Fevered dreams come in fragments; inner voices, other voices, my voice, all talking at the same time, switching subjects, arguing, agreeing, dismissing, never shutting up. I have a forlorn conviction that if they’d all be quiet for one minute I could make out what I was saying, but they won’t, and I can’t. I’m trying hard to explain something to a crowd of anonymous people, most of them faceless, the rest with dubious expressions, but I know I’m right, I’m laying it all out for them: you can’t deny this fact, you can’t dismiss this connection, surely to God you can see the sense in this explanation — my logic would be totally convincing if I understood a word of it.
When I wake up the sheets are damp. I feel weak and empty, but the fever has broken, my head is cool, and my arm doesn’t hurt. The idea of a substantial breakfast is appealing.
I shower with my left arm encased in a plastic bag secured at the elbow by an elastic band. After that I attend to what Dr. Dickerson says will be my morning and evening ritual for a while: packing the incision with strips of surgical gauze soaked in a sterile solution. The cut runs along the top of my left forearm which means I can take care of it myself, otherwise I’d need another pair of hands. Tamp the wet gauze down the length of the wound, cover it with a thick pad and wrap the whole thing with a Tensor bandage, not too tight, just enough to make the arm feel protected and more or less functional.
The Lobby Café isn’t open on Sunday, but even if it were, I’d still go to Connor’s for a full breakfast. Most mornings I’m happy with coffee and toast but once in a while I feel the need of something bountiful; something with home fries and peameal bacon and a pair of basted eggs. And toast. And jam.
I slip out the side door and head down the street feeling better than I have in days; physically shaky but unusually clear-headed. My outlook is … positive, no other word for it. Cheating mortality will do that to you. A jolt of euphoria generated by survival. I may not have been at death’s door, but I feel as though I’ve been walking the corridors.
Sunday breakfast at Connor’s is always well-attended; the tables are full and eggs are dancing in butter. I find a vacant stool at the counter. Duffy Connor, son of the original Connor, also named Duffy, passes me an almost-fresh copy of the Sunday Emblem, along with a mug of coffee. “Brown or white toast?” he asks.
“White,” I say. “I’m indulging myself this morning.”
Leo appears to have lost his newsworthiness. Page five devotes a few inches below the fold to a recap of Leo’s arrest and his possible arraignment and/or bail hearing tomorrow. The byline is Gloria Havers, Larry Gormé’s ambitious young competition on the city crime beat. Her writing style isn’t quite up to Larry’s standards, but she’s on top of things, even manages to allude to “unresolved out-of-province legal matters” that are being “looked into.” Nice.
Breakfast arrives. “Jam or marmalade?” Duffy asks.
“Both,” I say.
“You’re looking chipper,” Gritch says, climbing onto the next stool.
“You aren’t,” I say.
“Yeah, well, while you were enjoying a peaceful night’s repose I was composing your obit, just in case.”
“Did I come off okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Except for the part where I refer to you as ‘witless.’ Other than that, you sound like a swell guy.”
“That’s a comfort.”
“Your recuperative powers are the talk of the institute.”
“You eating?”
“Just coffee please and thank you, Duffy.” He checks the paper. “Nice to see we’re off the front page,” he says.
“I avoided yesterday’s,” I say. “Was it bad?”
“Your pal Gormé’s making a career out of this one.
He had pictures — a very suspicious-looking Bernard Goodier scuttling across Ultra’s lot — plus indirect references to missing limos, Dysart Motors, the brothers Starryk, one Farrel Newton, deceased — you name it, he wrote it up.” Gritch adds generous measures of sugar and cream to his coffee and gives it all a brisk stir. “I saved a copy for your scrapbook — ‘FUBARs I have known, and other major screwups,’ by J. Grundy. Madge Killian will give you a shelf in the archives.”
“I’m glad someone’s grasping the total picture,” I say. “It’s a busted mirror to me.”
“Lotsa pieces,” he agrees.
The eggs and extras having been efficiently attended to. I apply myself to the difficult choice between marmalade and raspberry jam. It’s a weighty decision; I’ve only got one piece of toast left. “In my dream last night I had it all figured out,” I say. “Woke up, couldn’t remember any of it.”
“You remember telling me Leo has a daughter named Rose who was married to Buffalo Bill?”
“Vaguely.”
“How about a daughter named ‘Roselyn’, married, for a time, to someone who called himself ‘Wild’ Bill?”
“Hiscox,” I say. Somehow I think I knew that. No doubt it was one of the things I was trying to explain to my faceless audience.
“That’s her. Brian tracked her down. She writes for the Star in Toronto. ‘Dear Roz’— advice-to-the-lovelorn, spice-up-your-sex-life, where to get the best manicure column.”
I’ve decided on raspberry. It was a hard choice. “Okay,” I say, “that’s new information. Doesn’t exactly uncomplicate things.”
“Must really hate her old man.”
“She still in the house?”
“Oh, yeah, one of our finer suites. She got a big advance from her publisher. Working title of the book-to-be is Desperado Daddy.”
“Feel like going to church?”
“I feel like pretending it’s my day off.”
“Go ahead,” I say. “I’m fine, I’ve got things to do.”
“Exercise restraint,” he says. He has a final sip of coffee and heads for the door. “It’s on your tab.”
“Least I can do,” I say.
Been a long time since I’ve set foot in one, but the scent is familiar; they must buy their incense from the same store the world over. Church always smells like church.
Mass is over. A young priest has come to the front door to say goodbye to a few lingering parishioners. He has sandy hair and earnest eyes. I missed his sermon but the departing faithful look like they got something out of it.
“Father Renfrew?”
“Yes?”
“Could I talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course.”
I lead him off the front steps. “My name is Joe Grundy,” I say. “I work at the Lord Douglas Hotel. I’m here about Raquel Mendez.”
“Oh, yes?”
“You are aware that she was killed last Tuesday night?”
“Who? Raquel Mendez? I’m not sure I know who that is.”
“My apologies. I was under the impression that she came to Mass here every Sunday.”
“Oh, my goodness, you don’t mean Miss Santiago? Raquel? Spanish accent, dark hair?”
“I’m sure that’s her,” I say. Santiago. Definitely not a coincidence. I should share that information with Weed. He might think better of me.
“I looked for her this morning,” he says. “Something happened to her?”
“She was killed Tuesday night.”
“Jesus have mercy on her soul,” he says.
“I’d like to arrange a funeral for her.”
“Certainly,” he says. “When?”
“I’m not sure, Father,” I say. “The police haven’t released the body yet. I should know by tomorrow.”
“That’s terrible,” he says. “Such a nice woman. What did you call her, Mendez?”
“How did she introduce herself to you?”
“Raquel Santiago. I believe she said she was a widow.”
“Okay. Sure,” I say. “Would you be able to do a service for her?”
“Of course. A private service, a Mass?”
“I’ll get back to you on all that,” I say. “I wanted to make sure this was the right place.”
“How was she killed?”
“She was murdered, Father.”
“Oh, my Lord,” he says. “That’s tragic. She seemed so happy lately.”
“You got to know her?”
“Yes, we spoke a number of times. She was concerned about a few things.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what they were.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I understand. It’s just that I’m trying to figure out why she, of all people, would be murdered. You knew she was going to have a baby?”
“Yes. She was very happy about that. Concerned about the circumstances, you understand, but very happy, looking forward to her wedding.”
“She was going to be married here?”
“There were things yet to work out, but the child’s father wanted very much to marry her, she said. She had a lovely engagement ring.”
She did? I guess I’m not all that observant. Sometimes she wore earrings, I remember that. Dangling ones. And there was a jewellery box in Leo’s bedroom. Rings and brooches and tangled chains. I put all that into a suitcase. Don’t remember a two-carat sparkler though. Big diamond. Big enough to impress a priest, or maybe it was her excitement that touched him. She was radiant, he said.
She did seem happy that last night, satisfied with her buffet, proud of how Leo looked, perhaps secretly pleased that Vivienne Saunders was about to be given a pink slip. I’m trying to remember the last time I’d seen her before then. Han Chuen Chu. I’m standing in my underwear being measured for a tux; I see her now, across the room, in a doorway, her eyes on Leo. She smiles and complements me on my new boxers, two shades of blue, a gift from Connie. Leo tells her not to ogle. They laugh. They were a couple. She had a ring to prove it.
For the second time in as many days I’m in Raquel’s apartment pawing through her privacy.
The two suitcases are on her bed where I left them. I open the smaller one; it’s the one with the makeup and personal things, her magazines and creams, her jewellery box. The box itself is scuffed pink velvet with brass fittings on the corners. The key is conveniently tied to a ribbon. There are a few nice things inside, at least they look nice to me — a double strand of pearls, a delicately carved cameo set in gold, earrings with red gems dangling — rubies, or maybe garnets, how would I know? No two-carat engagement ring. Could be a lot of reasons, maybe she was wearing it, maybe it’s with her personal effects at the morgue, maybe Leo has it in his safe. One thing is certain, if she was proud of it, she was taking care of it, so it should be somewhere logical. Unless it was stolen. Which would baffle me even more than I am right now.
What do I know for a fact? A real fact, not a wild guess. I know that Raquel died, in the kitchen, lying on the floor in her maid’s dress, in a pool of blood … no, that’s not quite right … it wasn’t a maid’s outfit. Her black uniform is lying on the end of the bed. Her comfortable shoes are on the floor. Her closet door is half-open and a red gown is draped across a chair beside a full-length mirror. I get a brief flash of her holding it up, deciding it wasn’t exactly right, that the black cocktail number was better. She was getting ready for a party.
I remember now, bending over her, seeing only blood and broken dishes, she was wearing an apron but there was lace on her skirt, and a slip or a petticoat under that, and she was wearing stockings, and shoes with heels. She’d changed her clothes while we were away at the dinner. Changed more than her clothes. I get the feeling that she was making a statement, about to announce a change in her status. She was going to welcome Leo and his guests back to the penthouse not as hired help, but as hostess.
And for that she would definitely have worn her engagement ring, the emblem of her new position.
She wasn’t only the presumptive Mrs. Leo Alexander (assuming a few legal and religious snags could be negotiated), she had a trump card, she was carrying Leo’s child. Raquel Mendez, née Santiago, was about to declare herself, to Vivienne Griese/Saunders, and to whomever else Leo brought home.
She was in earnest. She’d spoken to a priest, she was either going to get a divorce, or (less likely) an annulment or she was going to call herself a widow and go through a wedding ceremony no matter what the consequences.
Her child was going to be Leo Alexander’s legitimate offspring, whatever the cost to her.
That’s a lot of assumption and extrapolation from one fact. What was the fact again? Raquel was murdered.
And she had dressed for the occasion.
Got any other facts?
Yes. There was a dead man hanging on a piling.
So? Anything you can extrapolate from that? It’s a safe bet that Farrel Newton was related to Yarnell Newton, drowned off Cape Flattery while sailing with my boss. I know for a fact that Farrel was here that night. Close enough to get himself killed. Likely he was up here trying to rob the place with Dimi Starr. That’s not really a fact, merely an informed guess. Okay, fact number two — Raquel wasn’t the only one murdered on Tuesday night.
What else have you got?
I’ve got a seven-inch gash along my left pronator muscle. That’s a fact. And the man who gave it to me was in the vicinity the night of the murder because he tried to run me down with his bike. And his name is Santiago. Surely that means a relative. Brother? Nephew? Another long-forgotten child? I’ve just remembered something else. Racing back to the Douglas in a cab, looking out the rear window to see if we were being followed, a high-revving motorcycle passes us, exceeding the speed limit. Jesus? Don’t see too many dirt bikes zipping down the city streets late at night. He was headed in the same direction. And he knew where we were going.
But, big but, if he was following us from across town, then he wasn’t up here when it happened. Not much of a fact, but Raquel’s blood kin was definitely around that night. Somewhere. Sometime.
What else?
Not much. Everything else is murk. And voices in the back of my head saying haven’t you figured it out yet? It’s all there in front of you.
Perhaps. But I can’t see it. Two people got killed. One person is missing. Two people are locked up. One of them tried to kill me; the other one is my boss.
Did Leo know that Raquel was dressing for the late gathering? He said he was going to tell Vivienne that they’d had their last dance. Had he done that already?
When I escorted her to the cab she was in a sour mood. I’d assumed it was because of the limo mixup, or Connie joining the group, or because there wasn’t a larger contingent of her sort of people invited along for nightcaps. But maybe she’d already been given the sad news. Maybe Leo had used the time in Olive’s, the public conviviality, to tell her it was over. Maybe. I can ask.
Who knows; he might even tell me.
The rear of Raquel’s suite opens onto an enclosed patio. There is a high brick wall along the back. On the other side will be the hotel roof. No ladder out here. A chaise and an umbrella, and a table of plants. She liked African violets. A long tray of pots, all the colours. They probably need a drink. Bone dry. I find the watering can under the plant table and carry it in to the kitchen.
There’s a bottle with an eyedropper that says “African Violet Food” but I can’t make out the dosage in the fine print. I won’t feed them, I’ll just water them. Might as well admit it, I need reading glasses. Need more than that. Need to re-examine my prospects.
Given Leo’s battered emotional state and his precarious legal situation, it is possible that I’ll be looking for another job before long. Even if Leo doesn’t wind up in jail, things could change quickly. Lenny says the old man’s stretched too thin. I don’t know anything about finance. I know even less about Leo’s financial situation.
I have no idea how much he’s worth, what he owns, how much he owes. Leo is at a level where such questions are irrelevant, to me at least. Leo is one of the rich people. He smokes the best cigars, he drinks the best champagne, he wears the best soup and fish, he gives his sweetheart a diamond at least half the size of the Ritz, he has a yacht, modest by Lenny’s measure, but not too shabby. Rich people have cushions; what Morley Kline always referred to out of the side of his mouth, as “fuck-you money.” “Gotta have it kid,” he’d say. Whatever happens I’m sure Leo won’t suffer too much. And if things get really tight, he can always sell out to one of the big chains. He wouldn’t like it, but he might not have a choice. As far as I can project, that scenario ends with JG Security looking elsewhere for employment.
Then there are the Alexander sons, always looming, either or both of them waiting for Leo to stumble. What kind of position are they in? Not too solid, as far as I can see. Lenny’s overdrawn all down the line, at least according to him. I know almost nothing about the other brother except that Theo Alexander may be ripping off his own limousines. Doesn’t sound like the wheeling and dealing of a legitimate high roller, but what do I know? High finance. Not my area of expertise. Reminds me, I should open a bank account.
I give each of the violets a good soaking. Not sure what to do about them. Maybe Rachel Golden can take them home. Maybe I should set up a place in my little office. I’ll think about it. If the world as we know it is dimming and dying it won’t matter much where Raquel’s collection of African Violets winds up.
I have the code for Leo’s voice mail. I’ve been told to delete everything. There are thirty- seven messages waiting.
A lot to delete.
“Leo, it’s Frobe, I’m still getting the dickaround from Licences and Permits …” Delete.
“Mr. Alexander? This is Virginia Newton calling. I need to talk to you. I keep getting this machine. I think you should call me pretty soon.”
I jot down her number before erasing the message.
There are six others from her interspersed with calls from people Leo wouldn’t talk to on any occasion — newspapers, television stations … “This is Wendy McDonald at the CBC …” Delete.
“Mr. Alexander, this is Cameron Marti at the Globe and Mail …” Delete.
Et cetera, et cetera … delete, delete.
And a final one from “Virginia Newton again, Mr. Alexander. You know what happened to Farrel. I can’t get hold of Theodore. I need to have a few things straightened out. I’m not going to wait around like the last time.”
To delete or not to delete? I have her number. I can deliver the gist of the message even though I have no idea what it’s about, only that it sounds dire, possibly threatening, definitely urgent. Yarnell Newton, drowned off Cape Flattery, Farrel Newton, certainly related, Virginia Newton, likewise, and sounding impatient.
Delete.
Tomorrow, after Leo gets bail, which he no doubt will, and after he’s made his way back to the relative safety of the Douglas, I will have a thorough examination of all relevant issues. It will be necessary. Who are the Newtons for God’s sake? What’s Farrel’s connection to Theo? What’s Virginia’s connection to Leo? Oh, Lord, not that again. I should have been keeping score. By loose calculation I can call up six, eight, I’m not even trying. There seems to be an accepted truth among almost everyone I’ve bumped into that Leo is, or was, prior to Raquel, a “ladies man” or a “sultan” or a straight-ahead libertine.
I’m beginning to think that the critical mass of this situation isn’t a business deal gone sour; it sounds more and more like woman trouble. Or women trouble. Lots of women trouble.
Leo’s castle in the sky feels hollow and forlorn. The warmth and comfort I used to sense in these rooms is gone, gone with Raquel, gone with the affection and domesticity and feeling of completeness that was once here. On my first visit I remember getting a twinge of envy. Not that this was the kind of life that I wanted, but the sense that everything Leo needed in the world was in one place, safe and whole. A reminder, if I needed one, that such conditions are illusory, or temporary at best. Morely Kline reminded me regularly, “Nothing lasts forever, kid.”
Leo says the wall safe wasn’t touched. What else would they want? It all looks brimming to me, albeit somewhat disarrayed by various search parties — books, paintings, model boats, sculptures (tchotchkes, Louis Schurr would have called them), rugs, furniture, appliances, entertainments, crystal, liquor cabinet. Other than one knife missing from the wooden rack, everything looks in place. Leo’s office, off his bedroom, not large, not elaborate, only the basic machinery he needs to direct his interests, stay in touch — fax, phone (four lines), printer/scanner, paper shredder. The computer is missing, probably taken under a search warrant. I can’t possibly tell what discs are missing, or if they’d be significant. Leo hasn’t mentioned anything he was concerned about. Of course it could be something incriminating. How would I know? He keeps secrets; he has a lot of secrets to keep.
And the bedroom, and the bathrooms, and the closets, and the guest room, and the other guest room, and the exercise room, and all his other amenities and holdings — walk-in humidor, wine vault, pantry, freezers — anything a man would need to spend his years in comfort.
“I don’t care how long he lives, he’ll never smoke all those,” Gritch says.
“How do you get up here without a key?” I ask him.
“Lloyd’s key,” he says. “You’ll be happy to know he didn’t have a heart attack.”
“Thought you were taking the day off,” I say to Gritch.
“I did.”
“That usually means back the next day.”
“The wife’s sister came over,” says Gritch. “I overheard them talking about moving a few things.” He stands at the door to the cigar closet like a man viewing the Mona Lisa. “Jeeze, you think I could smoke one of these? He’s got like a thousand.”
“Go ahead.”
“Always wanted to try a Montecristo. Winston Churchill’s brand, or so I’ve been told.” He lights up. “So?” He puffs happily. “What are you looking for?”
“Something worth stealing, something worth risking your life for, worth falling off a building for, worth killing a —”
“And nothing’s missing.”
“Nothing. Except maybe a diamond ring that Dimi wouldn’t have known about anyway, especially if he wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”
“Wall safe?”
“Leo says it wasn’t touched.”
“That just means he didn’t get to it.”
Tyrannous off Cape Flattery swings away from the wall at a touch.
“Got the combination?” Gritch asks.
“Yep.”
“You’re kidding me. Why would he give that to you?”
“I don’t know, he trusts me.”
“Want to open it?”
“Not especially.”
“Part of your commission, isn’t it? Dig where you have to dig. If Dimi and the partner-who-thought-he-could-fly were up here to steal something, it was probably in there.”
“Where would they get the combination?”
“Be a pretty short list,” he says. “But I could see the brothers being in on it.”
The combination is an easy one to remember; it’s my professional record: 36 (wins) — 11 (losses) — 2 (draws). Leo set it that way so I’d never have to tax my memory circuits. “Strictly for emergencies, Joseph,” he told me over seven years ago. “In case I’m incapacitated. Or worse. A man who would stop a bullet for me can be trusted to see my wishes are carried out.”
“I can see something that would motivate an intrepid cat-burglar,” Gritch says. “There seems to be a whack of cash money in there.”
The only other thing in the safe, besides the ostentatious bales of currency, is a large manila envelope.
One of those inter-office envelopes, with a flap held closed by red string, a series of holes down the sides, and a column for the signatures of the people who received it and passed it on. There are nine signatures; three of them are Leo’s. Leo had this envelope returned to him each time it went out. The other six signatures are those of Lenny Alexander, Theodore Alexander, Winston Mikela, and again, Lenny Alexander, Theodore Alexander, and Winston Mikela. Whatever’s inside is family business.
The first thing that falls out is a stack of postcards held together with an alligator clip. Postcards. The notes on the back are brief. The first ones are printed in block letters, all caps. Later they switch to cursive script, becoming more fluid and confident as they progress.
Seven of them. The return address is Toronto. The stamps are standard Canadian postage but the cards are images of exotic places. Whoever sent them didn’t mail them from Tahiti, Honolulu, or Paris. Maybe they just collected postcards. I sort them by date. One each year for seven years.
DEAR DADDY
THANK YOU FOR THE XMAS PRESENTS.
I AM OK. I HOPE YOU ARE TO.
ROSE (1975)
DEAR DADDY
MERRY XMAS. DID YOU GET THE
PACKAGE? MISS YOU.
LOVE, ROSE (1976)
Daddy,
School is fine. I’m trying out for clarinet.
Rosie (1977)
Dad,
The coat is very nice. I’ll grow into it.
Happy New Year.
Rose (1978)
Merry Xmas and Happy New Year,
I played a solo in the concert. I’d like
to go to the Conservatory of Music if
that’s okay.
Love
Rosie (1979)
Dad,
Music isn’t for me I’m afraid. I’m doing
better in other areas. Thanks for
the money.
Rose (1981)
“She skipped a year.”
Happy New Year,
I’m getting my own place. I know you
won’t approve but I need to be on my
own for a while. I’ll send you a letter
when I know where I’ll be. Don’t worry.
Rose (1983)
“Skipped another one.”
That’s it for father-daughter communication, at least at this end. If she was nine when her mother was killed and she was placed in the care of others, then she was seventeen or eighteen when the postcards stopped. A bit young to have left home. And they’re sparse and not particularly warm, but for the first few years at least she stayed in touch. No doubt prompted by the folks who were looking after her.
“Anything else?”
“‘Last Will and Testament ~ To be opened in the event of my death’. It’s signed. That one I won’t be opening.
Marriage certificates, divorce papers. ‘Dorothy Linden.’
That would be Theo’s mother. Birth certificate, Theo.
Birth certificate and adoption papers, ‘Leon Malcolm Dineen, born to Vera Maud Dineen.’ Legal change-of-name to Leon Malcolm Alexander.”
“You’re making that up,” Gritch says.
“That’s what it says.”
“Mrs. Dineen is Lenny’s mom?”
“I’m just reading what’s on the papers. ‘Lorraine Cox.’ Marriage certificate, death certificate. Roselyn’s mother. Basic legal stuff. Private matters, but not secrets. Marriage, birth, death, divorce, adoption.”
“Anything in there worth stealing?”
“Winston Mikela probably has copies. Doesn’t look to me like Leo was running away from anything. He acknowledged Lenny’s paternity, legally adopted him. He was keeping some sort of contact with his daughter. Paying for her upkeep, sending money, at least until she was eighteen or so.”
“I vote the cash-as-motive ticket,” Gritch says.
“Leo’s emergency money,” I say. “A little cash on hand, he calls it.”
“Lock it up,” he says. “I just saw myself with a walk-in humidor.”
“Okay. They were after money,” I say. I put the postcards back into the envelope and close the steel door, spin the dial.
“They’d need inside information,” he says. “The combination. Or nitro, or a cordless drill.”
“That drill wouldn’t have scratched this thing,” I say. I swing the painting back into place. It looks like Leo’s grinning at me. “Inside information,” I repeat. “Very short list, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m still trying to get my head around Mrs. Dineen being Lenny’s mother,” he says.