Roy Barlow had his office in a bland grey four-storey building next to Barlow’s Foods, the supermarket anchor for his shopping centre, the largest in Witka. Beyond the drab façade, the interior of the Barlow Enterprises headquarters was appointed to the gills, with the fossil record showing in the polished limestone lobby floor and manta rays skirting around behind reception in a tank bigger than a Natchez Line boxcar. A mini-conservatory at mezzanine level cheered your passage as you were boosted up in the see-through elevator to the boss’s office on the top floor.
Barlow was the richest citizen operating on the Coast, owner of reputedly half the city’s real estate and a quarter of its businesses. He was a deacon in his church and was often derided by locals as loftily and pompously High Anglican. In my few encounters with him at public functions, Barlow had always struck me as courteous and reserved, albeit a tad prissy. I hadn’t detected a real sanctimonious side. His refusal to advertise any of his businesses in the Chronicle after Sloan became publisher, however, was universally interpreted as moral condemnation, pure and simple; and though it made Sloan a hero of sorts with some of Barlow’s competitors and members of the counterculture set, it ensured the Chronicle would never turn a healthy profit.
The animosity, of course, ran both ways. Older Chronicle staff spoke of historic near-resolutions to the feud being blown at the eleventh hour, always by Sloan, who couldn’t let go of his grudge and cut a deal with “the man”
Deep concern showed in Barlow’s pigeon-grey eyes as he led me to a niche overlooking a fine sweep of harbour and the strait. I sat down on a black and red mohair sofa, and he sat facing me in a lemony waved-back chair with some chrome coming out of the arms. He was a funny looking guy. His near-bald head seemed large for his thin frame, and his ears seemed large for his head. He was wearing the same power ensemble—royal blue suit with red tie and gold clip— that the prime minister had worn during his recent visit to Washington. It went nicely, I noticed, with the chair.
He crossed his legs and clasped both hands on his knee, gold band up. “How is Mrs. Sloan doing, Pat, or have you had a chance to talk to her yet?”
“Yeah, she’s in rough shape. Taking it very hard.”
“It must be an awful weight on her. I spoke to her briefly yesterday—she called me at home asking about a meeting I had with Albert on Friday—and she was so upset. She wasn’t taking it well at all.”
“She can’t believe it was suicide.”
“I got a sense of that. I don’t know how it could be otherwise. From what I hear, the coroner ruled it suicide, and they’re very meticulous, especially nowadays with all the forensic tools at their disposal. Maybe it’s a self-defense mechanism. She needs more time before she can fully accept it.”
“You might have something there. Nice pictures,” I said, needing to change the subject.
Barlow swivelled around and smiled up at the wall behind him. There were half a dozen framed glossies of sharks taken at extremely close range. “It’s the one way I indulge myself. Some people smoke, some people drink. I’m an amateur underwater photographer. That one’s a great white.”
These guys and their great white whales, I thought. Why not put a sign up: Call me Ahab. “You sure got close,” I said.
“You’re down there in a cage. There really isn’t much risk at all.”
“So you saw Albert that last day.”
“He was here, in this office, from about one thirty to two in the afternoon. He showed up early for a two o’clock appointment, and I brought him right in. I told him about some ideas I had for a supplement on the mall that would involve editorial copy on a few initiatives that we’re pretty excited about.”
“He was receptive?”
“Seemed interested. Maybe a little quiet, but attentive. Albert and I have been over this ground before. I use radio and flyers, but there are things newspapers do best, and competition is getting fiercer, with the band stepping up quite an aggressive pricing war on a variety of retail fronts. I’m looking at protecting my interests. But Albert and I have baggage—had baggage, I guess I should say—and we were moving very slowly.”
“What was the baggage about?”
“I would prefer not going there, frankly, Pat. The man is dead. But since I brought it up, there was a time long ago when Albert was a fairly unsavoury character. He said some very abusive things to members of my family. Even after he got his hands on the Chronicle, he never conducted himself in a businesslike fashion, not at all, and I simply won’t do business with people whose judgment I can’t trust.”
He shifted thoughtfully, and I could sense that he was now going to pretty things up.
“I think getting into municipal politics worked a positive change in Sloan’s outlook. He finally started to see what the world was really about. It’s so different when you’re sitting in the gallery tossing down brickbats. I noticed, even when he was here the other day, that a lot of the old arrogance was gone. It’s just tragic that he would end his life after coming so far.”
“Did he ever mention the poet Virgil Wood to you?”
Barlow looked nonplussed. “No. Why would he?”
“Jan says he was quite excited by something he learned from him before Wood’s passing. Wood went way back. And, well, your family was here before anyone, except the Witka. Didn’t they call the whole area Barlow’s Landing for many years?”
“Yes, from the 1880s through to the 1930s. But there were other families, too—the Hamiltons, the Douglases, the Mullens, the McBrides. My great-grandfather just happened to row his boat across first and staked out some sizable claims.”
“I see.”
“No, Albert didn’t talk about past history on Friday. Not ours, and not Witka’s. He did seem somewhat distracted, but that’s not very unusual for you people. Media types, I mean. Perhaps he left some notes on the subject.”
“Jan says she couldn’t find them.” I yawned. “Sorry. I’d forgotten how tiring it was asking questions to men behind desks. At least our talk was a little more comfy.” I got up to go. “Appreciate your time, Roy.”
“Any time, Pat.” His hand was clammy when we shook. “Back in the writing saddle?”
“No, not for print around here,” I said, and I left it at that.
At a natural wood bakery by the harbour, I downed a toasted tomato, cheese and cucumber sandwich then took my coffee mug outside and fed secondhand smoke to the seagulls.
Well, the morning was shot.