by Anne Emery
“We haven’t even got to me yet!” Normie complained. “It’s all Tom!”
“So I thought maybe you’d like to join us.”
“Uh, well, I can’t.”
“Other plans, have you? Maybe I should have asked what you’re wearing after all.”
“I’m sitting here wrapped up in cellophane, barely held together with duct tape, and a big pink bow on top, just waiting for someone to come in and claim the prize.”
“I take it that if I show up, all I’ll get is the consolation prize.”
“Yeah. For you, I’ll put on a baby-poop yellow velour track suit.”
“So I’m hearing a no.”
“Your intellectual growth astounds me.”
“Brennan’s here too.”
“And he’s been listening to this conversation?”
“No, until you raised your voice to an operatic shriek, he could only hear me. Now everybody can hear you.”
“Tell the kids I’m sorry, and I’d love to watch the slides another night.”
“I am in possession of the slides.”
“So you’re part of the deal. Well, I’ll just have to grit my teeth and bear it.”
“I’m looking forward to it too. Good night, my love.”
Brennan looked at me with his eyebrow raised.
“I’ve got her eating out of my hand,” I told him. “Next slide there, Normie.”
She clicked through the slides at warp speed until we got to her, then resumed a more leisurely pace and lingered over every image of her babyhood. The kids drifted away when the show was over.
“You and herself looked happy enough in the early days,” Burke remarked.
“We were.”
“So, tell me. Not in excruciating detail, but what in the hell went wrong?”
I sighed and put down my beer. “Where to begin? MacNeil and I had planned everything out. We would not let work rule our lives, we would devote our time to each other and to the six children we intended to have. We spent a year in London, where she got her master’s degree in law and I worked in a storefront legal clinic in the city’s east end. We had the time of our lives. We came back, and I joined Legal Aid; she was teaching at the law school. We had Tommy Douglas. We were ecstatic. A few years of Legal Aid work and I was starting to burn out, or so I thought. Sometimes I had two trials in a day, plus arraignments, sentencings, client appointments, on and on. Rowan Stratton, after my brother married his daughter — well, you know Stephen and Janet — Rowan began his campaign to lure me into private practice. He wanted me for civil trials but offered to let me take on criminal clients as well because he knew I wouldn’t move otherwise. You know how popular that has been in the firm. Anyway, I left Legal Aid, a move I question to this day. I was on the billable hours treadmill and ended up working evenings, weekends, and holidays. We had two children, and I hardly ever saw them. The tension between me and MacNeil grew in inverse proportion to the amount of time I was able to enjoy at home.
“We spent a year looking forward to a vacation in New Brunswick, to get ourselves back on track as a family. We had rented a cottage and we lived for the day we could get out of town and have three whole weeks with the kids on the beach. It ended up I had to work; had to fly to Toronto at the insistence of a client. That was it for Maura. Either I cared more for work than I did for her and the children — not true — or I was a pathetic lackey who didn’t have the balls to tell the firm to stuff it. I like to think that wasn’t true, either. I cut down my hours, with a corresponding reduction in pay, so I could spend time with my family. Who by then were living without me in my beloved house on Dresden Row. But at least when it was my week for the kids I had the time for them, time I have jealously guarded to this day.”
“So why couldn’t you work it out, once you’d cut back on your hours?”
“Because by that time, which is par for the course in these things, we had both done things that we are still throwing in each other’s faces to this day. Everything turns into a shitstorm. Everything. It all came to a head when I went away for a weekend and came back to find she’d taken all my belongings from the house and put them in storage.”
“She what?”
“After that, I cleaned out our joint savings account.”
“You what?”
“We had a special high-interest account in both our names, and after she gave me the boot, I cleaned it out.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Collins.”
“It’s not as bad as it seems. It all started when I went away for a weekend. I had tickets for some Expos games in Montreal. This was a long-planned getaway for me, Ed Johnson, and a couple of other guys. But coming on the heels of the missed summer vacation, it was not a popular move. Which I can understand. And she thought that, with Ed along, it would turn into a weekend of boozing and going to strip joints and Christ knows what else.”
“And did it?”
“No. We went to the games, we did some bar-hopping. It was all quite civilized. But when I got home there was nobody there. All my things were gone. All I saw was an envelope saying Collins. That’s all she wrote, as they say. And in it was a key to a storage warehouse in Dartmouth. She had kicked me out. Of my own house.”
“The family home.”
“You’re getting wild all over again.”
“So would you. And don’t bother to deny it; I know you too well. Anyway, it’s a good thing she made herself scarce. She’d taken the kids to Cape Breton for the week. I rented a hotel room and went house-hunting the next day. The day after that, I found this place. Instead of getting a mortgage, which she would have been required to sign, I went for the savings account. That and some investments I had on my own were enough to pay for the house. By the time she showed her face in town again, I was the owner of a new house, and the money was gone.”
“Mother of Christ!”
“The thing about this bank account was that it was meant for the children’s education.”
“This is getting worse by the minute.”
“Not really. It just sounds it. The way my wife grew up, money was a scarce commodity, never to be squandered. Her dad was a coal miner with seven kids. They didn’t have much. And she was determined to put aside every cent we could spare for Tom and Normie’s future. This money to her was sacred. Untouchable.”
“You knew it would be devastating to her, and you stole it!”
“I didn’t steal it. It was half mine, and I merely reinvested it. She went thermonuclear when she found out. But she knew there was no loss of the kids’ money. The money was now in this house, which would increase in value. Which it has, greatly. As long as we were still married, I couldn’t sell it without her signature. If we divorced I would have to settle with her. If I died, it would all go to them anyway. Plus I had other money stashed away for the children. She knew all that but wasn’t about to admit it during the firestorm over the bank account. To this day, if you want to get her wound up —”
“No, thank you.”
“And since then, it is I — old faithful Monty, patient, shit-eatin’ Monty — who has made all the efforts to reconcile.”
“This Bev must be a bit of a stumbling block,” Brennan suggested. “MacNeil walks in on the two of you here at the house, and then Bev shows up and makes a grab for you at the Metro Centre. This woman has been nothing but a jinx for you, Collins, when you think of it.”
“Maura blows it all out of proportion. It’s not hearts and flowers with Bev, on my part or on hers. It’s physical. Period. And MacNeil took up with that Giacomo character —”
“All right, all right. How’s the investigation coming along?”
It took me a few seconds to calm down and refocus. I told him about Dice Campbell’s gun. “And,” Brennan said, “Campbell was tied in with the Colosseum.”
“Right. My secretary is picking up the CHECA award photos tomorrow. We’ll present them to Vernon, see if he recognizes any of Halifax’s top citizens from his t
ime as a Gladiator.”
†
The next morning, Friday, I dialled the rectory at St. Bernadette’s, but Burke wasn’t in, so I left a message with the priests’ housekeeper, Mrs. Kelly. “Get Father Burke to call me right away. Tell him I have the negatives.”
He called me in the afternoon. “Jazes, Murphy, and Jameson, would you ever be drivin’ an oul woman into an early grave? Poor Mrs. Kelly looked as if her heart was going to give out when I got in and she rushed me at the door. She usually avoids me like the Antichrist. ‘You had a call, Father! He says he has the negatives!’ So, what have you got?”
“I’ve arranged all the esteemed citizen photos in a little package. I glanced at them. The usual suspects. Where can we find Vernon?”
“At his regular table, I imagine.”
Brennan met me at the door of the rectory, and we set out on foot to Cornwallis Park, where Vernon had taken up residence.
We took him once again to the South End Diner, got him seated, and then I spread out my sheets of photos. I knew a number of the people who had received the CHECA award, and I recognized most of the other names. Rowan Stratton, my boss, was there, and his wife, Sylvia. Our other founding partner, Adrian Sommers, was one of the earliest recipients; he died shortly after he received the honour. I saw Angus Rennie Baird on the list; he would be the son, or perhaps the grandson, of the Wallace Rennie Baird for whom the treatment centre was named. Justice John Trevelyan was there, real estate developer Kenneth Fanshaw, a local newscaster, a rabbi, Canon Alistair Scott, and a number of Rotary and Chamber of Commerce stalwarts.
“All right, Vernon, you know what we’re trying to do,” Brennan said. “Monty will show you a series of photographs. Take your time with them, and tell us if you recognize any of these people from the Colosseum.”
The photos were four to a page, with short biographies, presented in alphabetical order. I passed the first sheet to Vernon. No reaction. Next page and the next, same thing.
“Looks like you struck out, young Monty!” Vernon announced, with a superior smile. “We’re wasting our time here, gentlemen! If there’s no further business, I suggest we adjourn!”
I flipped a couple more pages at him. He had his arms folded across his chest; he shook his head at each sheet of pictures. Then his face went rigid.
“Do you recognize someone?”
“Oh, no. No, no. This won’t work.”
“Let me see the picture, Vernon.” He reached over and swept all the pages off the counter. “Vernon, show us who it was.”
“It was the whole bunch of them! They were all in on it! Don’t try to find me!” And with that, he fled the diner.
“Jesus Christ. What do we do now? I didn’t count the number of pages I gave him before he reacted. But even if I had, they’re all —”
“Settle yourself down, young Monty,” Brennan said, as he bent under the counter and gathered up the pages. “It was this one.” He handed me a page.
“How do you know?”
“Because this woman’s name caught my eye when Vernon was looking at it. Maude Gunn. I noticed it because of Maud Gonne, a well-known figure in Irish history.”
I looked at the page he’d given me. “Maude Gunn. She must be seventy. Gilbert Fraser. He was a judge on the Court of Appeal. Dead fifteen years. Rabbi Abraham Greenberg. Abe Greenberg? I’d suspect you before I suspected him.”
“I wasn’t even in town.”
“You’d still be guiltier than Abe. That leaves us with only one suspect, real estate mogul and man about town Kenneth Fanshaw. Well! Are you sure this was the page that set him off?”
“This was it.”
†
I knew my fellow barrister Al MacDonald had lunch at the Lower Deck every day he could manage it. I was hoping Al would be useful in two ways. He knew everyone in the city, and he might tell me something about Kenneth Fanshaw. He might also do a bit of boasting about his involvement in the Bromley Point project. On Monday I found him in the pub, sitting with a young lawyer named Bruce Ferguson at one of the long lacquered tables.
“Al! How’s it going?”
“Hey, Collins. Just coming in for lunch? Have a seat.”
“Hi, Bruce.”
“How’re you doing, Monty?”
We gave our orders and made small talk for a few minutes. It was not long before Bromley Point was on the table for discussion: Bruce asked Al whether he had any cases on next door in the Law Courts that afternoon.
“Nope. I’m taking a drive out Highway 103 to hear the music of jackhammers and piledrivers. Going out to view the scene.”
“Ogle the scene, he means, Monty. Al eats, sleeps, and dreams — I don’t even want to think about what else he does — the Bromley Point development.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen a lot of smiling faces around here lately, yours among them, Al. You finally got the green light, eh? How long was that thing on hold, anyway?”
“Six years, Monty.” He began speaking in a heavy Scottish accent, rubbing his hands together in a parody of the happy miser. “Interest rates have been close to ten percent on average over the past few years, and when you compound it . . . A lot of lawyers are owed a lot of money in back pay, and a happier few invested money of our own. It’s the future profits that have us in thrall.”
“Who was in on that? Lawyers, I mean?”
He rattled off a dozen names.
“I heard Dice Campbell was representing one of the contractors,” I prompted.
“Oh, yeah, big time. Not one of the contractors, one of the developers. Poor old Dice. If only he’d hung on, he’d be sitting in clover today.”
“Well, somebody must be. His partners?” Bruce asked.
“Dice didn’t have any partners. This was all before your time, Bruce. Dice was a solo act. Looks like widow takes all. Good time to buy stock in Glenfiddich Company Limited. Ever see that woman drink? Man, can she slam it back! You weren’t there for any of the chugging contests, were you, Monty?”
“If I was, I don’t remember.”
“A bunch of them used to go to the Bulb and get blitzed. They had these chugging contests — you’d think they were a bunch of frat boys — and Mavis would be the last one standing every time. She even drank Ed Johnson under the table. Literally. The way I heard it, he just slid down in his chair and under the table, out cold. Women obviously have even more biological advantages than the ones we know about. Well, now she’s got a financial advantage — she’ll never draw another sober breath. Which, strange to say, may be good news for those who know her. You’ve heard of mean drunks? Not Mavis. But she’s damn nasty when she isn’t oiled up.”
“Was Dice his real name?” Bruce asked.
“Nope — it was Darren. Got the nickname in high school. Even then he was a black-belt gambler. Poor bastard. I heard gambling debts were the reason he took a leap out his window. One way to cancel your debts to the kind of people who can’t legally enforce them. When you think of it, a big chunk of the Bromley Point windfall would have gone straight into the pockets of some very unsavoury people if Dice had lived.”
But he hadn’t. “Will these people try to collect from his widow, do you think?”
“I doubt it. If they were going to go after her, they would have already. It’s not as if she’s been penniless. She’s got money, and no troglodytes have come down from Montreal to break her legs in all this time. So I’d say Mavis will be doing the Merry Widow Waltz from here on in.”
The waiter brought our plates, and we turned our attention to lunch. After a few minutes, I eased into the subject that had brought me to the pub.
“Somebody told me Kenneth Fanshaw has a big piece of the Bromley Point action,” I remarked. I had no idea whether he did, but the odds were in my favour.
“Oh, yeah, he’s all over it,” MacDonald confirmed.
“I don’t really know the guy. What’s he like?”
“He’s excellent!” Bruce exclaimed. Al took a twenty-dollar bill from his wal
let, rolled it up, and pretended to snort a line of cocaine. Bruce was oblivious of Al’s pantomime. “Mr. Fanshaw has done so much for this city. And the business community. Three new businesses —”
“Did somebody say ‘biz’?” Al interrupted. “Know what he called his first boat?”
“No.”
“The Biz-Mark. There was a lot of Johnny Horton karaoke happening around the yacht club scene in those years.”
“Who’s Johnny Horton?” Bruce asked.
“You’re a child in a man’s clothing, Bruce. Johnny Horton was a famous historian.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he made history accessible to the common folk by singing about it. One of his songs was ‘Sink the Bismarck.’ Fanshaw was too proud to change the name, so he got rid of the boat. Time to trade up anyway.”
“As I was saying,” Bruce resumed, “three businesses in as many months have decided to relocate here on the strength of Mr. Fanshaw’s powers of persuasion.”
“He’s your client, Brucie. What else are you going to say?”
“My firm’s client, not mine. But seriously, he’s a great guy. And Mrs. Fanshaw is one of Halifax’s brightest stars when it comes to charity.”
“You’re starting to believe your own press, there, Bruce. Are you guys their publicists? ‘Metro’s Hottest Couple,’ ‘Halifax’s Rising Hostess,’ ‘This Year’s Must-Have Invitation.’”
“Where are you getting all this bullshit, MacDonald?” “I guess you don’t read the social pages, Collins. You probably tune it all out.”
“You got that right.”
“I, on the other hand, read every word of our local papers even if I have to choke on some of it. It’s entertaining. And sometimes it points to new opportunities in the form of billable hours.”
“Speaking of Fanshaw et al, I have to get back to the office and do some work on the public hearing about the homeless shelter,” Bruce announced. “There’s always somebody bitching whenever somebody tries to do good.” He pushed his chair back and dropped some bills on the table. “See you gentlemen later.”
“Enthusiastic young lad,” I commented after he was gone.