side of the desk.
“What have you found?” she asked.
Margo was happy to tell. She had had an interesting evening, the night before, talking to Maxwell Fergusson in Toronto while the lake outside her window roared and surged and the rain that battered her windows turned to sleet, then froze.
“He says the collection that Gerald’s aunt and uncle amassed was worth millions. They were buying art back in the fifties and sixties, for quite reasonable prices. Their house was full of it when Mrs. Balfour died. It had all accumulated in value. They donated most of it to the Art Gallery of Ontario.”
“They gave it away?” Izzy looked incredulous.
“Mrs. Balfour’s estate would have got a tax break for the donation,” Margo explained. “But yes. They believed it belonged to the nation. They were arts philanthropists. Other people have done the same. Gerald got to choose six pieces for himself, the AGO took the bulk of it and the rest, the pieces neither of them wanted, were sold. Gerald got the money.” She smiled. “Guess what else Maxwell told me.”
She wrapped the scarf she wore around her neck a little closer and crossed one leg over the other, as if she was hugging the secret to herself. Then she announced, “The Balfours had a daughter. Emilia. Their only child. Ran away, back in the sixties. Maxwell was only a child at the time but his father told him all about it. How Mr. Balfour followed his daughter and tried to get her to come home but she wouldn’t. She was living in some kind of commune in B.C. Wouldn’t leave. After a while, the Balfours wrote her off. They were proud, Maxwell says. Presbyterian. Upright citizens. They disinherited her. And Gerald became their heir instead. They paid for him to go to a good school, supported him when he wanted to go to theatre school. Introduced him to all the right people. They were wealthy art patrons so they knew everybody.”
“Did the daughter ever come back?”
“She did. After the old lady died. Maxwell says he saw her at the funeral, in Toronto. She was thin and frail. Must have been about sixty but looked much older.”
“She didn’t challenge the will?”
“He says he doesn’t think so. It might not have been worth it. She wouldn’t have stood a chance. The whole Toronto establishment would have ganged up against her. They didn’t want to lose that collection for the AGO. And Gerald’s lawyers were the best. She disappeared off where she came from and was never heard of again. The gallery got its collection. Maxwell Fergusson says he made some money off the art that was sold and now he’s hoping Budgie will want to offload some of what Gerald owned. He thinks he could get three hundred thousand for the Kurelek alone.” Margo smiled, remembering it. “It’s a beauty. He says those six older pieces, the ones Gerald inherited, are probably worth a million between them. And the newer ones, the ones he bought himself, are good for a few hundred thousand more.”
“Gerald was even richer than we thought,” said Roxanne.
“Oh, yes. Maxwell says that the old house, the one the Balfours lived in, was full of antiques. They were all the rage ten years ago. They fetched a good price too. And Budgie got all of Mrs. Balfour’s jewellery. He said she had a lot of nice pieces.”
Roxanne and Izzy exchanged a look. They might be in the jewellery box in Budgie’s safe. Izzy had put down her mug and was making notes.
“What I don’t understand,” said Margo, “is why the person who stole the Chan and the other two paintings chose those ones, when they could have taken one that was worth four or five times as much.”
“How valuable were they?”
“The Chan was worth lots but the other two? About five thousand each.”
Roxanne checked the time. She needed to go. It was past one already and Tamsin Longstaff had said she could talk with her and Cooper Jenkins at two. It was one of those days, meeting after meeting, but she didn’t want to be late for that one.
“Talk to that accountant that Gerald Blaise used,” she said to Izzy as they hurried towards their cars. “Find out how much he was really worth. Then see if you can find out what happened to Emilia Balfour. Maybe she had kids of her own and Gerald Blaise has some cousins out there.”