The Glass Coffin

by Gail Bowen

  The image was so vivid the words seemed to form themselves. “Like her sister,” I said.

  Felix swallowed hard. “How did you know about that?”

  “Bryn told me.”

  “And I suppose when she did, her lovely eyes filled with tears. That girl is a real piece of work.” The loathing in his voice caught me off guard.

  “Considering what her life has been …”

  Felix cut in. “You don’t know what her life has been,” he said. “People have invested their lives in that child.”

  “Her father certainly did,” I said. “Felix, was that film he was making about Bryn called The Glass Coffin?”

  Felix’s intake of breath was audible. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  I knew he was lying. “No point talking about it then,” I said.

  “But I’d like to talk about it,” he said, falsely casual. “It’s an intriguing title – right out of a tale by the Brothers Grimm.”

  “It is an attention-grabber,” I agreed.

  “Where did you hear about it?” Felix asked.

  “Actually, I read it. I found Evan’s three-ring binder this afternoon – the one where he kept his shot lists and tape reports.”

  I watched Felix’s face. Control was not coming easily. “Those notations are quite technical. Maybe I should have a look.”

  “I’m sure if Jill needs help, she’ll let you know,” I said.

  “She has a lot on her mind,” Felix said. “I could take care of this for her. Just tell me where the binder is.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “The truth is I just happened to come across Evan’s notes. I’d feel like a rat telling you where they were without checking with the person who has them.”

  “Stalemate,” Felix said.

  “Apparently,” I said.

  When he dropped me at the main entrance of the hospital, he sped away before I even had a chance to say thanks for the ride.

  The decorations in the lobby had a dispirited day-after-Christmas droop, so did the woman behind the reception desk where I checked for Tracy’s room number. I rode up in the elevator with a young man drenched in Old Spice and a young woman drenched in White Diamonds. In the duel of the holiday colognes, Old Spice proved an easy winner. Tracy’s room was in the new wing. I had found the nursing station and was asking directions when I heard Bryn’s voice. “She’s only allowed one visitor at a time. Claudia’s with her now. You can wait with me if you want to.”

  Bryn led me to a bank of windows that overlooked the hospital’s central courtyard. In the gentle seasons, the place was a green and blooming oasis, but on that raw, windy day it was desolate. Despite the bleakness, the weathered picnic benches were dotted with smokers. Most wore scrubs and winter jackets, but there were a few civilians. One of them was Jill.

  “I hate that she smokes,” Bryn said. “But I told her to go out and have a cigarette. This is all so awful.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Bryn nodded. Her state seemed almost fugue-like and I wondered if she’d been given some sort of sedation. “It’s my fault,” she said numbly. “Tracy says she did it for me.”

  “Did what for you?”

  Bryn shrugged. “Everything, I guess. When the ambulance came to get her at the airport, there was blood everywhere. Do you know what Tracy did?”

  “No.”

  “She dipped her fingers in it and held them out to me. ‘This is for you,’ she said. ‘Your blood for you.’ ”

  My shudder was visceral, but Bryn picked up on it. “See, it freaks even you out. What chance do I have?”

  “The only chance any of us have,” I said. “You have to make yourself strong enough to handle whatever comes your way.”

  Bryn spoke without self-pity. “There’s always so much.”

  “I know,” I said. “But don’t underestimate yourself.”

  Surprisingly, she smiled. “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

  “No small accomplishment.”

  “And now the camera won’t be there,” Bryn said. She shrugged. “I guess that’s what Tracy meant when she said she did it for me. I guess what she did was make sure that fucking camera would never be in my face again.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  Ken Dryden once said that the goalie’s job is to know what’s coming next and insert himself like a stick into the spokes of a bike and stop the action. When I saw Inspector Alex Kequahtooway get out of the elevator and head towards the psychiatric ward, I knew the time had come to be a stick in the spokes. Tracy had passed the point of meltdown. Alex wouldn’t need his considerable skills as an interrogator to unearth the fact that Tracy was Bryn’s birth mother. The seventeen-year-old girl beside me had already endured a lifetime of assaults. I didn’t have the power to deflect the next blow coming her way, but I could defer it.

  I turned to Bryn. “Let’s go home,” I said.

  She looked puzzled. “What about Jill? She’s still outside finishing her cigarette.”

  “We’ll find her.” I went over to the nursing station and left a message for Claudia. Then I punched the elevator button. When Bryn and I stepped out on the main floor, Jill was there.

  “I was just coming up,” she said.

  “Change of plans,” I said. I slid my hand under her elbow and steered her towards the door.

  During the taxi ride, Bryn talked about how the smell of hospital in her hair and on her clothes was making her sick. As soon as we were through the door, she ran upstairs to shower and change.

  After Bryn left, Jill slumped against the wall. “I can’t remember ever feeling this tired,” she said.

  “In need of your java-enabler?” I said.

  “Make it strong and keep it coming,” Jill said.

  I made a pot of Jill’s favourite Kona, and we took it into the living room. The coffee seemed to restore her. After a few sips, she sat forward in her chair. “Okay,” she said. “I’m fortified. Now tell me why we had to beat such a hasty retreat from the hospital.”

  My account of Tracy’s true relationship with Bryn observed four of the five W’s of journalism. I told Jill everything I knew about Who, What, When, and Where, but I didn’t venture any guesses about why Bryn’s family had hidden the truth from her after Annie died; nor did I speculate about why Gabe Leventhal had died within hours of discovering what I’d discovered.

  Like any smart journalist, Jill was a good listener. When I finished my account, she asked, “Is there more?”

  I shook my head. “Your turn now. Any questions?”

  “Have we heard from that private detective in Toronto?”

  “Not that I know of. I’ll call Kevin and get him to stir things up a bit.”

  “Good.” She leaned towards me. “Jo, we need to know what the police have found out.”

  I met her gaze. “Alex doesn’t trust me any more. I’ve made it pretty clear I’m on the other side.”

  “Just do your best, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “More coffee?”

  “Thanks, but I should talk to Bryn. No point in delaying the inevitable.” Jill stood and smoothed her leather pants. “Jo, she has so few resources. How do I break this to her?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Just take it slow, and see how she reacts. If she’s having a hard time, stop and let her decide where to go next. Bryn trusts Dan Kasperski. I’ll call him, so he’ll be ready if you need him.”

  After Jill left, I dialled Dan’s number and left a message on his machine. Then I sat back and waited for word of trouble upstairs. When there was none, I picked up the phone and called Kevin Hynd.

  “Synchronicity,” he said. “I was just about to call you.”

  “If you tell me you have news from the detective in Toronto, I’m going to believe God is Alive and Magic is Afoot.”

  Kevin chuckled. “He is, and It is. Our man, whose name is Richard Shanks, called ton
ight. He struck paydirt.”

  “So soon?”

  “It’s all in knowing where to dig,” Kevin said. “Richard talked to the MacLeish housekeeper. She was a temporary, but she filled him in on her predecessor. The lady’s name is Isobel Carruthers. She’d been with the MacLeish family for fifty years, but she was only too willing to talk.”

  “Fifty years of service and suddenly she’s spilling the beans? What happened? Did they fire her?”

  “Apparently, she left of her own volition when she heard that Evan was dead.”

  “She was that attached to him?”

  “No. According to Richard, Mrs. Carruthers believes that whoever killed Evan did the world a favour.”

  “So what was her problem?”

  “Moral outrage. Hang on to your toque, Joanne. Mrs. Carruthers told Richard she quit because she couldn’t spend another night in a house that had nurtured a murderer.”

  “Did she name her suspect?”

  “Nope, but she did give Richard some interesting nuggets to ponder. She said that Bryn’s relationship with her father was unnatural.”

  “No surprise there.”

  “Then try this. According to Mrs. Carruthers, Bryn was not the innocent victim. In Mrs. C’s words, it was ‘tit for tat.’ ”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that Bryn threatened to withhold favours if she didn’t get her way.”

  I felt a coldness in the pit of my stomach. “What kind of favours?”

  “Not sexual. For lack of a better word – professional. Remember that bizarre thing Bryn did with the camera – speaking to it directly about what Evan was doing to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “The housekeeper says Bryn used the camera to barter. She’d tell the camera what she wanted, and if Evan didn’t come across, she’d screw up the film.”

  “And our pillar of rectitude, Mrs. Carruthers, did nothing.”

  “She didn’t believe it was her place to interfere. She felt that was up to Bryn’s flesh and blood.”

  “Who, as we know, did nothing.”

  “And that’s the part I don’t get,” Kevin said. “I’m not exactly a cock-eyed optimist when it comes to my fellow beings, but you would have thought someone in that house would have stopped Evan.”

  “Maybe everyone just had too much to lose,” I said. “Evan was Bryn’s father. If someone confronted him, he could have simply taken her and moved away. Claudia devoted years of her life to that girl. She might have convinced herself that as long as she and Bryn were under the same roof, she could exercise some control.”

  “And Tracy just needed a roof over her head,” Kevin said. “Incidentally, Mrs. Carruthers says that particular need has become more pressing. Tracy lost her job on that kids’ show.”

  “No more Broken Wand Fairy?”

  Kevin laughed softly. “Hey, losing her wand might not be the worst thing that ever happened to Tracy. Her ‘Magictown’ gig looked like a dead-ender to me. And they do say that freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”

  “So is ‘desperation,’ ” I said. “Tracy tried to commit suicide this afternoon.”

  Kevin groaned. “Oh shit.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” I said. “And it gets worse. Tracy is Bryn’s birth mother.”

  “Whoa,” Kevin said. “Now that is heavy.”

  “But it explains a lot,” I said. “We saw how close the sisters were. I’m assuming Annie’s epilepsy made pregnancy too much of a risk, and Tracy volunteered.”

  “Does Bryn know?”

  “Jill’s telling her as we speak. And Kevin, I’m certain Gabe Leventhal had put the pieces together the night he died.”

  “So Tracy had motives for killing both Gabe and Evan.”

  “For Gabe, yes, but I don’t understand what she’d gain by killing Evan after he and Jill were married. The moment Evan slipped the ring on Jill’s finger, she was Bryn’s stepmother.”

  “Maybe the laws are different in ‘Magictown,’ ” Kevin said. “Or maybe something about the wedding just ticked Tracy off. In my experience, the motivation for most murders is pretty mundane.”

  “I guess it doesn’t much matter what was going on in Tracy’s head,” I said. “She had an alibi, remember?”

  “Right,” Kevin said. “She was with Claudia. Which, of course, means that Claudia also has an alibi.”

  “You think it’s possible they’re both lying.”

  “I think we’d be smart not to rule anything out,” he said. “Mrs. Carruthers is no fan of Claudia’s. I gather the Rottweilers may have something to do with her distaste, but, apparently, Mrs. Carruthers is of the opinion that an able-bodied woman like Claudia should be able to make her own way in the world and not sponge off her mother.”

  “I take it that’s a direct quote.”

  “A close paraphrase,” Kevin said. “Mrs. C did add one interesting stroke to our portrait of Claudia. Apparently, she’d been having some pretty ugly quarrels with the man in her life lately.”

  I thought of the heavy vellum card in Bryn’s treasure trove of potentially useful memorabilia. “Any chance the boyfriend had a slight German accent?” I asked.

  “Was there something going on between Claudia and Felix Schiff?”

  “Enough that they had a shoving match in the hotel lobby the morning after Evan died.”

  “Never a dull moment,” Kevin said. “If they’re this rambunctious when they’re on the road, they must be a real treat when they’re back at the old homestead.”

  “Speaking of,” I said. “Did you find out anything about Caroline MacLeish?”

  “No, Mrs. Carruthers was very protective of the matriarch.”

  “And yet she quit when Caroline MacLeish needed her most,” I said. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “Face it,” Kevin said. “They’re an odd bunch. I’ll tell Richard to keep digging – see what else the MacLeish clan has buried in the backyard.”

  I winced at the metaphor, but it did prod a question. “Kevin, do you know anyone here in town who could do some digging?”

  “Sure. There’s a woman here who’s a whiz. What do you want her to look for?”

  “Anything that will get us out of the maze.”

  Kevin laughed. “Hey, Shania’s a whiz, not a miracle worker.”

  “Shania?”

  “Shania Moon,” Kevin said. “You’d be amazed at how many people can’t resist opening up to a woman with a provocative name.”

  “See if Ms. Moon can get someone to open up about what went on at Gabe’s hotel the night he died.”

  “You’ve got it,” Kevin said.

  It took me a few minutes to screw up the courage to call Alex’s office. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Kequahtooway.”

  “Alex, it’s Joanne. I wondered if we could get together for a few minutes.”

  There was a pause. “Business or pleasure.”

  “Business,” I said.

  “I have a few things to finish up here. I’ll meet you in half an hour at Brenners.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but he’d already rung off.

  Every failed love affair has its own subtext. It wasn’t difficult for me to read volumes into the fact that Alex had chosen Brenners for our meeting. If the owner of Brenners had been an art lover, it would have been tempting to believe he had modelled his café after Edward Hopper’s painting Nighthawks. But Marv Brenner’s decision to illuminate his café with the harsh, unsparing voltage of a police interrogation room had nothing to do with giving the lonely and dispossessed a sanctuary in which to spend the small hours. Marv was famously misanthropic. The archives of the Leader Post were full of letters bearing his signature; the ones the paper chose to print revealed a man who believed the world was divided into four categories: pissants, punks, perverts, and people like Marv. The harsh lighting and floor-to-ceiling uncurtained windows were designed to protect people like Marv from the others. Not surprisingly, the
pissants, punks, and perverts flocked to Brenners like moths to a porchlight. Everybody likes a clean, well-lit place.

  I was five minutes early, so I found a booth by a window that looked onto Broad Street. I ordered coffee and waited for the silver Audi to appear. Alex was right on time. When he slid into the place across the table from me, I tried not to show that I was shaken by his appearance. His complexion was grey, and the skin under his eyes was pouched and dark. Without being summoned, the waitress brought him a coffee with two creams and a sugar. Obviously in the weeks since we’d broken up, Alex had become a Brenners regular.

  He opened the cream containers and the sugar package and dumped everything into his cup. “How was Christmas?”

  “I’ve had better,” I said. “And yours?”

  “I’ve had better too.” He stirred his coffee. “You said this was about business, Jo. What’s up?”

  My plan was to be brisk, objective, and matter-of-fact. But seated across from this man with whom I had shared every possible intimacy for three years, the words tumbled out. “I’m scared,” I said. “Scared and exhausted and confused. I’ve got a ton of information. I don’t know what any of it means. I keep banging into walls and stumbling into dead ends.”

  Alex gave me the smallest of smiles. “Sounds like we’re working the same case,” he said.

  “Then let’s help each other. My concern is Jill. Yours is the truth. There’s no conflict of interest here, Alex.”

  His gaze was assessing. “You’re suggesting we share information.”

  “Not everything,” I said quickly. “I know this is irregular, but I thought we could just ask each other a few questions. No obligation to answer unless we wanted to.”

  I could see him deciding. “So who gets to go first?” he asked.

  “You can,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “The Toronto police went to Evan MacLeish’s office to see who he’d been in contact with before his death. The place had been picked clean. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to fill me in?”

  “No.”

  Alex shook his head. “Off to a great start. Do I get to go again?”