Death in Cold Type

by C. C. Benison

  Just as well, Stevie thought as she stepped over clothes strewn on the bedroom floor and crashed into the bathroom. She stared into the toilet bowl, holding her stomach with one hand, covering her mouth with the other. She swallowed back the onslaught of saliva, grabbed a tissue from the vanity and wiped at the beading of perspiration along her brow. Fainting had been bad enough, more debilitating than she’d imagined. She didn’t want to be sick, too.

  She distracted herself by studying the interior. Thank god this little room isn’t painted black. If it were, it would be like the inside of a closed…she banished the c-word before it formed in her mind. The bathroom was white, starkly so, but all the accessories carried through the downstairs theme: the towels, sloppily replaced, were black; so, too, the bathmat and the porcelain. The only relief came from the colour of some of the clothes strewn about. She glanced back through the door into the bedroom, which was—yes—black. Hard to believe Sharon Bean had been here only the day before. Then her eye landed on a splotch of powder-blue. Not a Merritt colour. She kicked at it with her toe. A pair of Y-fronts. Some bizarre trend in female undergarments only a fashion writer like Merritt would know about?

  Or…?

  Stevie couldn’t help smiling. There was a man’s T-shirt and a pair of white socks, too. She looked up and caught a glimpse of herself in the cabinet mirror. She looked like hell. Dark circles under her eyes. Summer tan vanished, it looked like. Hair awry. She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face, and felt a kind of relief flow through her. Her stomach settled enough for her not to worry. She dabbed at her face with a hand towel, then opened the cabinet above the sink. The shelves were lined with every over-the-counter nostrum known to woman.

  But no Valium.

  And why Valium?

  Valium for depression.

  Depression + addiction + Merritt.

  Merritt had shed no tears, but Stevie knew grief lurked, with awful force. When Merritt’s parents had died, alcohol had been her balm.

  No tears from you either, Stevie, she thought, closing the cabinet door and noting her face’s glaze with dismay.

  Not yet anyway.

  Stevie stepped over a puddle and reentered the bedroom, glancing at images on the TV, which seemed to be on mute. She surveyed the vanity table. Shiseido, YSL, Dior, Lancôme, Chanel. It looked like the cosmetics counter at Holt Renfrew that she had designed in Toronto. The Valium was easily found. It was the only remedy not contained in seductive packaging. She fingered the white plastic bottle cap, remembering suddenly those first shattering weeks after she’d found her husband in their bed with one of the few neighbours she might have called a friend. Valium had been pressed on her by her doctor, and she’d spent those early days in the Windsor Arms with Sangster’s credit card, sitting in a fog until a tiny warning inner voice made her flush the remaining pills down the toilet.

  As she picked up the bottle, a metallic glint caught her eye. Behind the pill bottle lay a cute little gold straw.

  Her husband—ex-husband—had had a cute little gold straw, too.

  • • •

  “It was on the vanity.” Stevie looked Merritt straight in the eye.

  Merritt looked away.

  “Water?”

  “I can swallow them dry.” Merritt snatched the bottle and expertly squeezed the child-proof cap.

  Stevie glanced at Leo who seemed to be staring thoughtfully at Merritt’s boobs. Time for him to go.

  “Why don’t I stay over?” she said. “Remember when I used to babysit you?”

  Merritt made a noise. Her tongue was hanging out, a perch for two little yellow dots.

  “Maybe I should leave,” Leo said from the depths of the couch.

  They both watched Merritt swallow.

  “I’m not a child,” she snapped.

  The doorbell chimed. Merritt glanced at her. “I’ll get it,” Stevie sighed. She crossed the vestibule and glanced at her watch. Nearly 10:30. “Oh,” she said, opening the door.

  “‘Oh’ to you too.” Frank Nickel’s bald pate shone in the porch light. Behind him, a head taller, was Gerry Shorter. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Parrish.”

  “I suppose this couldn’t wait.”

  “Not really.”

  “Who is it?” Merritt called from the living room.

  “The police.” The two strode past her.

  “Ah, Shorter and Nickel,” Leo murmured.

  “That’s Nickel and Shorter, sonny.” They both stared about the room.

  “We’re related,” Leo informed Merritt.

  “Happy day.” She frowned at the two detectives. “Didn’t one of you already phone me?”

  “Me,” said Frank.

  “Then…?”

  “Just had a few questions. My condolences, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” Merritt smiled suddenly. She loosened the collar of her bathrobe. “Pardon my deshabille.”

  Stevie gagged.

  “Have a seat.” Merritt gestured to the couch opposite.

  “Shove over, Fabian,” Frank said.

  Leo did as ordered. The two men sank into the leather. Leo bobbed at the other end. Shorter pulled a notepad from his pocket.

  “Am I being asked for a statement? Did I get that right?”

  “Kind of,” Frank frowned. “We’ll have something prepared later that you can sign. I just wanted to ask you some questions, you being his closest relative.”

  “Would you gentlemen like a drink?”

  She didn’t ask us if we wanted a drink, Stevie thought, plunking herself down at the other end of Merritt’s couch and looking at the three men who were looking at Merritt: Larry, Curley, Moe.

  “I wouldn’t mind one,” Leo piped up.

  “Aren’t you driving?” Stevie lifted her eyebrows at him.

  “I suppose I am.”

  “And we’re on duty,” Frank added, clearing his throat. “Anyway—”

  “When was the last time I saw my brother?” Merritt tilted her head coquettishly.

  Frank scowled. “Yeah.”

  “Well, let me see.” Merritt glanced at Shorter opening his notebook. She appeared to strain in thought. “I would say soon after Labour Day, just after he got back from Europe.”

  “What? He got back three weeks ago?” Stevie interjected.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Never mind.”

  “And he was in Europe for how long?” Frank pressed.

  “Most of the summer.”

  “Doing…?”

  “I don’t know. Looking at things, I guess. What do people do in Europe?”

  “Shop, in your case.” Stevie hadn’t intended giving voice to the thought.

  Merritt stuck out her tongue at her. “And Michael doesn’t shop? Didn’t you read Saturday’s paper? Anyway,” she continued, easing back into her smile, “I remember him saying he was at Glynbourne. A musical concert in England,” she replied to Frank’s puzzled expression. “And probably taking photographs.”

  “I had a postcard from Holland. Or was it Germany?” Stevie interjected. One lousy postcard.

  Frank scratched at nonexistent hair. “Funny, because we found luggage tags that indicate he’d been to Washington, D.C.”

  “Oh?” Merritt shrugged. “I didn’t know he’d been to Washington, too.” She turned to Stevie. “Don’t you have an aunt and uncle in Baltimore that you stayed with for a time?”

  Stevie’s heart fluttered. There was something sly in Merritt’s expression. “Yes,” she replied evenly.

  “Michael studied at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia, which isn’t all that far from Washington,” Merritt continued. “Perhaps he was visiting friends.”

  “So the last time you saw him was three weeks ago—”

  “Yes, we had lunch at Le Beaujolais. It was the Friday after Labour Day.”

  “Amicable?”

  “Yes.”

  There’s a lie, thought Stevie.

  “Why?” Merritt asked.

>   “Just wondered.”

  “My brother and I had a very fond relationship.”

  Whopper number two. Stevie could read skepticism in Frank’s hooded eyes.

  “I see,” the detective said, then paused. “Did he show you the violin he bought?”

  “Saturday’s paper was the first I knew of it.”

  “He didn’t mention it at your lunch?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you had a close relationship.”

  “Well, we don’t discuss everything.”

  “I see.” Frank let silence reign for about ten seconds. “So, Mrs. Parrish, how did you spend your day today?”

  “Well…” Merritt ran her hand down the lapel of her robe. “I was at the Citizen briefly in the morning. I had lunch with a local designer, did a little interview. Went back to the Citizen. Typed in a few notes.” The hand took another trip down her chest. “Left about 5:00 or so and went to Jane’s—it’s the name of a boutique on Assiniboine Avenue,” she explained for the scribbling Shorter—“for a dress fitting. Then came home.”

  “How long were you at this store?”

  “Oh, about an hour or so. Jane’s a great friend and a good source in the fashion business, so we talked a while.”

  “And she could corroborate?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Merritt’s smile tightened.

  “And this evening? You came home about…when?”

  “6:00. 6:30.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Oh, let’s see—tried to find something on TV other than the stupid Olympics.”

  “What did you watch?”

  “Some movie.”

  “Death of an Angel?” Leo interrupted.

  “Yes, that was it.”

  “Pretty awful. Sorry, Frank.”

  Nickel, clearly peeved, turned back to Merritt. “You were alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Lie three, Stevie thought. Shall we go for four?

  “Why are you asking?” Merritt’s finger stroked a length of gold chain around her neck.

  “Just routine. Everyone your brother might have been in contact with will be asked the same questions.”

  This was received in silence.

  “Mrs. Parrish, before we go, just one last question for the meantime.” Frank stared at Merritt. “Do you know anyone who might want to kill your brother?”

  Merritt’s finger stopped. She tilted her head, as if in deep thought. “No,” she replied. “No, I can’t say I do.”

  Four.

  Book 2

  Wednesday, September 28

  8

  Welcome to the Word Factory

  Leo awoke with the usual boner. This sometimes led to fond thoughts of Ishbel, and fond memories of—in no particular order—Lynn, Jane, Jill, Christine, Ruth I, Ruth II (Ruthie-Ann), Snjolaug (an Icelandic exchange student), and even Julie, the Zit court reporter who hated his guts, all the way back through the Rolodex of love to Caroline, who in grade 10 had taken her role understudying Irma La Duce in the high-school production of the same name much too much to heart, if that was the right organ. (Many benefited.) Sometimes it led to fond recollections of, respectively, the April 1972, July 1978, August 1982, and November 1983 Penthouse foldouts. More often lately it led to fond expectation of Stevie. But this morning it was Merritt who insinuated herself into the lizard portion of his brain.

  He couldn’t help noting her during her infrequent visits to the newsroom over the past year or so in some get-up or other, vivacious and aloof at the same time, like a film star doing a charity gig. But in that bathrobe! How it was that a complete asshole like Guy Clark managed to get within shouting distance was a mystery greater than the Leafs’ inability to win the Stanley Cup.

  Never was it truer: Life ain’t fair.

  He sent his thoughts to the score of the Blue Jays game, which he had heard last thing before going to bed. Shrinkage began. Stallion turned turtle. Elvis left the building. Merritt’s outline and supple curves receded. But her words from last evening insinuated themselves instead. When Stevie had excused herself and gone upstairs, he had taken his chance. Well, okay, Merritt had started it by saying in a throaty sort of Marlene Dietrich voice, “So, you and Stevie?”—her green eyes glittering. He wondered if she wasn’t a little stoned on something. (You’d think news of your brother’s murder would be so sobering your brain couldn’t process any other information.) The few times he’d seen her step into the newsroom over the summer, he had wanted to call her over and do a little interview. Subject: Stevie. Since he’d never said much more than “hello” to Merritt in the newsroom, though, he couldn’t think of pretext for conversation, so he’d just let it ride. But last night, thanks to circumstance, he’d been mano a (wo)mano with Stevie’s next-door (but one) neighbour, the Lord family teenaged ward, and Michael’s sister—a fount of knowledge. What the hell, he’d thought. It wasn’t like she needed to be handed tissue after tissue to dry her wet little grief-stricken eyes. So he asked.

  About Stevie and Michael.

  Amazing what you could learn in under five minutes. Much of it he’d expected. But one thing he could never have predicted. It was more than he wanted to know. And how strangely self-satisfied Merritt had been letting him know, as if it had been something she’d been dying to tell someone for years. Stevie came back downstairs. Frank and Gerry had arrived and begun doing their detective schtick. He’d barely paid attention, except when Merritt proffered a drink, which he badly could have used, only to have Stevie give him the Mothers-Against-Drunk-Driving basilisk stare.

  Was he shocked?

  A bit.

  Was he jealous?

  Kind of.

  Was he hurt?

  Yeah—surprisingly.

  As he was leaving, Frank reminded Merritt that they’d need her to i.d. the body. She was not amused. Stevie offered to take her. Frank and Gerry left. Then he and Stevie left a moment later. The rain had stopped. Rather than take the car such a short distance, Leo had walked Stevie in silence across the dark lawn of the Oblate fathers’ mansion that stood between the Rossiter and Lord residences, trying to avoid the fat drops of water falling from the old elms whose limbs swayed and creaked in the still potent wind. He’d felt like he had nothing to say to her, like leaving her at her parents’ door and never calling her again. What was the point if she was so fucking besotted by the likes of Michael Rossiter?

  But then, reaching the bottom of the steps, anticipating yet another of their awkward partings (Leo yearning, but not this time; Stevie backtracking), she had turned, started to take off his jacket, and suddenly asked him if he had ever seen a dead body before. Tiny beads of moisture had settled along her hair from the damp, cool air. Her eyes had glistened, staring intently at him. He had looked away, across the lawn where lately fallen leaves had gathered around the edge of a flowerbed to form a fallow wreath. He had wanted to say, “yeah, Michael Rossiter, about three hours ago.” But he knew what she’d meant. He shook his head, no. He hadn’t seen his father that day at the Misericordia, more than a quarter-century ago. He didn’t mention that.

  “I have,” she said, almost fiercely, and told him about her grandfather Standish. Easter, of all days. Granddad, visiting from California, gets up from the table early—indigestion—and goes to sit in the living room. She’s seven. Robert, her elder brother, is thirteen or fourteen. Her Baltimore aunt takes them into the living room. “Oh, look,” she says, “your grandfather’s asleep.” But Robert sticks out his arm, points. His voice is changing and he booms, just booms: “No he’s not! He’s dead!”

  And then the dam broke. Stevie thrust herself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. And more: For Leo couldn’t help himself. Something—God knows what—had overcome Stevie. A hug turned into a groping hungry kiss. He had found himself pushing her against one of the Chinese lions that flanked the steps, and could have, wanted to, would have happily taken her right there…

  Leo looked down. He was sitting at the
edge of the bed, naked. Elvis had apparently not left the building. A shower was in order. Possibly a cool one.

  • • •

  An hour later—shaved, showered, unbreakfasted, and unsatisfied—Leo stood at the entrance to the Citizen building, scratching with his fingernail at the faded remains of a once blood-red graffito sprayed onto the stained granite facing. DEATH TO MULROO, it advised. Below it another read: EAT THE RICH.

  Wonder what they taste like, he thought, peeling bits of red paint from under his fingernail as he waited for Liz, who had shouted at him from down the street. He watched her lean into the wind and battle a gust of leaves, then looked up at the facade of the building. Even in the kind light of an autumn morning, the Citizen was a brooding presence on the street. No ray of sun seemed able to raise a gleam from the red brick so dulled by decades of dirt and neglect. No window twinkled because the encrusted grime had formed a grey patina that shunned reflection. The building had an air of ossification, suggesting to citizens of the late-twentieth-century world the grim rectitude of the nineteenth. Sort of ironic, Leo thought: the Citizen had been built in the new century, some time after the old Queen’s death, in the garden-party years before the Great War, when an exuberant belief in the power of rational progress still nurtured human activity. Winnipeg had then reached its zenith of power and influence in the country, and the Citizen building, communications central, was the very expression of confident authority with its strong brick verticals and rhythmic composition of granite classical arches at street level. It had been a thoroughly modern building then, austere to Edwardian eyes. Two world wars and four generations later, it seemed ill proportioned, a clumsy massing of stone and brick, pretty damned mediocre to tell the truth, only redeemable in a period keen on architectural restoration simply because it was old.

  Or such was what he’d wanted to write when he’d been assigned a series on downtown Winnipeg’s architectural gems during his brief stint in the Go! section. But when he got to describing the very building in which he was writing the story, he instead did some rhapsodic bullshit that got past Guy Clark, who didn’t know anything about architecture either, and which in print lay beneath the citizenry’s potato peelings the next day anyway.