Grave Deeds (3 page)

“Yeah.” He blew a long stream of thin smoke, a dragon tired of chewing up the little folk. “You're not planning on leaving town, are you?”

“Give her a break, Joe,” Wilson smiled at me. “We may want to talk to you again — after we speak to Mrs. Baker's lawyer.”

“Could I look inside?” I asked. I didn't want to have come all this way for nothing. It was not just the time wasted on the long subway and streetcar rides, but the whole journey I'd gone through in the week since receiving the letter. I had struggled with the memories of my mother and the painful hate she had insisted on in every discussion of my father and his family. “They'll never get their hands on you,” she would say. “They're rotten, every last one of them.”

“Who?” I'd ask, when I still asked her questions about them. “Do I have an Oma and Opa like Annie does?” Annie was my best friend, daughter of the large and boisterous family who shared our duplex. There were constant streams of relatives coming and going downstairs. I was informally adopted into the tribe, but there were days when I was left behind: when the families gathered for a wedding or a christening at some uncle's distant house. There wasn't room in any of their cars then for me. My mother refused to talk about my father or any of the Cooks. “They're dead to us,” she said, when I pressed her too hard with my queries. “They never wanted either of us when you were born. We don't need them. We've got each other and that's all we'll ever want.” And that was all she'd say.

I sighed, and shook off the memories. I'd decided at long last to come here, and I had come too late.

Gianelli and Wilson exchanged glances heavy with some kind of warning I couldn't interpret.

“Maybe you can go in later,” Gianelli muttered. “Maybe tomorrow if the lawyer agrees.”

“But it's a long way,” I pleaded. “And I haven't got a car.
Would it hurt for me just to look around a bit? See her things? There might be pictures of her family. My family, I mean. I won't take anything, and you can come in with me. Please?”

“Sorry.” Wilson scuffed at a crack in the sidewalk. “We can't let anyone in until the coroner's finished with the post mortem. Regulations.”

“Coroner?” I was confused. “I thought she died of a fall.”

“Not exactly.” Gianelli dropped his cigarette butt and rubbed it out viciously with the toe of one shoe. I couldn't help noticing his footwear: blood-red leather oxfords. Nice. He continued. “It looks like she ran into something. Or something ran into her.”

“The cats, you mean?”

“A bit bigger than that.”

“Are you talking about a burglary?”

“No.” He rubbed his hand over his skull, careful not to rearrange his hair. “I'm talking about murder.”

“Murder?” I leaned back heavily against the maple tree, thankful for the solidity of its rough trunk. I was suddenly very tired. I stifled a yawn. My eyes burned. “I thought it was routine, you being here.”

“Let's sit a minute.” Wilson cupped my left elbow in his big hand. He tugged gently; I let him lead me to the porch. He made a show of pulling out from his pants pocket a handkerchief as big as a scarf which he spread on the top step before gently pressing me to sit.

Gianelli sauntered up. He stood looking up at us, one foot on the bottom of the four wooden steps, both hands deep in his pants pockets. “You okay?”

I nodded. “It's a shock. I mean, I was just getting used to the idea of having an aunt, and now she's dead. Maybe murdered.” I shook my head. “Why me?” My voice rose in a wail of complaint.

The officers exchanged glances. Before they could comment, however, a commotion on the street distracted them.

A long black limousine nosed its way through the thinning crowd of neighbours. It pulled into the driveway, stopped, the engine purring no louder than one of the recently departed cats. The driver didn't bother looking our way when he got out, but bent to open the back door. He wasn't exactly wearing a
uniform, but the trim cut of his gray overcoat and his formal stance as he gave an arm to the elderly gentleman who was struggling to stand, clearly showed him to be a chauffeur. I'd never met a real chauffeur before. I'd never met anyone who had the means or the need to have one.

The old man steadied himself, his weight borne by a black knobbed stick with a rubber tip and elaborately carved silver handle. He looked rich and cold, the black fur collar of his long cashmere coat pulled high around his face which was small and white under the brim of a lamb's wool cossack hat. He shook off his servant's helping hand and hobbled toward us. The driver got back into the car, ignoring the younger man who clambered out of the back seat and quickly overtook his senior. The old man also ignored him, concentrating instead on the cracked sidewalk. We could hear the faint whistling of his breath as he made his way towards us.

The younger man reached the stairs first. “What's going on here?” he demanded. His voice was high and thin, the intonation suggestive of a British accent. Or of a Canadian accent which was trying to sound British.

Before any of us could answer, the old man spoke directly to me. “You must be George Cook's daughter?”

I nodded yes.

“And these gentlemen?”

Gianelli introduced himself and Wilson.

“Detectives!” the younger man exclaimed. He looked up at the house as he asked, “Mrs. Baker?”

“I'm sorry,” Gianelli replied. “She was found this morning.”

“Any sudden unexplained death has to be checked out,” Wilson added.

“Surely it wasn't unexpected,” the old man said. He swayed on his cane. A small clear droplet hung from the end of his nose, stretched, fell on the high collar. His companion reached out to take his arm, but the old fellow shrugged him off. “Beatrice was ninety-three years old. Her time had come. But murder! I doubt that. She had no enemies.”

“She was found at the bottom of the stairs. With a broken neck,” Gianelli said.

“Accident then.”

“I tend to agree…” Wilson began.

Gianelli interrupted him. “You're the lawyer? Dufferin Ross?”

“That's right.” The old man held out a trembling hand which Gianelli gently shook. “How do you know my name?”

“She had your card taped to the wall beside her phone. We called your office …”

“We were on our way anyway.”

“Is that what that call on the car phone was about?” The younger man's voice rose even higher. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“You were too engrossed in the stock market reports,” the old man retorted. I caught the glint in his eye and realized he must have enjoyed not just keeping this small secret from his companion, but also the other's obvious dismay at finding the police at their client's home.

Gianelli interrupted their tiff. “And your name, sir?”

“Roger Markham. Of Ross, Armour and Markham. Mrs. Baker is one of my uncle's oldest clients.”

“Friend, boy,” the old man grunted. “Some of us are friends with our clients. We can see beyond the bills.”

Markham flushed, but continued. “We had an appointment with Mrs. Baker today. To see her great-niece. Putative great-niece,” he added. “I told him I didn't like this idea from the beginning; that there'd be trouble. And I was right.”

The old man wasn't listening. His eyes never left my face, eyes of a very pale blue, almost colourless beneath the thick white wings of his brows. His skin was stretched tight over the bones, the only wrinkles in nests at the corners of his eyes and in deep grooves that ran from his sharp nose down to the edge of his lips. Small red patches glowed on his cheeks; his lips were pale and, as I watched him, the small pink tip of his tongue ran out and around them. I looked away.

“So, you know this woman?” Gianelli asked.

“Knew her father. Feckless boy. Knew them all. Not her, though. Mother took her away. Let's take a look at you, then. Come down here, where I can see you properly.”

I stood up reluctantly and came down the stairs. Markham had to step into the grass to make room for me on the pavement beside his uncle. He grimaced as he stepped in something soft, and began to wipe the sole of his shoe over and over
on the edge of the concrete path. The rasp irritated the old man. He spoke over one shoulder.

“Why don't you wait in the car, my boy? You didn't have to come with me. I can still do business on my own.”

“It's all right, Uncle. I don't mind waiting.”

The old man shrugged. Before I could back away, he grabbed my chin with one hand, cold and bony as a claw, and turned my head from one side to the other.

“You have your grandmother's eyes,” he said. He dropped his hand to join the other on the top of the cane.

I shivered. I could feel the faint crescent dents of his fingernails in the skin of my cheeks.

“My mother didn't take me away,” I said to him. “My father left us.”

“That's what she told you, is it?”

“That's what happened.”

He shook his head and was about to speak again when Gianelli repeated his question: “Is this Mrs. Baker's niece?”

“Great-niece,” Mr. Ross corrected. “Beatrice's brother's granddaughter. “

“You knew she was coming to visit her here?”

“I suggested we meet in my office, but Beatrice refused to come downtown. She didn't like the traffic and she didn't want to leave her cats. Filthy things,” the old man sniffed. He looked narrowly at the house. “They still in there?”

“The Humane Society took them away,” Wilson said.

“Good. Then what are we standing out here in the cold for? Let's go in.”

Mr. Ross used his cane to brush the two policemen aside and hauled himself up the stairs. I followed, with Markham, Gianelli and Wilson close behind.

“We should keep out until the coroner is satisfied,” Wilson objected as Mr. Ross pushed the front door open.

“Nothing to find,” the old man grunted. “Accident. Old age. Waste of time looking for anything else. Comes to all of us sooner or later.”

“Now, Uncle,” Markham soothed. “Don't get yourself upset. Maybe we should call this meeting off and get together another day.”

“We have business here,” Mr. Ross nodded at me. “I'll miss Beatrice, true enough. Last of a breed, she was, a real lady. Haven't seen much of her since my dear Anne passed away.” He sniffed. “And since you young fellows have taken over the office. Retirement, they call it,” he said to Gianelli. He made the sound that comic books rendered as “hmmph.” I'd never believed real people did that.

“I'm cold,” he continued. “Beatrice would be mortified to think we were all standing out here on the street, making a spectacle of ourselves for the neighbours. She would want us to come in.”

Mr. Ross knew where to go in the house, turning to the right in the dark hall that was a minefield of litter boxes and
bowls. He pushed aside a floor-length velvet curtain which rattled along a brass rod to reveal a room as dusty and still as a museum display. Lace curtains kept out most of whatever light could penetrate the grimy windows that were further darkened by alternating panes of dull red and green leaded glass. After a moment's fumbling he flicked a switch which turned on a pale yellow globe that hung from the centre of an elaborately plastered ceiling now webbed with a million fine cracks. He stumped across to an oversized wing chair upholstered in red corduroy. When he sat, a fine cloud of dust rose around him. He sneezed.

Besides that chair, the room was stuffed with a matching sofa, two more armchairs, and a footstool; a wooden rocker covered with a frayed quilt; an elaborately carved upright piano; a tall bookshelf filled with books whose spines were so faded their titles were impossible to read; and a bow-fronted china cabinet. Every surface bore a load of knick-knacks: china figurines, gold-rimmed tea cups on lace doilies, painted bowls of dried flowers and even a lithe creature, mink or marten, mounted on a piece of driftwood and glaring at us with its glass eyes. On a black table pushed against one wall was a crowd of picture frames. I headed straight for it.

“Just a minute,” Wilson said. “You're not to touch anything.”

The three men pushed into the room, Markham edging in front of the two cops. He grabbed my arm. I pulled away from him and in doing so backed into the table. The frames fell like a set of dominoes, one after the other, knocking pictures flat. I grabbed a silver oval disc as it slipped over the edge.

“My goodness,” Mr. Ross exclaimed. “Be careful, Roger. Come and sit down, Mrs. Cairns. That is your name now, isn't it?”

He pointed with his stick at the sofa. I obeyed, still clutching the photo in my hands. Markham muttered an apology and stood back, almost but not quite leaning against the wall. Gianelli looked at one of the armchairs for a moment, as if tempted to sit, but the dust and the layer of cat hairs that covered it discouraged him. Wilson didn't mind. He plunked down so heavily on the other end of the sofa that I distinctly heard a spring pop.

Mr. Ross sat on the edge of the huge chair, his hands folded on top of the cane, his chin nearly resting on them. He had taken off his hat and placed it on the floor where it rested, like a contented cat curled by his feet.

Gianelli was determined to take control of the interview. “You claim that this woman is a relative of the deceased?” he asked the old lawyer again.

“Of course, young man. I helped Beatrice locate her. There's not much of the family left and she felt badly about what had happened. She wanted to make amends.”

“What did happen?” Wilson asked.

“It was long ago,” the old man waved a hand. “Nothing to do with this. An old story.

” “I'd like to know,” I said.

“The point is,” Markham added, “that she will now inherit considerable property.”