by Rickie Blair
“Irina Lasher. And now she’s dead.”
“Yes,” Emy said slowly. “That is quite a—coincidence.”
“As for the phone call, she said there was noise on the line. It could have been anybody. Don’t forget, this was twenty years ago. Before social media. Before Skype. Back then, people still sent snail mail, for heaven’s sake.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’m suggesting Dignam couldn’t have called Irina—because he was dead.”
Emy’s mouth gaped open.
Miserably, I pulled the pillow toward me, then leaned over it, rocking gently.
After a few moments, Emy recovered her composure. “But what about the professor’s wife? Why would she have said he contacted her if he hadn’t?”
“She might have been mistaken. Or—maybe she was in on it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. Her philandering spouse was about to be charged with fraud and his family disgraced. Women have killed their husbands for less.” I raised an eyebrow. “As we know.”
“If you’re talking about Leafy Hollow’s Black Widow case, there isn’t much of a parallel.”
“Dead husband. Unrepentant female. Close enough.” I slumped back, my hands resting lightly on the pillow.
Emy puffed air through her lips. From the furrow in her brow, I assumed she was evaluating my evidence. Then she sat back decisively against her chair, gripping its arms. “Not possible.”
“Why?”
“Because the spouse is always suspect number one. The police would have questioned Mrs. Dignam. She must have had an iron-clad alibi.”
“Which brings us back to Frank.”
“Are you suggesting he called Mrs. Dignam? Pretended to be her husband? That seems far-fetched. And I don’t think Frank could have pulled it off.” She paused. “No offense.”
“None taken. However…”
Emy tilted her head.
“What if she convinced Frank to kill him?”
“They didn’t even know each other, did they?”
“They could have met at a faculty event where spouses were invited. And devised their plan later. The cuckolded husband and the betrayed wife. Killing Randall Dignam would have solved both their problems.”
Just voicing that theory out loud was enough to set the vein in my neck throbbing. The room’s walls started to close in. I clasped a hand to my throat, gasping for air.
“Deep breaths,” Emy said, leaning over to pat my knee. “Better?” she asked after a few moments.
I nodded.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” she said, leaning back. “I might believe Frank capable of killing the professor in a jealous rage. Or even accidentally as the result of an argument. But I can’t believe he would cold-bloodedly plan a man’s murder—especially with someone he barely knew.”
“What if Mrs. Dignam paid him? And he hid that money at Rose Cottage and he’s here to retrieve it?” With a sudden spasm, I recalled the mysterious box from the basement. Verity. I can open it.
“Why didn’t he take it with him when he left?”
“Because… I don’t know. Maybe he worried his baggage might be searched at customs. Substantial amounts of cash would have raised eyebrows. Don’t forget—he had a criminal record, even if it was minor.”
Emy reached for the stoppered bottle, then pulled out the cork with a pop. “Maybe. But it was a lot easier to smuggle things out of the country back then.” She topped up her glass. “This whole thing is horrible. I feel ill.” She settled against the sofa, glass in hand, gazing glumly at the wall.
I moved the bottle out of her reach. “I think it’s the brandy making you ill, not the horror. Honestly, Emy, I’d rather this wasn’t the truth, but I don’t know what else to think. Why is Frank here, then? What is he searching for—if it isn’t money? And why did my mother hide that photo in the attic?”
There was another question swirling around in my head—one I couldn’t bring myself to say out loud. Did my mother know what Frank had done? Was that why she agreed he should leave and never contact us again?
“I can’t answer those questions,” Emy said, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. “But there’s one person who might know what really happened—Professor Dignam’s wife. You have to talk to her.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next morning, I set about finding the professor’s ex-wife. My first attempt—a phone call to the woman filling in for the deceased Irina Lasher—came to an abrupt halt when she hung up on me.
“Even if I knew where she was, I wouldn’t tell you.” Click.
Apparently, some people found my current identity as a murder suspect alarming.
My attempt to glean clues about Mrs. Dignam from newspaper reports about the professor’s disappearance also stalled. The stories in the Strathcona daily were easy enough to find, but they lacked details. His wife wasn’t even mentioned. The police closed the investigation before the media had a chance to get their teeth into it.
But in Leafy Hollow, the case of the disappearing professor had been big news. Many Strathcona University faculty members lived in the village at the time, including Randall Dignam and his wife. Every morsel of the thrilling tale would have been thoroughly debated by local gossips.
Which brought to mind the motto of The Bugling Beaver, the village’s weekly newspaper—We Chew Over the News. The paper’s mascot—a toothy rodent holding a brass bugle—headed its website.
The Beaver’s editor listened patiently while I described my search. “I’m sorry, Verity, but The Beaver didn’t exist back then. You want our predecessor, The Moosehead.”
“Where can I find it?”
“You can’t. That paper went bankrupt years ago. We set up shop much later. The Moosehead’s archived copies were gone by then.”
“Where do you think those old newspapers ended up?”
He mulled this over. “The Leafy Hollow library might have them. There’s an entire section devoted to village lore—at the back, marked ‘no admittance’—and those papers would be a natural fit. Ask Hannah,” he suggested.
“What about the digital files?”
“Long gone. Most of their computers were so old they went directly to landfill. Someone on staff might have kept a few floppy disks, I guess, but good luck reading those. Sorry I can’t be more help. Your aunt has always been such a big supporter of local arts.”
After promising to pass on his good wishes to Aunt Adeline, I headed for the library. With its twenty-foot ceilings, soaring mullioned windows, and vintage wooden bookshelves, the historic building was one of my favorite local structures. I hadn’t visited for a while, though. The book club was on hiatus while our leader, the formidable chief librarian Thérèse Dionne, enjoyed a much-deserved Caribbean vacation. I welcomed the chance to catch up.
When I pushed open the carved wooden door, Hannah Quigley, the gray-haired assistant librarian, gave me her usual cheery wave from behind the desk. “Verity. Welcome back.” Bangles tinkled on her tattooed forearms as she leaned over the worn walnut surface with a grin. She pointed enthusiastically to a table near the entrance stacked with colorful paperbacks. “We’ve got some great new mysteries this week. Take a look.”
“I will, thanks,” I said, approaching the desk. “But first—”
As I described my quest, Hannah sadly shook her head.
My heart sank. “You don’t have them, either?”
“Oh, no—we do.” She swiveled to study the no admittance sign in the corner while absently running a finger along her bracelets, clicking them together. “The thing is, Verity—they’ve never been digitized. They’re not even on microfiche. We’ve always wanted to do it, but the library doesn’t have the money. Those newspapers are jammed into boxes in the basement, along with everything else we can’t afford to update. I’m afraid they’re in terrible condition, but you’re welcome to take a look.” After ducking down behind the counter, she straight
ened up with a jangling key ring in her hand. “Follow me.”
After pointing out teetering stacks of bankers’ boxes jammed into a corner of the dimly lit basement, Hannah placed a hand on my arm and lowered her voice—even though we were alone.
“Verity—nobody thinks you’re a killer.”
“Thanks,” I said weakly, then watched her ascend the stairs.
It took three hours of poring through the boxes’ contents, and one painful paper cut, before I found a story that mentioned Professor Dignam’s wife. Sucking on my finger, I read the headline.
missing prof’s wife digs for answers.
It was accompanied by a picture of her sitting on a divan, her legs crossed and twisted to one side in an attractive, but unnatural, pose. The exaggerated shoulders of her pantsuit jacket were also unnatural. But her long hair was pulled back into a casual ponytail fastened with a puffy scrunchie. The end table beside her bore a large ashtray and a mound of half-smoked cigarettes. Even in the somewhat blurry newspaper photo, red lipstick was visible on each butt.
Although Brenda Dignam told the reporter, “It’s a sad time for me,” in the picture, she was smiling coquettishly. “Call me Brenda Waterson,” the article quoted her. “I’m using my maiden name now.”
After that, it took me only ten minutes on social media to find her. Brenda Waterson still lived in Leafy Hollow, in one of the monster-home subdivisions along the edge of the Pine Hill Conservation Area. I entered the address into my GPS and headed over.
My jab on the door button triggered a melodious Westminster chime that resounded through the house. Moments later, the door opened to reveal the woman from the newspaper photo. Her face was seamless, despite the twenty-year gap, and her body was trim, dressed now in yoga pants and an elegant cashmere pullover that left one shoulder bare.
“Yes?” Brenda Waterson’s artfully trimmed and tinted eyebrows rose—not enough to cause wrinkles, but sufficient to indicate mild surprise. “We don’t speak to canvassers, if that’s why you’re here.”
“I’m not canvassing,” I said hastily. “I’m writing an article about the history of Strathcona University’s anthropology department for the faculty magazine. Your husband’s name came up, and I was hoping to ask a few questions about him.”
I wasn’t sure why I lied. Maybe it was my unease at speaking to a potential “Black Widow.” In any event—it worked.
She cracked a smile, although only one side of her mouth fully committed to it. “I know all about that department.” Brenda pulled the door wider. “Do come in.”
I stepped into a spacious two-story foyer with a sweeping circular staircase centered under a skylight of stained glass that cast colored shadows on the stark white walls.
“You have a lovely home,” I said as she closed the door behind me.
“We like it.” Her casual tone was at odds with the admiring glance she cast around the foyer. “Come into the great room, and I’ll make coffee.”
Brenda seated me on one of a pair of matching sofas flanking a six-foot-wide fireplace and then disappeared into the kitchen. The stucco mantel breast rose to a cathedral ceiling—interrupted only by a massive large-screen television.
A few minutes later, Brenda reappeared with two espresso cups. She handed one to me before sinking into the other sofa with hers. She fixed me with an intense, but quizzical look.
“What is it?” I asked, uneasily.
“Nothing. You look familiar, that’s all. Have you been at the magazine long?”
“No, I only just started. Last—week.”
“And your name—”
“Sorry. It’s Verity. Verity… Wilson.”
She shrugged. “I guess you have one of those faces. Now, what is it you want to know?”
While Brenda sipped her espresso, I launched into my story. “When I was researching my article, I happened upon news of an excavation organized by your husband twenty years ago.”
“Ex-husband.”
“Excuse me?”
“I remarried.”
“Ah. Anyway, from what I understand, Randall was a leading light of the department. So, I was surprised to learn he left the university that summer before the dig concluded.”
She took another sip of espresso before setting the cup down. “He did.”
Considering her proclaimed interest in the department, she wasn’t giving me much. I tried a different tack.
“I’m sorry—I don’t mean to pry. But your husband was an important part of the department, and I want to do him justice in my article.” I hesitated. “What happened?”
“Oh. That again.” She stared blankly at the television, almost as if she wished it would spring into life, but she offered nothing more.
I sipped my espresso, glancing around the room while trying to think of a question that couldn’t be answered with a simple yes or no. On a table by Brenda’s elbow lay an open pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a huge glass ashtray that looked decades old. A massive bouquet of drooping pink hydrangeas, each bloom as large as a dinner plate, completed the arrangement. I raised an eyebrow. At this time of year, those flowers would be flown in from South America and cost a fortune.
With an audible sigh, Brenda returned her attention to me, apparently resigned to dredging up the past. “My husband was unfairly implicated in a criminal conspiracy. He was accused of fraud. He left to escape their lies.” She gave me a defiant look. “I don’t care what they tell you at the university—that’s the truth.”
“They didn’t tell me anything like that. There were mentions of rumors about—”
“All nonsense,” she said bitterly. “Don’t believe it. Female students were always throwing themselves at the professors. Especially the handsome ones, like my husband.”
I bristled at this, but I held my tongue.
She leaned in intently. “The fraud allegations were fabricated.”
I drew back, surprised. “Why would anyone do that?”
“To cover up seamier allegations, of course.” She pressed her lips into a tight line. “Not that Randall did anything dishonorable. But the chancellor has no backbone. He didn’t then, and he doesn’t now. All he thinks about is his pension.”
This was a line of enquiry that had not occurred to me. Did my mother fend off unwanted advances—even assaults—from her professor? With a pang, I realized that would have given Frank even more reason to confront him.
“Why didn’t these seamier allegations come to light?” I asked.
“My husband was innocent. He would have denied it. But others were not as innocent. There would have been an investigation, and the university’s oversight would have been questioned, and everyone’s reputation would have been ruined. Nobody wanted that.”
“Your husband’s reputation was ruined anyway.”
“But not in a way that reflected badly on the university and its chancellor,” she said bitterly.
I recalled my mother’s casual pose with Randall Dignam. Photos were dead giveaways of uncomfortable relationships, if the viewer knew what body language to look for. There was nothing in the picture that hinted at forced intimacy. Besides, Aunt Adeline hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. My mother would have kept some things from her sister, but never that.
“Are you saying the fraud allegation was a cover-up?”
“I believe so.”
“Did you report your suspicion to anyone?”
“No. It was in my best interests not to. Randall went along with it, and the university made sure I did, too.” She paused, leaving me to wonder if they promised her an annual stipend as long as she didn’t make a fuss. Maybe my mother hadn’t been the only female student to fend off propositions. Maybe there had been others.
“After your husband disappeared, did the police speak to you?”
“Yes. But I couldn’t shed any light on his movements that week because I was out of the country. My friend, Natalie Wiser, had booked a cruise with her husband. But at the last minute, he w
as too ill to go.” She flicked a hand in annoyance. “He was often unwell, rest his soul. I don’t know why Natalie thought it was a good idea to plan a vacation like that. Anyway, they couldn’t get a refund on the ticket, so she asked me to go with her. Randall was busy with his dig, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity. I believe our ship was somewhere between Grand Cayman and Aruba on the night he disappeared.”
“Does your friend live near here?”
“Natalie? No. She passed away a few years back. Cancer.”
Brenda looked longingly at the open pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. Clearly, her friend’s demise had not changed her own habits. “Go ahead,” I said. “It doesn’t bother me.”
She lit a cigarette with a practiced hand, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and sat back with an air of satisfaction. “Did you want to know anything else?” She picked up the heavy ashtray and placed it in her lap, then tapped the cigarette on it before raising her hand for another puff.
“You said your husband went along with the coverup?”
She nodded emphatically.
“How did you know that? He was gone when you got home, wasn’t he?”
“I saw him.”
This was a surprise. “In person?”
“Yes. He called me. We arranged to meet at the bandshell in the park the night after I returned.” She took another puff, then exhaled a stream of smoke before continuing. “I’m not going to lie—I was angry. I wanted him to stay and brazen it out. But he refused. He said the university had been generous and we should accept their terms.”
She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette with vigor. “I told him I never wanted to hear from him again.”
“But you took the money.”
“Naturally.”
Gesturing at our surroundings, I asked, “Is that how you—”
“Built this home?” She laughed. “No. The chancellor wanted Randall gone, but not enough to fund something like this. I received a small inheritance a few years later. And my second husband had some luck in the markets. Hence—” She waved a graceful hand at the clerestory windows that circled the room. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”