by S. Robertson
Rodolfo was relieved when a guard appeared at his cell to say that his big-wig Halifax lawyer had arrived and wanted to see him. Rudolfo smiled saying to himself, “Good old Antonino, he came through. That clever brain had a back up plan after all.” Confident of release, Rudolfo strutted beside the guard to the interview room.
He entered a semi-dark lounge to greet an aging, overweight, balding man dressed in an expensive dark suit, standing with a small box in his hand and a rather odd smile. As he stepped forward to greet his client for the first time he said in a friendly manner, “Well, its’ good to see you. How are you being treated? Is everything OK?” Providing no time for a reply, he continued, “I’ve brought some personal items and that Turkish candy you like.” Without missing a beat he passed the box to the guard, “This officer needs to check the contents while you and I chat. It’s a bit late and we have little time.” Looking at the guard he asked “May I speak with my client at the far table?” Getting a positive nod, he maneuvered Rudolfo to a table the farthest distance from the seated guard.
Rudolfo noted the lawyer’s clever avoidance of names.
As they sat down the lawyer proceeded in whispered tones. “My name is Fred Simpson from the Halifax law firm of Quinn, Graham and Green. Your friend from Italy contacted our firm but I had no discussion with him. So let’s get started. Your arrest record states you assaulted an elderly woman in this community, a woman you didn’t know. So, just answer quickly the following questions.
“Did you plan this attack?”
“Not me, but it was planned.”
“How did you get access to the house?”
“I picked the front door lock. It was easy.”
“How many times did you hit her?”
“Maybe four to five times…..light taps. I just wanted to scare her.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking why you were here in Canada. Never mind, it’s not my job to know such details. Have you made any written or verbal statement to the police since you were arrested?”
“No, I’ve been silent,” Rudolfo replied triumphantly.
“Absolutely nothing?” the lawyer asked with a slight note of disbelief.
“Absolutely zip,” replied Rudolfo running his fingers across his lips. “But, you’ll have to work fast for it’s just a matter of time before my past catches up to me.”
Confidently, Fred responded. “No rush, everything’s in hand. I have already contacted an Island lawyer and tomorrow we shall work on your bail. Remember, in the meantime, it’s imperative you continue this silence. Talk to no one and say nothing. Is that clear?” the last phrase came as a command.
“You can count on me,” Rudolfo winked. He never questioned the proceedings, all he saw was escape. His mind was focused on how easy he could slip out of Canada into the USA.
The guard noted Rudolfo had been speaking English to his lawyer, approached the table. “Everything’s OK, just basics and some candy,” and slid the box towards Rudolfo.
Rudolfo briefly examined the contents, thinking, “I’ll need a change of underwear for tomorrow. The candy’s a plus.”
Fred, noting his time was up, stood to leave. He turned to the guard with a gracious farewell, “Thank you for letting me see my client. This is all for tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Nothing seemed amiss.
As the three moved towards the doorway, Fred slapped Rodolfo on the back with a cheery farewell. “Have a good night’s sleep, my boy, everything will be settled in the morning.”
Rudolfo returned to his cell, placed the box on his side table, had two pieces of the candy and prepared for bed. Just before dozing off he thought, “Odd, that lawyer never took a note and that sickening smile….. Where have I seen it before? Who cares, tomorrow I’ll be free.” He drifted off to sleep.
The next morning when there was no response from the cell occupant the morning guard opened the cell to discover the cold lifeless body of Rudolfo, his appearance indicating he had been dead for hours. All hell broke loose as the jail exploded with the news.
Shortly after 10:30am an urgent meeting was held at the jail with Conrad Burke, the city Chief of Police, Stuart Baxter, an RCMP Superintendent, and Mike Fraser, the Jail Administrator.
Conrad’s fury was palpable as he began, “This is the worst God awful mess I’ve ever encountered and likely one with painful consequences for all of us. A leading citizen of this city, Nellie Gordon, is attacked in her home by an outsider and, just fifteen minutes ago, I received word that she has died in hospital. Her assailant is an international, petty crook, identified through Interpol as Rudolfo Marquis of Calabria. This international criminal arrives on the Island with a precise target. We have no idea why. He gets arrested in the act of assaulting Nellie. We get little out of him on admission and he gets killed while a guest of the city jail. The coroner is certain it is a poison and has already ruled out the candy delivered by his so-called lawyer. He’s still investigating. His lawyer, a Fred Simpson, does not exist. The Halifax law firm of Quinn, Graham and Green has never heard of him nor is he listed in any legal firm anywhere in the Maritimes. So, we must assume this was a false identity however well informed he was on our legal system. In summary, on this fair Island for the first time in its history we are facing an international crime spree in which we have two dead bodies, one a leading citizen and the other an Italian, who we can assume was eliminated by a hired hit man. Who organized and paid for all this we have no idea nor do we have any leads. Within hours, we will need a reasonable explanation behind these two deaths and what we are doing about it or otherwise we’re going to look like a pack of idiots. Does that pretty well sum up the hell we’re in?”
Mike, looking weary and feeling the brunt of the fury, responded. “I can assure you that everything was properly carried out. The so-called lawyer had all the right credentials, and knew the names of key Island lawyers. He was given fifteen minutes under guard to talk to his client. They did not drink anything and, as observed, nothing except this small box containing underwear, toiletries and candy, passed between them.”
Stuart stepped in, “Have they been able to get any fingerprints off the box?”
“No,” replied John.” It was rough material and before you ask, this guy cleverly managed to avoid touching anything.”
Conrad, reducing his anger, went on, “I’m not making any insinuations of mismanagement, Mike, someone has cleverly manipulated this whole scen-ario. A very fine woman is dead and the citizens of this city will be up in arms about this. The fact that an outsider has slipped onto the Island to perpetrate such a deed will threaten the security of many. Irrespective of a criminal nature of this case we are standing here with our trousers down with no information. That’s why I’m upset. Stuart, do you have anything to add?”
Stuart now began to give his assessment, “This has the markings of organized crime, but why? Surely, our upstanding citizen, Nellie Gordon, has nothing of value to attract such criminals nor is there any evidence that she or any member of her family has been involved in criminal activity. Yet, she was definitely the target. This wasn’t a mistake. Marquis had a printout of her B&B in his belongings. We have to get into Nellie’s house and find out what they are after, as it’s clear there is more than one party involved. The situation has just got more complicated as, I understand, Nellie’s granddaughter arrived home from Halifax to be with her grandmother. She is living in the house and could well be the next target. Whatever these criminals are after they may try again. Let me talk to Jock MacAndrew, he’s the family doctor and may have some answers. Leave it to me. I’ll get back to you later today if I learn anything. In the meantime, I think Nellie’s residence and her granddaughter needs our attention. Conrad can you increase your patrols and I’ll see what I can do behind the scene. This wave of killings may not be over. Talk to you both later.”
Days later the coroner would identify the rare poison as that of the Golden Poison Frog and discovered a fine pin prick on the back
of Rudolfo’s back, the location of Fred’s final farewell.
* * *
Canada, Charlottetown: A Secret Revealed
Angi woke from a dreamless sleep. “One o’clock. My God, I’ve overslept! I must get back to the hospital,” she thought, dashing into the en suite bathroom to take a shower.
Downstairs, Dave was manning the phones and door. He and James had organized a form of shift duty between Nellie’s place and their usual government meetings. Busy with the inquisitive and do-gooders, Dave spent the morning storing donated baked goods from the townspeople and diplomatically fielding Margo’s insistence that she had to be in charge.
After a shower, Angi slipped on a pair of pale blue slacks and light blouse. As she unpacked and was storing her suitcase in the closet, she noticed her Irish harp, the clarsach, resting elegantly on the dresser. “My old friend, how I’ve neglected you in the past few years,” she said to herself. As if responding to the attention, the twenty-six string Brigit harp beckoned to be played. As Angi picked up the harp to tune it, old familiar memories reappeared.
Up to the age of seven, music had not been a dominant interest in her life. So it was perplexing when, out of the blue, an elderly relative on her grandmother’s side arrived from Georgetown, with a small Celtic harp wrapped in a plaid woolen blanket. This boisterous, middle aged, woman, insisted that Nellie had a duty to make sure that Angi learned to play the Celtic harp. Angi, fascinated by the small harp, fell under its spell when this strange relative began to play a Celtic lullaby. With limited funds music lessons seemed an unattainable luxury. But, undaunted, this relative agreed to pay for the lessons and had already contacted a Celtic harp teacher in the western part of the Island, a rare entity in the province at the time. Thus began a nine year program of music lessons, enhanced by the strange but enchanting qualities of the teacher.
Within weeks of the harp’s arrival, Albert Aucoin appeared. Angi remembered opening the front door to a small, unkempt, stooped, elderly man, with a strong French accent, and disturbingly long fingernails. Every month this strange man appeared for their three hour music lesson, usually on a Saturday morning.
In time, Angi learned that Mr. Aucoin, the last member of his family line, had come to live on the Island with distant relatives. He was a descendant of generations of harp players, his ancestor being one to the Irish gentry who were expelled to France in the 1600s. The expulsion, known as the ‘Flight of the Wild Geese’, involved 14,000 soldiers and 10,000 women and children, their descendants becoming French citizens, many forgetting their Irish roots. One positive outcome of this horrific event was the survival of Celtic harp music in Europe when it had practically ceased in Ireland under centuries of an English ban on its playing.
Angi’s initial uneasiness with her mentor quickly evaporated under his enthusiastic love of the harp and his mysterious presence. In looking back she thought, “Mr. Aucoin, a harpist to Irish royalty, had stepped out of time.”
Within months her rough musical efforts mellowed under a steady program of basic music reading, cord building, improvisation, composing and arranging. Mr. Aucoin was a stern master but each lesson was softened with his fascinating stories of the harp’s ancient roots in Egypt, the Middle East, Europe and the Celtic Isles. Later he charmed her with tales of the Tuatha De Danann, the old Irish gods/goddesses, known as the fairy race of Ireland. She especially loved the story of the magic harp owned by the good god of the faeries, Dagda Mor, which flew through the air when summoned. She chuckled remembering the times she tried calling her harp from her bed, expecting it to fly through the air, but it never did. She could still hear his voice as he reverently referred to the harp as ‘the voice of the gods’, because its resonance could bring joy, sorrow, enchantment or healing to its listener. It was an instrument associated with magic, and these were magical memories.
In reverence, Angi picked up her own harp, wondering if her shortened fingernails might now be a handicap. Conducting a brief meditation to center herself in preparation, she began, letting the healing vibrations of the music flow through her. The music drifted out the open bedroom window, a slow, soft musical interpretation of the Secret Garden-Nocturne.
At this moment, three men approached the front door, a small man between two taller men, one in uniform. Listening to the music Alex Dumont said to his companions, “What a beautiful piece of music, almost a lament. Is that a harp? It must be Angi. You’d almost think she knew?”
Jock replied, “Well, that wouldn’t be a surprise. Nellie Gordon was known to have ‘Second Sight’ which has likely been passed on to her granddaughter. Somewhere in Angi’s soul the death of her grandmother has already registered. She was a fine Celtic harp player in her youth. It’s good she’s not lost the gift.” Pressing the door bell he continued, “Nevertheless, gentlemen, this does not make our task any easier.”
Dave, opening the door, knew by the presence of the three men what was in store. Entering the living room, the four men stood in silence as they waited for the music to cease. On its completion, Dave went to the bottom of the stairs and called gently, “Angi, you have company. Can you come down?”
“I’m on my way,” was the quick response. Angi stopped midway on the stairs when she saw the three men, knowing what news they brought.
Jock stepped forward and spoke, “Angi, I’m truly sorry to be the bearer of such sad news. Your grandmother passed away this morning at ten. The strain on her heart was just too great.”
Angi felt the urge to scream, “No, no, not my dear Gran. It’s too soon. There are too many unanswered questions!” But her professional training immediately overpowered the urge as she faced the reality before her. Without siblings, and being the last in her grandmother’s line, she had to stand tall.
Jock continued, “Angi you know Alex Dumont, your grandmother’s lawyer.” Alex nodded. And turning he motioned to the third member of the group, “And this is Superintendent Stuart Baxter of the RCMP, an old friend of mine.” Letting this register, he went on. “Angi, I hate to place more stress on you at this time, but the situation has become rather complicated. The man that attacked your grandmother has died in custody.”
“What?” replied a startled Angi trying hard to grasp the enormity of the situation. “How could that happen?”
Jock replied in a steady refrain, “Somehow, we think, he was poisoned. The situation is under investigation. But this means there are others involved in this attack on your grandmother. What is troubling all of us is that we have no idea what they are after. Do you, Angi?”
Before Angi had time to respond, Alex stepped forward, “Angi, the day before Nellie was attacked, she appeared in my office with this letter, saying it was to remain sealed and given to you if anything happened to her before your scheduled summer vacation. Before I had a chance to get anything else out of her she abruptly left.” He passed the letter to Angi.
Alex continued as Angi examined the letter. “Angi you know your grandmother’s estate goes to you. You will need to come to my office to sign some papers. Angi, I knew your great-grandparents, grandparents and your mother over the past decades, and yet I stand here today with no idea why anyone would want to attack Nellie. As far as I know, other than this house, your grandmother possessed few assets of any value. Is that true?”
Angi opened the letter. As expected her grandmother was directing her to contact the American and Irish Guardians, indicating that Angi might have to travel to the United States as she was now one of the Guardians of the medallion. Angi returned the letter to its envelope and stared at the four men, her thoughts racing, “How much can I trust these men with this centuries-old family secret? In light of my own health I am left with few alternatives. I must trust someone, for I may not live long enough to be a Guardian to anything.” Glancing upward she said to herself, “Forgive me Gran, for the first time in our family, I am the one that must break this code of silence. Whatever punishment this may entail, here goes.”
“Actually,
there is something. It’s very old. I have no idea of its value but it was the last thing Gran talked about in the hospital and it’s referred to in this letter. Come with me.” The four men followed her upstairs to her grandmother’s bedroom.
Finding the skeleton key in the drawer of her grandmother’s bedside table, she inserted it into the timeworn bronze lock on the wooden trunk and raised the heavy oval lid revealing a cluttered interior.
“Angi, this trunk looks like something from a pirate movie,” said Jock, seeing the trunk for the first time.
It’s over three hundred years old,” replied Angi, “It’s been in the family for generations. While this old trunk may have its own mystery, it’s what inside that may be the reason for the attack.” She reached in and pulled out a large triangular shaped item wrapped in a thick gray-woven material.
“What’s that?” asked Dave.
Angi removed the covering to reveal a Celtic harp of exquisite beauty, the gold and jewels sparking in the sunlight. The thirty stringed harp measuring about thirty-three inches tall and eighteen inches wide, glistened with gold and silver carvings on every inch of its case. The instrument was engraved with a fantasy of animals, reptiles, and little creatures playing musical instruments flowing from the mouth of a dog’s head which surmounted the sounding board. The pillar was elaborately carved with Celtic interlacing patterns of leaves, flowers and fruit. The metal strings appeared to be made of gold and silver. Colorful gems were inserted in various parts of the engravings.
The four men stared in silence. Stuart was the first to speak. “My God, if what I am looking at is genuine gold, silver and precious gems then this harp could be worth a fortune, more if it has a history.”
“It’s never been valued,” replied Angi, having forgotten the harp’s beauty. She then gave a brief account of her harp lessons and her music teacher. In closing she went on, “On my sixteenth birthday, Mr. Aucoin, then a man in his early eighties, arrived for our last lesson. He gave me this magnificent harp, his own, saying there may be only one of similar quality somewhere in Ireland. That day, he played an unknown tune he said he learned from the faeries. It truly sounded like it had come from the angels. The metal strings produce a very different sound than my poor student harp which I normally use. As he was about to leave he said, ‘Angi I am gifting this treasure to you, for one day you will be asked to play for the Lords of Anu’. Smiling he kissed me good bye. Months later he died.”