Coop Jenkins still wore the ball cap and his eye was purple and swollen. He hadn’t made it past the PTC lobby door. All the city police knew he was off sick for now. He’d tried to talk them into letting him in so he could go find Roxanne (and have a look at what was going on while he was about it), but they shook their heads (“Sorry, Sarge”) and told him to stay where he was.
He waved a new set of car keys when he saw Roxanne coming his way. “I scored you an Escape this time,” he said. He’d stopped in at the RCMP HQ on his way downtown. “Told them you’d sent me to get it ’cause you were so busy, that you were working on another murder. They didn’t argue when they saw the state the Focus was in. Told them how I’d done you a favour and lent you my truck. Guy said he’d need to text you and verify. You didn’t reply so I told him to send one to that chick that works for you.”
“Izzy McBain?”
“Yeah, her. She played right along. Said they should let me have it. Called me right after. Thought it was funny and sez to tell you she’s on her way in from the boonies. Boy. Some of you Mounties sure are dumb. It was that easy. That guy at the carpool hadn’t a clue. He was going to give you another Focus but I talked him into an upgrade. You’ll like it. It’s red. You should check your messages more often.”
“It’s been a busy morning, Coop. You drove?”
“Sure!” he replied, rocking back and forth on his heels, his eyes roaming the lobby behind him. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“How come you knew where I was? And that there was another body?” She steered him towards a table in an empty café off the lobby. It was dark and quiet there, and away from the action happening around them.
“Soon as I read that message you sent earlier about being too busy to drop off the truck, I started phoning around. I’ve got pals. Hey, isn’t that Moran that just walked in?” Frank Moran didn’t see them. He went straight upstairs to the offices.
“So, it’s the Budgie bird that’s dead?” He’d been listening while he waited for Roxanne to appear.
“You’re off sick, Coop. It’s not your case right now.”
“Just asking.” Coop put his cap on the table and rubbed his head. He looked like he was feeling better, even with a half-shut eye. It wouldn’t hurt to let him know the basics. She described the scene in the rehearsal hall.
“You think she did herself in?” he asked.
“Don’t know. Dawes sure hopes she did.”
“Well, he would. Lazy kinda guy, Dawes.”
“There’s still the business of the missing artwork. Where is it and who took it? Budgie had no reason to steal it. It was going to be hers anyway. She didn’t even want it. So, I need to find out if there’s another piece missing. If we have a killer who takes souvenirs. That would prove that this definitely is another murder.”
Nell Bronson began shepherding actors into the lobby. She’d brought along several boxes of tissues. There was hugging, quiet talk and blowing of noses.
“There you are.” Dr. Abdur Farooq stood in the theatre doorway, watched what was happening in the lobby, then noticed them in their quiet corner. “Cooper,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to be off sick for now?”
“Just hanging out with Foxy here,” said Coop.
“How’s that head?”
The corner of Coop’s mouth lifted. “Just fine,” he lied.
“Go home, Cooper,” said Roxanne. “You can’t do anything here right now. Thanks for getting me the car.”
“Liked my truck did you?” He was stalling, reluctant to go.
“My boy did,” she smiled. “Not a city car though, is it? Maybe you’re really a country cop at heart, Cooper. Maybe you joined the wrong force.”
“Never,” he retorted. “See ya.” And, finally, he loped off.
“Cops like him don’t know what to do with themselves when they’re off work.” Abdur watched him saunter out. The uniformed city policeman who manned the door opened it for him, nodded to him as he walked through.
“Will he get reprimanded?”
“For grabbing Tamsin Longstaff’s arm?” Abdur took the seat that Coop had vacated. “Maybe. Word is that he’s a bit of a loose cannon. But he’s got to be close to retirement. They’ll be rid of him soon enough.”
And he’s a con, she thought, thinking how Coop had managed to convince the RCMP carpool to change the car for him. She put the keys away in her pocket and the thought of Coop Jenkins with them.
“So, Abdur. Tell me what you’ve got so far.”
“Not much. Death happened between eight and ten last night. Single wound. You’ve seen it. No obvious signs of any other injury, but I’ll know more after the autopsy. It’s been made to look like it’s self-inflicted, but I doubt it.”
“Really?”
“Well.” He stretched out his long legs. “There should be more blood. Not much, but there’s hardly any on the hand that she’s supposed to have stabbed herself with and it’s more smeared than spattered. And I’d have expected more spray on the sleeve of that silk shirt she’s wearing. If she’d done it where she was found, it should be there, but there’s no sign of it. If someone else stabbed her she’d have fallen, then the body was rearranged. There should be some blood on the floor.”
“It could have been cleaned up.”
“That flooring is wood. Porous. If it’s there, the Ident guys will find it. She might have been killed elsewhere. Who else could get into her condo?”
“Her PA,” said Roxanne, “but she was out all night. With friends. She was dropped off just after eleven.” She stopped, momentarily distracted. The dark figure of Dr. Madeleine Bissett had drifted into the lobby. Like Abdur before her, she was watching the actors. Chairs were being placed in a large circle and the cast and crew were finding seats. She glanced Roxanne’s way, raised a hand in unsmiling acknowledgement and disappeared upstairs, like the board chair before her.
“Budgie could have let someone in,” Abdur continued, oblivious to what she had seen. “And that person could have used her keys to bring the body over here, set it up to look like suicide, then went back and cleaned up.”
“You’re thinking like an investigator, Abdur.”
“Comes from working with people like you, Roxanne.” He’d told her all he knew for now. He’d try to get the autopsy done tomorrow and let her know if he found anything else. They got up to leave.
The actors were now taking turns to speak, telling stories and anecdotes about working with Budgie, doing their own private grieving before they got back to rehearsing the play. Jazz Elliot beetled down the stairs and through the door just as Roxanne reached it.
“God, they’ve started without me,” she said and scurried over to join her tribe.
Upstairs, Frank Moran and Madeleine Bissett were standing in the doorway to Gerald Blaise’s old study. Moran beckoned.
“You’ve met Dr. Bissett? She’s going to be joining the board, to replace Thomas Dyck. I think she’s going to be quite an asset.” Moran looked at Bissett from under his hooded eyelids and smiled. She mustered a quiver of her lip.
“Did you need to talk to Alison Beck?” asked Roxanne. She expected a meeting with Alison was on Moran’s agenda. “Can I have a word with her first?”
“Alison?” asked Madeleine Bissett.
“You know her?”
“Of course,” said the professor, her black cloak draped on one shoulder. “Her partner, Greg, is the local theatre critic and an accomplished playwright. It’s a small community, Sergeant. We all know one another. Is there anything else I can help you with?” There wasn’t, for now.
Roxanne found Alison Beck seated at her desk, tallying up figures on a calculator.
“You’ve been here since they found the body,” she said. Alison nodded and reluctantly stopped tapping numbers.
“I have. There’s so much to do. So much to figure out. Do we cancel the production or go ahead? If we do, who do we get to replace Budgie? I need to know what all the options are and the costs involved so that the board can make the right decisions. And it is all so sad…”
“You believe it’s suicide?”
“Of course it is, Sergeant!” Alison Beck appeared surprised that Roxanne would think otherwise. “You saw that body? How it was arranged to look like Juliet? Budgie died in the rehearsal hall, the place where she was most at home. And the quotation, from the Scottish play? It’s so….” She searched for the word. “Apt,” she finally came up with. “They say that Lady Macbeth died by suicide too.”
“Why would she do it?” asked Roxanne.
“Budgie was a born performer, Sergeant. She could act like things were fine, but they were not. She was a mess. Ask Jazz or Nell Bronson. They’ll tell you how hard it was to get her to concentrate on the job. That’s why we had to get Marla to stay over at her place and help her out. If she murdered Gerald and Thom, that explains the state she was in.”
“You thought it was obvious that Tamsin Longstaff was the killer and she wasn’t,” said Roxanne. “Could you have it wrong this time too?”
“Don’t think so,” said Alison. “Think about it. And then is heard no more. That is about endings. Death. It’s her, saying farewell.”
“Where were you yesterday evening?”
Alison blinked. “Why do you ask?”
“Just answer the question, please.”
“Greg and I went to listen to a band in a café. Lots of people were there. Marla Caplan was at our table.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Same time as Marla. It was almost eleven.” Alison Beck had an alibi. She could have had nothing to do with Budgie Torrance’s death the night before.
“I’ve been told that you collect art?”
“We do. Greg and I like to support local artists. We often go to gallery openings. Sometimes we pick up a piece that we like.” Alison sighed. “Small things, ones we can afford.”
“So did Gerald Blaise.”
Alison shrugged. “Well, we weren’t in his league. We can’t pay what Gerald could. I did like to talk about art with him, though. I miss Gerald very much.” She leaned her chin on her hand. “His cremation’s tomorrow and the celebration of his life happens next Monday, and now Budgie’s gone and died I suppose I’ll have to help take care of that too. The Monday event’s going to be huge, and now it maybe needs to include Budgie.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. They looked heavy. Roxanne had seen that look of exhaustion before, in the eyes of the woman that Alison Beck had replaced.
“There are no relatives?”
“No. They were both only children and they didn’t have any of their own. Gerald might have wanted a child. He’d have been a good dad. His cats were like his kids. But Budgie wasn’t exactly maternal.”
“You didn’t like her much, did you?” Roxanne said.
“Budgie? She was a handful to work with. Such a diva. But brilliant onstage. I saw her in Medea years ago. Unforgettable. She could be fearless, you know. I guess that’s why she’s done this. She must have regretted killing Gerald.”
Over at Budgie’s apartment, Izzy McBain was checking the paintings and statues against the photographs that Margo had sent. They were panoramic shots of each wall. Nothing had changed. Everything was in its place.
Two Ident technicians were still at work searching for signs that a disturbance might have occurred. They had sprayed Luminol in the kitchen to see if any blood spots would show. They found some traces along the edge of the vinyl floor, but they looked old. They might not be Budgie’s. Sometimes a slab of meat fell off a counter. They took samples. They’d find out later.
Izzy went into Budgie’s room, plastic covers on her feet, extra latex gloves in her pocket. She smelled perfume. There was makeup on the dressing table, bottles of foundation, lipstick, eyeliner. A brush and hairspray. A hand mirror. Some jewellery, including big hoop earrings. It was all scattered around haphazardly, as though Budgie had just walked away.
The shawl that covered the safe in the corner had been removed. Its key had been among those they had found near Budgie’s body. Investment papers and a will were inside. Budgie left everything to Gerald, and if he predeceased her, to the Actors’ Fund of Canada. There was not a single personal bequest. Her only relative had been Gerald. Like him, she had named their accountant, Irma Friedrich, as her executor. Irma was to be reimbursed handsomely for her services.
Izzy retrieved the jewellery box from the safe, carried it over to Budgie’s desk and opened it. The items it contained were wrapped in soft cloth or individually boxed. There were green earrings, a pendant with a blue stone hanging from it, an opal set in a band of wide silver, a string of perfect pearls. Apart from it, all the settings were contemporary. Were these real gems, ones Budgie had inherited from Gerald’s old aunt and had had redesigned into settings that were more to her taste?
A technician spoke behind her, startling her. “There’s someone here, come to collect her things.” Marla hovered at the door. She pointed towards Gerald’s study. “I’ve got stuff in there,” she said. “My iPad. Clothes. Can I go get them?”
“Sure,” said Izzy, “as long as you don’t mind me watching, and you’ll have to sign for them.”
Marla was given foot coverings and gloves. She stuffed some clothes, toiletries, the iPad, into a knapsack. She was going over to PTC when she was done, she said. Alison Beck was run off her feet. Marla was needed in the office after all. She balled up the sheets from the temporary bed she had used, went through to the utility room and tossed them into a laundry basket.
“I have some money that belonged to Budgie.” Marla’s salary was being paid by PTC but Budgie had written her a cheque to cover expenses. Dry cleaning bills. Groceries. There was almost three hundred dollars left.
“Put them in an envelope,” said Izzy. “I’ll write you a receipt.”
“Would you? That’s great.” She went back into Budgie’s study, took an envelope from the desk drawer and stuffed in the cash.
“Do you think she killed herself?” asked Izzy, taking it from her.
“Well. She could get pretty sad sometimes.” Marla sat on the desk chair. “The first night I was here she sat and cried in her room, sitting right there at her dressing table, great big tears rolling down her face. She missed Gerald so much, she said, kept imagining she could see him in the apartment, in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables or sitting reading in his big chair. ‘It’s like this apartment’s haunted,’ she said. That’s when I decided to get her to a doctor. There’s a walk-in clinic a couple of blocks away. She got a prescription for Lorazepam. That helped.”
The bottle of drugs had been found in the bathroom medicine cabinet and bagged. Budgie had only taken the prescribed dose. “I didn’t see her much the day she died.”
Izzy sat in the big wicker chair, took out her phone and emailed Marla a receipt while she listened.
“The last time was in the morning, just before eleven. I got out the elevator here, at the ground floor, and she was going down to the parking level to get her car. She was quite cheerful. But Budgie had huge mood swings. When she was happy she was great, she could be really good fun, but when she was down she was miserable.”
“Not easy to work with?”
A wry smile passed across Marla’s face. “Things were never dull when Budgie was around,” she said. She looked at the open jewellery box on the desk in front of her. She fingered the contents.
“Was she wearing her big diamond ring when you found her?” she asked. “She had it on yesterday.”
“What big diamond?”
“It’s the most valuable piece she had. She showed it to me. It had been an antique but Budgie had it made into this big, dramatic piece, two shades of gold, old yellow and a lighter one.”
“We’ll look,” said Izzy.
As soon as Marla was gone, she and the technician listed the contents of the jewellery box and the items scattered on the top of the dressing table. There was a drawer that contained boxes of costume jewellery, rings, necklaces, brooches. They opened and closed them all. There was no sign at all of the expensive designer ring that Budgie had worn the day before, when she had driven to Cullen Village to eat Thanksgiving lunch.