Weed is wearing a tie that boasts, I swear, the Little Mermaid swimming with a lobster.
“My granddaughter,” he says. “I promised I’d wear it.”
“Goes with the turquoise jacket,” I say. “Nautical.”
The day is perfect, the sky is blue, the water is bluer. We’re portside on the promenade deck, watching the mainland slip behind.
“Pazzano’s nose is out of joint that you found the bad guy while he was eating lasagna,” Weed says.
“Can’t please everybody.”
“He asks how your arm is coming along.”
“Tell him if he’s really that desperate for a boxing lesson, I’ll introduce him to a mechanic I know.”
We count gulls and cormorants for a while.
“How much did you get from Dimi?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “The perfect crime,” he says. “Poor sap. Except for his idiot accomplice tagging along.”
“You can’t charge him with Raquel’s murder.” It’s not a question.
“I’ve got no murder weapon, no motive, and with all the other heavy crap Dimi’s facing, he won’t make a deal on that one. She was dead when he got there. All that wreckage and dirt and broken glass came after. When he slipped in the blood, it was already starting to dry. Lab guys say she’d been dead for a while.”
“Wrong place, wrong time.”
“That’s his story and he’s sticking to it. He tells his idiot partner to wait outside. He sneaks in, stumbles over the body, knocks down a bunch of platters. He’s covered in blood and sandwiches, looks up to see his accomplice, who panics and runs for the door. Dimi can’t let him do that, he’ll set off alarms, so he grabs Farrel and wrestles him back across the room, smashes the French doors, gets him out onto the patio. Farrel’s screaming, he won’t shut up, he tears loose and falls against the railing and when Dimi tries to grab him he loses his balance and goes over.” Weed shakes his head. “Or that’s the story we’re going with this time around.”
“You buying it?”
“It sounds loony enough to be true. Might be hard to prove he deliberately tossed his pal overboard, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the Crown went after First Degree for this one anyway, homicide during the commission of a felony.”
“How about Dimi’s other accomplice?”
“The gorgeous Ms. Duhamel? Ha! She insists she had nothing to do with the scheme, or with Mr. Starr. She says Starr had developed an unhealthy obsession for her. Says he must have got the inside info, combinations, and security codes et cetera by perfidious means.” He laughs. “She’s almost credible.”
“And Theo?”
“Theodore Alexander denies that there ever existed any inappropriate relationship between he and Ms. Duhamel. He is less credible but probably not complicit. However, I understand his wife has retained a divorce lawyer.”
“No happy endings.”
“Not today, anyway.” He turns from the rail and we start promenading aft.
The Alexander Library has three cars in the lot. Madge Killian’s Austin Healey Sprite is parked to the right of the space reserved for the man who has never visited.
“Right there,” I say, pointing at Leo’s name. “He won’t be showing up.”
Madge Killian is conducting a tour. Two couples. The older man and woman have the glowing complexions and crinkled eyes of yachting enthusiasts, the pretty girl and handsome lad accompanying them are holding hands. The little group dutifully follows Madge from station to station, pausing at photos and artifacts and paying close attention to her running commentary. Weed and I stop in the foyer and keep our voices low and our presence circumspect.
“Let’s wait ’til she’s done with that lot,” Weed says.
“Could be a while,” I say. “They haven’t made it past the trophies yet.”
Weed goes to the visitor’s book and signs in. I do the same. It seems fitting somehow.
“Now isn’t this a lovely surprise,” Madge says, clapping her hands together as she gives us the once-over. “Two of my favourite men showing up unannounced on the same day.”
“We tried the house first,” I say. “Took a chance you’d be here.”
“Some nice people from Seattle,” she says. “They were supposed to come last week but couldn’t make it.”
“You go ahead and show them around,” says Weed. “We’re in no rush.”
“They’ll do fine on their own,” she says. “The older couple are the girl’s parents. They’re trying to get their prospective son-in-law hooked on sailing.”
“If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll take the bait,” says Weed.
“Why don’t you sit in my office for a minute?” she says. “I’ll be right back.” She bustles off to attend to her guests. She’s wearing heels. She’s wearing a skirt and jacket and pearls. She’s wearing a diamond ring.
Weed takes the nice leather club chair across from Madge’s desk, leaving the straight-backed wooden one for me. It reminds me of a classroom.
“I’m showing them a movie,” Madge says, coming back. She plops herself on the other side of the desk and settles in like a broody hen. “It’s quite exciting. Should keep them occupied for twenty minutes or so.”
Weed looks in my direction.
“Madge, we have a tape of your little Sprite exiting the parking garage very early Wednesday morning.”
“Of course you have,” she says brightly.
“And a security tape shows you on the sixth floor at 02:34, coming in through the emergency exit.”
“I was so sure you were going to catch me on the stairs,” she says. “Of course, I didn’t know it was you at the time.” She giggles like a little girl. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Joseph,” she says. “I knew this could happen sooner or later. Too many connections could be made. It wasn’t planned. It was impulsive.”
“You can have a lawyer, Madge,” Weed says. “You don’t have to say any more.”
“I know my rights, Detective Weed. Maybe we can do without a big trial. I wouldn’t want to put Leo through more pain.”
“I don’t think you can,” I say.
“What about the first one?” Weed asks. “On the ranch?”
She nods at the memory. “So long ago.” Her eyebrows pull together. “Impulse again,” she says. “Not planned. Although I’ll admit I was never fond of the woman. One time she threatened to make Leo fire me. She said she could do it.”
Weed frowns. “So you came back early? That counts as planning.”
“It was an accident that I came back,” she says. “Leo and one of the corporate wives disappeared. He was a terrible roué in those days. I didn’t really mind. I turned a blind eye. Those affairs never amounted to anything anyway. But I didn’t care to wait around so I checked out of the hotel and drove back. I’ve always preferred having my own transportation. It’s liberating.” She gets up briskly and takes a stack of file folders from the top of a cabinet. “Now these,” she says, placing them squarely on the desk, “are all the most important papers. I insist that they be given to Leo’s lawyer for safekeeping until he can find someone to replace me.” She divides the stack into two separate piles. “Now this one is the complete inventory, and this is the history. Everything comes with identification numbers. It’s really quite simple to understand.”
“I have to know what happened, Madge,” I say.
Madge nods quietly. “I suppose so,” she says. She stares into the middle distance and her expression is calm, thoughtful. “I have a key. From when he first moved in. She was very surprised to see me. I told her I’d brought a birthday present for Leo. And some maiden cake because Leo loves it so. I told her I’d give her the recipe.” She sounds like she’s reading a book report. “She said she’d save the date squares for some other time. Hid them away.” Madge waves away the insult, resumes her account without emotion. “She told me she was getting married. To Leo. Showed me the engagement ring he gave her. It was so beautiful. I asked her if I could try it on. Please, she said. She was very happy. She told me she was pregnant, that it was Leo’s son. She was putting out platters and singing something in Spanish, and I picked up the chef’s knife to make her stop singing.”
“And being happy,” I say.
“What did you do with the knife?” Weed asks.
“The morning ferry. I threw it overboard.”
“Why, Madge?” I ask her.
“I’m not sure,” she says, giving it some thought. “She had so much.”
“What did you do after you killed Raquel?” Weed wants to know.
“The most amazing thing happened,” she says. “I thought it was another sign that it would all work out for the best, like when I found Rose under the table that time, all covered in blood, holding the knife. She couldn’t make a sound. ‘Well, look who’s here,’ I said. ‘Tsk tsk,’ I said. ‘Now you must never ever tell anyone what you’ve done.’”
“Yeah, that worked out great,” I say.
“Monday night,” Weed prompts.
“I stayed for a while looking for the Alberta album. He promised I’d get it for years and years and never delivered. I wanted to check the bookshelves, to see if I could find it. I need it to complete the collection. And then when I was down the hall, someone came over the roof. I heard them go into the kitchen and then screams and things crashing and swearing in some foreign language. They made such a noise, I was sure they’d attract attention. There was a lot of yelling. Then they must have gone down the stairs because it was very quiet. I couldn’t find the album. I looked and looked. Then I heard the elevator, so I left.”
Someone’s voice is echoing in the hall. Madge doesn’t notice. She’s twisting the ring from side to side. “I forgot I had it on until I was almost home.” She grinds the ring against her knuckle. “I haven’t been able to get it off,” she says with a note of complaint. “It went on so easily.”
Knocking on the office door. “Miss Killian? You in there?”
I open the door. It’s the yachtsman. “We’re smelling smoke,” he says. “I don’t know where it’s coming from. Trev’s having a look around. Have you got a fireplace going?”
Madge looks up, blinks, waking from a reverie.
“No,” she says, “no fireplace.”
The younger man is at the far end of the hall. “I think it’s coming from the basement,” he says.
Weed is already on the phone.
“Get your family outside, sir,” I say. “I’ll have a quick look.”
“What’s the address?” Weed asks Madge.
“Address?” she says. “What? Here?”
I get the family group out the front door. Weed is bringing Madge out. She’s trying to pull away from him. She doesn’t want to leave. “There are things that I need to bring,” she says.
“It’s just stuff,” says Weed.
She’s starting to cry. “Don’t be ridiculous! It’s irreplaceable.”
I can’t see any smoke at the front. I head across the parking lot and around to the side. Basement windows, grilled and dark. Still no smoke but maybe a whiff of something scorched. There’s a lane at the back, garbage cans and stacked newspapers and steps leading down a basement door where smoke is curling around the frame.
A familiar figure is walking away down the lane. Long legs. Blonde hair. Not in a hurry.
“Roselyn!” I yell after her.
She turns and waves cheerily at me. “Aw,” she says. “You called me by my first name.”
I catch up to her. “What did you do?”
“And you call yourself a sleuth,” she scoffs at me. “Smoke, fire, even you should be able to figure that one out.” Behind us a basement window explodes and flames start licking up the rear of the building. “That cellar was just filled to the brim with papers and boxes,” she says. “I think it will burn very nicely, don’t you?” Sirens are getting closer. “Let’s go around to the front, all right?” She takes my arm. “I don’t want to miss the excitement.”
Fire trucks are arriving; firemen are climbing out, telling people to move back. Flames have reached the ground floor. Weed is trying to get Madge into his car. “I need to move mine!” She’s trying to pull away from him. “I need my keys!”
Roselyn watches it all with an expression of satisfaction. “Gone-y-gone,” she says. “Clean slate.”
Weed is having a difficult time controlling Madge. She’s twisting out of his grasp, trying to open the door of her Sprite. “Just let me move my car,” she says angrily. “It’s my car.”
Firemen run by heading for the front door. They are carrying axes.
“No!” Madge yells at them. “You don’t have to break anything.”
The head fireman tells us to clear out. The cars will have to take their chances where they are.
We lead Madge to the sidewalk. Roselyn is waiting for her.
“Hi, Madge,” says Roselyn. “Like old times, isn’t it?”
A main floor window explodes, billows of black smoke, flames crawling up the ivied walls. Madge screams. It is the agonized cry of a wounded child. She sinks to the ground, folding herself inside her arms and rocking back and forth. “No no no no no,” she sobs. “I can’t lose everything. Not everything.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Roselyn says.