“Perhaps Miss Baxter would like a cup of tea,” I say in an effort to smooth things over. Elsie returns Debbie’s stare but doesn’t say no to the tea.
I lead Elsie to the boardroom, where police reports are scattered in piles at the far end of the table. She surveys the room contemptuously before falling into a chair with a huff.
“Good of you to come, Miss Baxter,” I purr.
The arrival of twin cups of tea spares Elsie a response.
“Waste of time,” she growls as Debbie retreats. “Vera killed Olivia, that’s the long and short of it.”
This interview is going nowhere fast. I need Elsie on our side. At least a little. “That’s up to the jury to decide. But we need to get Olivia’s story before the jury. That’s where you come in. You were her best friend. You knew her better than anyone else, better even than her family, perhaps. You spent so much time together. You must miss her.”
“Of course I do.” Her eyes grow misty, and she blinks a few times. “I miss her terribly.”
“From everything I’ve heard, she was a remarkable woman.”
“So what do you want of me?” Elsie asks, straightening.
“I suppose I just want to understand how it was with you and Olivia. You met in college, correct?”
“Yes, we met in first year arts. For some strange reason, we hit it off from the beginning. We were so different. I was big and bony and—yes, I admit it—even then I was a bit eccentric. Olivia was petite and feminine, the perfect young lady. People would shake their heads when they saw us together, saw how we loved each other. Oh, don’t get me wrong, nothing sexual like nowadays. Our union was—how shall I put it?—strictly spiritual. Still, it survived. We went our separate ways. She got married, had Vera, moved into her nice little house and became a mother. I understood. I respected her choices, but I was always there for her. Especially in the end—” She breaks off. “But I expect you know about that.”
“About what, Miss Baxter?”
“About her wish to end her life in dignity. Olivia was suffering and wanted to go. I’m not upset about her death, but I am upset about the way it was done. I’ve spent the last decade fighting for the right of people like Olivia to die with dignity. What happened to her”—she looks away—“whatever you may say about it, it was not death with dignity. Sudden, unexpected, no time to settle her affairs, no time to compose her mind, no time to say goodbye to those she loved.”
Elsie stops to catch her breath. “Asthma,” she says, before continuing her tirade. “I could have forgiven Vera for taking Olivia’s life had she done it in the peaceful manner Olivia wanted. Indeed, I would have defended her right to do it. But I cannot forgive her for ending Olivia’s life in this—this barbarity. If they had passed the right law in the first place, Olivia would have received proper medical help and none of this would have happened.”
There’s something off about Elsie’s story. She knows something. I lean forward. “Assuming you’re right, what makes you so certain that Vera wasn’t following Olivia’s request to end her life that night? You came to see Olivia about two thirty the day she died. Did Olivia tell you she wasn’t yet ready?”
“What we talked about is our business.”
“Miss Baxter, did Olivia ask you to help her die?”
Her lips settle in a thin line. “No, Olivia did want to end her life, but the conversation was pointless. We both knew that; we’d been through it a dozen times. She didn’t meet the conditions of the law. As long as the doctors could keep her going with chemo, death wasn’t imminent.”
“Did you and Olivia discuss her changing her will to leave a bequest to Dying with Dignity?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Maria Rodriguez, the caretaker, heard you talking about it.”
“So what if I did? It had nothing to do with Vera killing Olivia. The only thing I can say is that it’s too bad Olivia didn’t live long enough to complete the new will.”
“Was that why she called the law firm?”
Elsie just shrugs.
“Olivia telephoned a lawyer at a small firm in Kerrisdale, Black and Conway, who visited her the afternoon after you stopped by—the afternoon of the night Olivia died,” I prompt.
“I know nothing about lawyers or of what Olivia may have told them. I left around three forty-five. Two days later, Mr. Quentin telephoned me to say she had died. That’s all I know.”
I give her a level look. I don’t believe her. “Miss Baxter, let’s stop playing games. We have reason to believe that Olivia intended to change her will, to leave a bequest to the Society for Dying with Dignity. Did you and Olivia discuss what sum she intended to leave to the society?”
“Ask the lawyer.”
“I will. But now I’m asking you.”
“And if I don’t tell you, you’ll subpoena me to tell the judge at trial?” she mocks.
“You got it.”
“It’s only hearsay anyway,” Elsie says. “Olivia could have changed the amount when she met with the lawyer.”
“You’re well-informed on the rules of evidence, Miss Baxter.” I don’t tell her that the judge would let the conversation in as context. “And you have a point; it doesn’t mean Olivia would actually have left the society the amount you discussed, or anything, for that matter. But the truth will come out; either you tell me now or you tell the judge.”
She eyes me cagily. “It was in the six figures. I won’t say more.”
I don’t say it, but that’s all I need. I look at the clock on the wall: ten fifty-nine. Kevin Brandt will be outside upset. “Thank you, Miss Baxter. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“Vera did a terrible thing,” Elsie mutters as she pushes herself up from the table. I hand over her cane. “But she’s not a bad person. She’s had a difficult life.”
I think of Vera’s lovely home, her respected husband, her beautiful son. “What do you mean, a difficult life?”
“Sometimes the best men make the worst husbands,” Elsie says with an arch of her eyebrow. “Goodbye, Miss Truitt.”
I want to ask Elsie what she means by her remark, probe into how it really was between Vera and Joseph, but I am behind schedule and Elsie is already shuffling out the door.
Jeff is in the hallway. “Elsie Baxter, I presume.” He tilts his head. “What did she say that has caused that look on your face?”
“The best men make the worst husbands,” I murmur. “Wonder what she meant.”
Jeff barks a short laugh. “Every woman married to a lawyer says that. Certainly my wife does. We work all the time.”
I nod, but my mind is elsewhere. The haiku comes back to me: Everything I touch with tenderness, alas, pricks like a bramble. I can’t stop thinking that it has something to do with the murder.
“Jilly?” Jeff asks.
I smile. “Yes, our partners are patient.”
“Speaking of patience,” Jeff says. “There’s an impatient Kevin Brandt in your office.”
“Thanks, Jeff.”
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. In my office, I find Kevin Brandt, beefy haunch raised, ankle over knee.
“Thank you for waiting, Mr. Brandt,” I say, forcing myself not to apologize. “It’s been a busy week.”
“I understand. I heard you’re defending Vera Quentin in her murder trial,” he says. “Sad story. I know Joseph a bit. He helped me out of a difficult situation a few years back. Wonderful man.”
“Indeed,” I reply, musing why Kevin insisted that I take his case. Maybe this time you thought the optics of a female lawyer would help, I think but don’t say. I fold my hands on my desk. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve found something that might help with the case,” he announces. “I was going through my agenda the other day, and I discovered I wasn’t in the office on April 2 when Ms. Simpson says I assaulted her.”
“Oh, where were you?”
“I was in the Okanagan, with Horst Riccardo.” He reaches into his briefcase and pu
lls out a day planner, shoves it across the desk to me. His pudgy finger points to April 2 and a note beside it. “Kelowna, dinner with Horst.”
“This is your handwriting.”
“Of course, but Horst will back me up. I called him yesterday. He checked his records—sure enough, he confirmed that I was with him.”
“Do you have anything else? Airline tickets? Gas charges? A hotel invoice? Something independent to prove you were in Kelowna?”
Kevin sits back, an aggrieved expression on his face. “I don’t know, but surely this proves—”
“What does Mr. Riccardo have?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”
I give him a sceptical look. Maybe Kevin actually was in Kelowna on April 2, but then again maybe he wasn’t. Rumour has it that Horst Riccardo, who has made and lost several fortunes on alcohol-infused pop, may not be entirely what he seems—stories circulate of sexual goings-on at his bachelor pad in Whistler. This new development is too convenient. Put the entry in your diary after the fact. Find a friend to back you up. For a fee, of course. Or maybe a favour. Men helping men.
“Were there other people at this dinner who can vouch for you?”
“No, it was just the two of us, at his house. The staff was out; they’d left a cold supper. We had business to discuss. He was interested in packaging for a new brand of bubbly he was bringing out.” He pauses, his small eyes narrowing to slits. “You don’t believe me, Ms. Truitt.”
“Whether I believe you is neither here nor there, Mr. Brandt. But you must understand that the Crown will imply that you’re creating an alibi on cross-examination. Without independent verification this entry might do your case more harm than good.”
He heaves an audible sigh. “That’s justice for you,” he says bitterly. “I’ll have to search my records.”
“You do that, Mr. Brandt. Is that all?”
He shifts. “Yeah, I guess that’s all.” He wraps his fists around the armrests of his chair and pushes himself up. “I’ll be on my way.”
Alone again, I pull out my notes from Elsie’s interview. So Olivia was planning on leaving a large amount to the Society for Dying with Dignity. What stopped her, I wonder. Not for the first time, I study the photo of Olivia on her birthday. What secrets were you hiding, Olivia?
CHAPTER 20
AFTER SPENDING THE BETTER PART of yesterday successfully keeping Clement James out of prison for forgetting his appointment with his counsellor, I’m back on Vera’s case, nosing my Mercedes through the streets of Kerrisdale.
I pull to the curb on West Forty-First, the hub of Kerrisdale. Once this was a modest high street, lined with bakeries and stationery shops where you could find anything from bestsellers to gewgaws for grandma. Now trendy fashions compete for space with sushi and the latest in bionic runners. I’m lucky to get a parking space, but then, I reflect, it’s too early for the hip crowd. I push past Lululemon—I could use some new Lycra, I think absently—and find the discreet door that will take me to an elevator and my destination: the offices of Black and Conway.
The décor speaks of quiet discretion—beige linen walls accented by framed sailboats, soft couches, the ubiquitous oriental carpet. A fig plant with large curved leaves stands in the corner to assure visitors that, yes, life is actually permitted on these premises.
I approach the half wall that separates the receptionist from the dead zone and give the name Richard’s investigations have revealed as the person who visited Olivia Stanton the day of her death: Riva Johnson.
“I’m afraid Ms. Johnson is busy,” the young woman behind the barrier informs me.
Yeah, I think, finishing her second coffee. Busy doesn’t quite fit here—the place is silent as a tomb.
“It’s important,” I say, and the woman rises with a grudging air and disappears into the dim recesses behind. “The name is Jilly Truitt,” I call to her retreating back.
Riva Johnson, when she appears, is tall and thin. Her dark suit hangs lankly over her androgynous form. She peers down at me through horn-rimmed glasses. I put her age at no more than twenty-five.
“Come with me,” Riva says.
She leads me down a long corridor and around the corner to her office. It’s small—a desk and two chairs, one for Riva, one for me. No photos, no ornaments, just a black screen and a keyboard.
“I’m Jilly Truitt,” I announce brightly. “I act for Vera Quentin. As you may have read, her trial for the murder of her mother, Olivia Stanton, begins on Monday.”
Riva twists a long shank of dirty-blond hair. “I don’t see what that has to do with me, Ms. Truitt.”
“Allow me to explain, Ms. Johnson. On the afternoon of August 10, 2019, you paid a call to the residence of Olivia Stanton—about four in the afternoon, according to her caregiver. Eight hours later, Olivia Stanton was dead. What you discussed may have a bearing on who killed her.”
She stops twirling her hair. “I have a vague recollection. Something to do with changing her will, I think. But nothing ever came of it because she died before we could follow up.”
“Surely, Ms. Johnson, you can do better than that.”
“As I recall, Mrs. Stanton asked Mr. Conway to come to her house to take instructions for her will. But Mr. Conway had prior commitments and asked me to go in his stead. Of course, Mr. Conway would have drafted the will when it came to that; my job was to take Mrs. Stanton’s instructions.” Her words are careful, precise.
“How did you find Mrs. Stanton?”
“I don’t remember much, except that she seemed somewhat overwrought. I thought she may have been crying. I can’t tell you what we discussed—solicitor-client privilege.”
I give her a level look. “May I suggest you reconsider? A person’s innocence is at stake, and Olivia is dead. I’ll apply to have the privilege set aside. The judge will let it in.”
She falls back on her refuge. “I can’t tell you anything without consulting Mr. Conway first.”
I see it for what it is—a stall. Talk to her, Mr. Conway told her, but don’t tell her anything. They’ve been expecting me.
“I suggest you do that,” I say pleasantly. “May I add, I need the information immediately? The trial begins Monday. This is pertinent information. If you are unable to provide it, I will have no choice but to issue a subpoena.”
Riva flushes. “I can assure you that what I discussed with Olivia Stanton has no relevance to your case. Anyway, everybody knows—”
“Everybody knows what, Ms. Johnson?”
“Everybody knows that Vera Quentin killed her,” she says faintly.
“No one knows, Ms. Johnson,” I say as I rise. “The trial has not yet been held. If I may offer a piece of professional advice, never prejudge guilt. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you could let me see the file on your visit to Mrs. Stanton.”
“The file is confidential, too. Solicitor-client privilege. I told you.” There is a shrill edge to her voice.
“Very well, Ms. Johnson.” I hand her a card. “Call me by four this afternoon if you want to talk. Otherwise, you may expect a subpoena.”
I reclaim my car and head south to West Broadway. Abandoning it in an underground lot, I head up a set of modern outdoor steps to Complete Health Medical Clinic. The sunny second-floor waiting room is full of milling patients. Ignoring the long line in front of the reception bank, I catch the eye of a grey-haired woman at the side. A few words, a short wait on a stiff plastic chair. “Dr. Menon will see you now,” she says. A man in the line glares at me as I follow the woman into the inner sanctum of the clinic and a consultation room.
“Ms. Truitt. I’ve been wondering when you would arrive to ask about Olivia Stanton,” Dr. Menon says. His white smock is crisp against his brown skin. I note his name in a cursive font over the front pocket. “The police talked to me briefly a very long time ago, and just last week a young lawyer from the Crown—Jonathan something—phoned to say they would be calling me as a witness. Surely the defenc
e lawyers will soon be here, I thought. But no one came.”
I decide not to remind him that I have been trying to contact him for two weeks, only to be told that the doctor is booked solid.
“I’ve come,” I say, taking a seat. “I act for Vera Quentin, the person accused of murdering Mrs. Stanton.”
“What I know may have nothing to do with Mrs. Stanton’s death,” he says, “but those dealing with its aftermath should understand the situation she was in.”
“Tell me about her visit, Dr. Menon, her situation, as you put it.”
“I’ve been Olivia’s GP for twelve years. She had many problems: bladder cancer, chemo, constant pain. And then, a month or so before she died, she came to me with another worry.”
“Which was?”
“She had two worries, in fact,” he says, correcting himself. “The first was her desire to end her life. She was suffering greatly, sick to death of the nausea and the pain. She wanted me to organize assistance in dying. You may judge me cruel, but I told her I could not. I told her she would get through this, and with luck, enjoy many more years. You know better than I, Ms. Truitt, the law Parliament passed requires that death be imminent. I’m a bit of a stickler for the law.”
“What was the second problem?” I ask.
“She wanted me to test her for dementia.”
I sit back in surprise. A bit forgetful, Joseph had told me.
“I did a few tests myself, then sent her to a neurologist, Dr. Sharma. On that last visit, we discussed the results of Dr. Sharma’s testing.”
“And?”
“The diagnosis was clear. Olivia Stanton was suffering from early stage dementia. She was a very intelligent woman and able to cover up for her failings with family and friends. But the lesions, the plaque buildup in the brain left no room for doubt about the prognosis. We talked about what it meant. I told her she could probably count on a few more months of good mental health, but the confusion and forgetfulness she had been experiencing would increase. I told her no one could predict how fast this would happen. I can get you Dr. Sharma’s report if you wish, Ms. Truitt. I’ll have the nurse dig it up before you leave.”
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