by D. L. EVANS
Chapter Twenty-Four
ADAM STONE:
After three days of continuous rain, Torontonians are almost suicidal. Driving in the city becomes a series of near-death experiences. I was deeply concerned, for my precious Austin Healy would once again have to share the road with the commoners in potential ‘road-rage’ conditions. Shapeless grey clouds hung low over the city like a giant dirty quilt hiding skyscrapers and spreading gloom. Alice admired the car and groused about the weather in a charming natural way. I had the feeling that I was winning her confidence. She adjusted the seat and leaned back giving me a better view of her shapely legs. Her soft perfume filled the car and I was sure she knew the short dress was riding high on her thighs. I wondered what she would do if I just slid my palm up her firm leg and under the short skirt, secure in the knowledge that she could not read my mind.
I cleared my throat in a self-conscious gesture. She smiled and said, “You should feel honoured that my sister even let you in to see her studio.” I pulled out into the traffic and felt the twin side-draft SU carburettors give the engine a kick, the Healy’s deep-throated exhaust resonating as it surged ahead. A cabbie jabbed on his brakes and gave me the finger. I ignored him. “Not many are invited into her sanctuary,” she continued. “Annie is a very private person. What did she talk about?” It sounded like a casual sisterly inquiry but I felt that it was not.
“Just a bit about your family history. The stuff she was working on... That’s about it.” I answered in an equally casual tone.
She seemed to weigh this information for a few minutes. I guessed that Annie wasn’t the only ‘private’ person in the family. Big sister wanted to know what little sister blabbed to the stranger who was not yet stamped with her ‘seal of approval’. “She’s a little fragile Adam.” I didn’t comment. She continued, “I guess you know that I practically raised her since our parents died.” I nodded but offered nothing. I wanted to see where she was going. “It was difficult, you know. I’m sure she didn’t tell you that part. Annie was always causing problems, calling people liars, exposing secrets that were better left... private. It took a long time to find how to deal with her abilities.”
“I’m sure you had your hands full,” I said encouraging her to continue. Why was she telling me this? Trying to head me off at the pass? Were they close as Annie had said or did Annie have it wrong? Did she suspect this resentment or was this a ploy to put me off?
“Oh yes, that’s an understatement.” Alison said. “Annie’s much more careful now, keeping her real thoughts to herself but she was very confrontational and judgmental as a child and impossible as a teenager. I could tell you such stories about what she put us through... the ugly things we had to smooth over to prevent scandals.”
I wasn’t sure how to play this information. “No she didn’t tell me any of that. She just said how close you were, still are I assume.” A beat up little Geo cut in front of me, risking annihilation as I briefly slammed on the brakes, hit the clutch and snapped down into second gear as the bastard popped into another lane without signalling.
“Well, yes,” Alison said, unfazed by my incredible driving skills as I smoothly eased back up into third. “I didn’t mean to imply that we aren’t close, just that it’s a big responsibility. Annie sees through things.”
I had just calmed down from the potential accident when a skinny guy dressed in shiny wet black spandex and a crash helmet on a speed bike with knobbly tires appeared right beside my fender mounted rear view mirror. He then peeled across in front of my radiator and bounced up onto the sidewalk beside the car and surged ahead, the high spray plume of filthy water trailing behind his rear wheel splatted against the Healey’s windscreen and top. I missed him by an inch. If we weren’t travelling in third instead of fourth gear in this downpour I would have hit him. On a bike, he wouldn’t have stood a chance of surviving. Traffic stopped ahead so I had a moment to watch the stupid bastard skid to a stop, lock his bike and trot with his god damn package into the Manulife Centre. What if he had crashed into my car? The prick. He needed to be taken out before he damaged someone’s pride and joy. If this traffic didn’t start to move, I might even get a second crack at him.
“She doesn’t particularly like people and refuses to accept any part of dealing with the public.” Alison droned on over the patter of rain on the Healey’s soft-top. “I have to carry us. I keep the books and run the business and try to keep Annie isolated so she can do her ‘cleaning and fixing.’ It’s the best way to keep her out of trouble too.”
Kind of a disparaging remark to make about her sister’s profession, I thought, as I tried to think of a way to get even with the two-wheeled messenger jerk that wouldn’t mean life without parole. “Just because she spends a lot of time alone doesn’t mean that she’s not high maintenance, that’s all I’m saying,” Alison said.
I needed to get some perspective. I needed a drink. I turned the fan on, which immediately fogged up the windows, so I turned on the defrost. “You don’t get much time for yourself?” I asked. “You know… R&R?” I offered, trying to sound interested. The windows finally cleared and we started moving again.
Alison opened the window an inch and started to fuss in her purse. For a second I thought she might actually think she could light a cigarette in the confines of my car. She would find herself thrown outside in the middle of traffic before she could light a goddam match. Fortunately, for her, she just freshened her lipstick. “Most of my evenings are filled with public relations events that will hopefully do some good for the business. There’s no one ‘special’ in my life.” She glanced at me sideways, touched her hair and pressed her knees together briefly.
“What about you?” she asked.
“You checked me out, remember? You know my status.” I said. She continued to stare straight ahead. The only sound as we crawled along Bloor Street was the rhythmic slapping of the windshield wipers against the rain and the drumming of the downpour against the thin canvas top.
“I hope you forgive me for that, Adam. It’s important.” She reached out and touched my arm in an intimate gesture of sincerity. I glanced at her and smiled. A non-smoker so I let her live. She relaxed and faked adjusting her skirt, forcing me to look at her legs again. I resisted the strengthening urge to ease my palm up between her parted thighs. Damn rain.
Chapter Twenty-Five
ADAM STONE:
Morgan’s studio was in an old three-story brownstone on Markham Street, just down from Mervish Village, a busy residential section of the city called the Annex. Once it had been a grand manor like the others on the street, but years of neglect had reduced it to a melancholy, bloodless hulk, and a sad testament to the tight financial circumstances of the many previous owners. Most of the homes had been restored but a few remained as rooming houses, full of promise to anyone with an eye for potential and deep pockets. Alison and I stood on the large front veranda. It was obvious that this was a first visit for her too. She sniffed disdainfully at the condition of the surroundings. A definite fixer-upper. The front doorbells indicated that the house was divided into two apartments Jamieson and Burnanski. I guessed that Morgan had the second story and the attic floor. The door was slightly opened so we followed the voices up the staircase to the rear of the second floor. I glanced into a good-sized kitchen that overlooked an overgrown back garden. Seemed like a homey place to unwind. Further along the hall were two small bedrooms filled with artsy-type junk. Two officers in uniform were going through mountains of paper scraps and files that were obviously in total chaos. I wondered if it had it looked like this before her death or had someone junked the place? In the bathroom, vials of snake oils and potions occupied every level surface and seemed to be in keeping with the late owner’s magpie disposition. Down the hall toward the front of the house, the main bedroom was decorated in grass cloth wallpaper and the wall was almost covered by wooden African masks. A huge mattress floated on the floor under a pile of batik pillows. Definitely a Morgan-type
room. Alison walked quietly beside me keeping her thoughts to herself. Mack was in heavy conversation with a tall strange-looking man that, from his previous description, could only be Inspector Reese. He looked over and waved us in.
“Adam, old son," Mack said, genuinely glad to see me. He nodded deferentially to Alison, having met her previously. Was I imagining it or did I sense a flicker of disapproval in his eyes? He usually lit up like a Christmas tree in the presence of a beautiful woman but the ‘new and improved’ Mack seemed cool and passive under her elegant stare. Alison would not have known that he was exhibiting the wrong reaction or she would have been insulted. He must have noted my expression and quickly said, "Just like the old days eh, Adam? Together on a case." Over his shoulder I could see that Reese looked distinctly uneasy. Mack continued, “Allow me to introduce you to Inspector Reese, here on loan from another department, but keep it under yer hat. He's observing my techniques. At this point Reese made an involuntary strangling sound that made me smile. Mack continued, unabashed, "Inspector Reese, this is Adam Stone," he said formally, "and Miss Alison Stanford of the Stanford Galleries.” The unflappable Inspector produced a tilted smirk that passed for a smile and shook our hands firmly. Mack looked every bit the supreme professional, decked out in a trim conservative suit, designer silk tie and black Italian loafers. Less than a year ago he would have been in jeans and a sports jacket. Maybe I would to be inspired to write a sequel. After all, Mason Green was on the job.
Mack had described Reese with reference to Icabod Crane in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow classic story but I saw him more as an evangelist type. In a former life I’m sure he was surrounded with the aroma of sulphur and brimstone as he preached sermons of thunder and spit from an elevated pulpit. He spoke with the slightly nasal accent of the well educated Englishman and his eyes, shiny and obtuse like camera lenses moved constantly. He was very tall and thin and his thick hair looked like it had been blown dry with a leaf blower... definitely having a bad hair day. Alison excused herself politely and went off to find Morgan’s agent.
"Is your interest in the case personal or professional Mr. Stone?" Reese asked.
“Actually, I was curious as to what brings you here?" I said as I turned to Mack who was pacing around the room gently touching things. The disorder must be killing him. "I was just at the Gallery and Alison Stanford told me that you planned to be poking around Morgan’s studio. Since our beloved old coroner Alex has already declared the death an accident, I naturally wondered what was going on?" Civilians are not permitted on the premises when a search is in progress so I was quite aware that Mack was bending the rules for me.
The expression on Reese's face lightened. "You're that author, aren't you? The Stalking Murders?" I nodded. "Of course. You were former partners." The odd grimace appeared again showing some unfortunate teeth. I had taken on new stature. He shook my hand again, vigorously this time, rambling on about how he had enjoyed a story based on a real case. Sometimes the book works like a calling card or social lubricant, smoothing my way to places I don't belong. I pushed my luck and asked exactly what they were looking for.
Another officer was opening drawers and ruffling papers. Mack answered, gesturing toward one of the team. “You remember Les Hall, one of the lads in the office? “ I didn’t, but he didn’t wait for confirmation. “Well, he saw Morgan’s picture in the papers and it jogged his pea brain." The young man sniffed indulgently, indicating his immunity to the insults as Mack continued. "It appears that Morgan came to visit me Monday last, a week before her... accident.”
I was shocked. "What? You didn't say..."
Mack cut me off. “Uh, you could let me finish!” He took an audible breath and continued, “I didn’t see her. I was out on another case, but apparently I had just called in, and was on my way back. Morgan told Les she would wait. When I got there she was gone. Les said she didn’t want to give her name but looked like she was a street person or something." He shot the junior a glare over his shoulder. "The dear lad didn’t think any more about it until he recognized Morgan from her picture in the papers. He just told me this morning about her visit so I decided to have another look ‘round. I first thought the place had been tossed, but this Farr person, Morgan's agent, says the place normally looks like this. She's upstairs in the studio with… your guest.”
I kept thinking about Mack’s conversation about Reese investigating Roger Smythe. Mack seemed sure that Roger was not tied to the missing women so what was the Inspector doing here? I couldn’t see what the death of Morgan had to do with the women either. Was I jumping to conclusions when there weren’t any? "What's the story with the people on the ground floor?" I asked.
"An elderly couple, they’ve lived here for ten years or so.” Mack replied. “The old gent is in the hospital. They weren't home the night she died. Morgan owned the house but she rented to them to help pay the mortgage. Took on art students too when things were tight, which was all her life apparently, 'till last year when Alison Stanford noticed her.”
Reese feigned a lack of interest in our patter going over some sketches in a pile but I sensed he was hanging on to every word. "How do you think the missing women tie into this, if at all?” I asked.
As Reese stood by quietly watching, Mack riffled through another pile of drawings and returned them to a folder beside the bed. He unconsciously straightened several objects as he answered. "A lot of her students sculpted or painted women. Most of the sketches are female. They could have been models, y'know, and were embarrassed to tell anyone. And all three of them were beautiful enough to pose for money; that sort of thing. It's a long shot but we've got to start somewhere. Morgan was upset about something, upset enough to come to me, right... a homicide cop. Her files, such as they are, aren’t telling us anything so far," he glanced around the room, "We’re trying to put together a list of the people that had the run of the place. There were lots, according to Ms. Farr. The front door was seldom locked and the old couple downstairs are half deaf. It's a needle in a haystack." He was using his cop voice, crisp and flat but with an edge to it.
Detective Reese seemed uncomfortable. “Well, Mackenzie, I’ll be off to the Station. Nice to meet you Detec... uh, Mister Stone. Hope to see another book of yours on the shelf soon.” I smiled and nodded as he left. I thought of an absent-minded professor of mine from my university days who always looked like a giant crane wandering aimlessly around the wetlands, trying to remember what he was looking for. Maybe that was his intention. He could never have become head of the Fraud Squad if he wasn’t damn good at his job, so first impressions had to be misleading. Still, I couldn’t imagine him on a stakeout unless he was a magician.
“He had some information for me,” Mack volunteered, knowing that I would be wondering why Reese was here, and flicked his eyes at the other detective, Hall. He couldn’t talk, obviously. And I knew I would catch up when I read his notes. It had to be something about the Smythe investigation. “Personally, I think Reese may be interested in switching over to Homicide. God in heaven can see how bloody exciting it is, compared to digging up paper trails, don’tcha think?” He grinned his evil dwarf grin. “You miss it Adam... confess. Les and I can see yer dyin’ to help.” Les laughed. I shrugged and smiled.
“I think I’ll leave you to it and go have a look upstairs. I was at the Gallery and Alison told me Ms Farr was going to let you in before the relatives arrived. I thought I’d come over for an update and asked Alison for the address. She sort of invited herself to tag along.”
“Right.” He winked.
Chapter Twenty-Six
ADAM STONE:
Did I really want to get involved in this case or was I just using it as an excuse to see Annie again? I trudged up the stairs from Morgan’s living area to her studio. What the hell, anything was better than sitting in front of the damn computer screen. The stairs led directly into a large room where a cathedral ceiling supported two massive skylights, double-thick beams indicated that the roof had been
reinforced to take the weight. Looking up through the opening, with the clouds moving past, I had a slight feeling of vertigo, when as if on cue, the sun broke through. Shafts of light, slanted through the windows illuminated several long tables, which divided the room into four isles. The far wall had a row of about thirty file cabinets most of which were open or partially open. Hundreds of files and scraps of paper were strewn everywhere over the floor.
A matronly woman, presumably Morgan's agent, Felicia Farr, sat at a desk, sorting through more personal looking papers. She looked up through red, swollen eyes, badges of grief for a friend. Alison saw me and quickly walked over. She gently introduced us, aware of her friend’s precarious emotional condition. Mack joined us moments later.
Ms. Farr handed Mack some official looking documents, probably the paper trail that chronicled Morgan's life; passport, banking documents, drivers license, and the myriad bits of legal flotsam that proved a person officially existed. She glanced around the room and sighed, blinking back the tears. "She wasn't normally this untidy, you know... It was just... the big opening at the gallery," she struggled for control, took a couple of unsteady breaths and continued. "She was under a lot of stress, ...getting ready you see... Didn't even finish her last piece over there."