Mortal Sins

by Anna Porter

  “What happened?” David asked.

  “We picked Singer up at his hotel. Paul thought he was going to ask for money, as Arthur had, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He’d been to see Wiesenthal, the Nazi-hunter in Vienna, and told him everything. Wiesenthal couldn’t help him because he didn’t think they could ever get Paul to trial. It would take years even to obtain a hearing from the Canadian government...so he had decided he had no option but to kill Paul himself. That’s why he came to Canada.”

  “He said all this when he got into the car?” Judith asked.

  “Yes. He pulled the gun out when Paul started to drive. There was a struggle as we drove along the waterfront, where the warehouses are. I think Paul was trying to protect me, more than he wanted to protect himself. He knew he was dying anyway. The gun went off, but Singer kept struggling like a madman, then Paul shot him again.” She brushed her hair nervously out of her face. Her once perfect silver nails were short and broken. She wore no nail polish.

  “You helped him tear the labels out of Singer’s clothes, threw his shoes in the garbage bin. You took the photograph out of his shoes. You have it still?”

  Brenda shook her head.

  “Another picture of the boys?” David asked.

  “It was one Lantos had found after the war. A picture of Paul on that damn bicycle. He wore the Arrow Cross uniform and the red swastika armband. I burned it.”

  “And next day you cleaned up the car and arranged to ship it to Bermuda,” David prompted.

  “At most that would make her an accessory after the fact, Officer,” Masters said. “Extremely hard to prove in a court of law that Zimmerman didn’t make the arrangements himself.”

  “Yes,” David agreed. “And that would also be true of the first break-in at Ms. Hayes’s house on the 3rd, though we can admit to each other, Mr. Masters, that you went there to find out how much Zimmerman/Balogh had told her. You were concerned about the story. Of course, we can’t prove that you planted that bag of marijuana in her son’s room.”

  Masters neither agreed nor disagreed. He kept staring at David, still as a photograph.

  “But young Ward will, under pressure, testify that you later paid him to try and frighten Ms. Hayes into abandoning the story altogether.”

  “But he didn’t,” Brenda said. “I paid him.”

  “Brenda,” Masters commanded, but she brushed him aside.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m so very tired. Why don’t we get it all over with?”

  “When did he decide to tell everyone who he was?” Judith asked.

  “When? I’m not exactly sure. It was because Meisner told him he was going to die,” Brenda said. “He wanted to come clean with the whole thing. He wanted to be himself for the last few days, months, whatever was left of his life. He was, he said, sick of living someone else’s life. He’d done it for long enough. He’d become all that Mrs. Zimmerman would have wanted of her son. Now he wanted to go back to where he had begun. That’s why he went to Forest Hill Catholic. He was born Catholic, he wanted to be buried that way. He called all our friends and you, the lady journalist of his choice to record it all, to have dinner with us and to celebrate Feri Balogh’s 17th birthday. He was going to tell you everything.” She covered her face with her hands and sat, motionless, her soft hair falling forward.

  “You didn’t want him to do that, did you?” Judith asked quietly.

  “No,” Brenda said, her head bent, rocking back and forth in her chair.

  “That’s why you killed him, not because of his affair with Martha Griffiths,” David stated, leaning toward her, his voice kind and steady.

  “Martha?” Brenda reared up in surprise. “Poor pathetic Martha—I couldn’t care less about her. About any of his affairs. They were minor annoyances, nothing serious. Ever. He was a man of big appetites. It didn’t matter.”

  “You were afraid the truth would hurt you, then, that if the papers reported it you’d be threatened? Is that right?”

  The room was so quiet you could hear a trapped bee buzzing against the window.

  Brenda shook her head, the hair flying from side to side.

  “It wasn’t for me,” she said. “Don’t you know anything? It was for Meredith.” She choked on the sound of her daughter’s name. “It was all for her. I didn’t want her to be a murderer’s daughter. Says right here in the Torah, I have a duty to protect my own. That’s in your Bible too, Officer, the same words. It’s what mothers are supposed to do...” She broke off and started to search through the book she had put down beside her on the chair, feverishly turning the pages till she arrived at where she wanted to be and read. Then she began her search again, her fingers snapping through the book.

  Philip Masters came around to reach for her hand and restrain it. “There’s no need, Brenda,” he said in a calming voice. She fought him for a few seconds but then subsided into a low, groaning sob as the big leather-bound book fell to the pink and blue paving stones, and lay there, face down, its pages splayed open. She tried to pick it up again, but her arm was weak and unsteady. Masters lifted her by the elbow and sat her back in the chair. He picked the book up, dusted it off, and put it down beside her.

  Instinctively, Judith went over to her and put her arm around her shoulders. They were frail and burning hot under the thin cloth of her navy dress. The bones seemed to shiver with each breath she took.

  Philip Masters abandoned his post by Brenda and sat down on the chaise longue next to David. He sighed and unbuttoned his waistcoat. There were stains of perspiration on his white shirt.

  “When did you find out about Zimmerman?” David asked.

  “In January...not sure of the exact date. Around the 14th, I believe. When Brenda told me.”

  “I don’t think so,” David said. “I think you’ve known for a long time and you found the information useful. I think you were shocked, for your own reasons, that Zimmerman/Balogh was going to have the whole world know; it would no longer be a card in your private deck. That’s why you decided to leave him, isn’t it? Because he didn’t have to—”

  “No,” Philip interrupted him. “That’s a lie. I didn’t—”

  “Didn’t you?” Brenda’s voice came from deep down in her throat; she lifted her head to glare at him, her tear-stained face contorted with anger and pain. “You’ve known for years and years. God, how many? And didn’t tell me. All this could have been stopped if only you’d said something...the long-faithful damned retainer. And you’re a Jew,” she shouted at him, then her agitation subsided again. “Poor, poor Philip,” she whispered.

  “That’s what you fought over the evening of the 26th of February,” Judith said, “and Meredith overheard. She didn’t hear much, but enough to know it was something terrible about her father and enough that she was afraid her mother might find out and be upset by it. That’s why she was so agitated when she heard you telling me about the fight with her father, isn’t that right?”

  Philip said nothing, just stared straight out the still glittering windows at the deep red light in the winter garden.

  Judith marveled at his duplicity. And his cleverness. She was overwhelmed by sympathy for Brenda, and she was afraid for her.

  “I could ask Meredith Zimmerman, if you prefer,” David said.

  “No,” Brenda yelled.

  “There’s no need for that,” Masters said. “I tried to persuade Paul to stop. There was no need to tell the world about what he did when he was a kid. He had more than made up for it as a man. Why expose himself and all of us to contempt? Why invite the press into some murky secret of his past? But he insisted. He said he wanted everyone to know who he really was. The man had a colossal ego...”

  “Then you must have fought because he didn’t want you to leave him now,” Judith said.

  “I had to. I was thinking of my family...,” Masters said feebly.

  “And that damn seat in the Senate, weren’t you, Philip? It was all right while no one else knew about
it. You could forgive him. Never gave me the chance,” Brenda shrieked at him. “And Meredith heard you call her father a cold-blooded killer.”

  “None of this need involve her,” Masters said.

  “She is ten years old,” Brenda pleaded.

  “But when the story comes out,” Judith said, “she’ll know everything she hasn’t already overheard.”

  “She will never return to Canada. We’ll change her name. Live in the south of France. She may never have to know,” Brenda said.

  “There doesn’t have to be a trial,” Philip said. “Harvey Singer’s killer is dead. There is no accused. You can close the book on it. There were no witnesses. Brenda slipped the poison into his ginger ale before the guests arrived. And Paul Zimmerman was going to die anyway. She may have saved him from a painful, lingering death. Call it euthanasia. And let’s say he finally followed Eva’s advice and took his own life. She used to tell him if he was so afraid of his nightmares, he ought to kill himself. He took the poison in the company of his family and friends, perhaps the best way to go. Less painful than a massive coronary—and that’s what his future held.”

  David stood up and spoke to Brenda. “I think you should come with us now, Mrs. Zimmerman. It would save everyone a lot of trouble. Mr. Masters could accompany you. We will take a statement in Toronto.”

  “No,” Philip Masters said firmly. “We will stay here. You think about it, Parr. Justice was done—isn’t that what you’re here to enforce? Justice?”

  “It’s the law, Mr. Masters,” David said politely. “That’s what my job is. They’re not always the same.”

  Thirty-Eight

  JAMES OCCUPIED THE couch with the easy familiarity of a frequent visitor. His head rested on one of the arms, his stockinged feet on the other. He was listening, his eyes at half-mast, to Willie Nelson belting out his song about being on the road again—a fate Judith wished on James even more urgently now than she had all those years ago when he did, finally, get on the road to Chicago.

  “Welcome,” he said, grandly, when he became aware of her standing in the doorway with her suitcase in her hand. “Come in, come in. I have made a small but nourishing repast for your return. It’s essential to eat good food when you’ve been exposed to too many positive ions. Gets your energy level back to normal. Martinis in the freezer...”

  “Where in hell is Stevie?” Judith demanded.

  James lifted one warning finger in the air. “Now, now,” he said. “You mustn’t get so testy, Judith—that’s a sign of blocked emotions, okay, excusable for a short time when confronted with the unexpected, but not good for you if you keep blocking them. It’s like constipation. Must have a regular outlet or it poisons your system...” He must have seen the beginnings of a snarl, preliminary to imminent attack, on her face, because he added quickly, “I sent Stevie home.”

  “You what?” Judith spluttered.

  “I sent her home,” James replied calmly. “There was no need for both of us to be taking care of our children—I mean yours and mine, Jude. If you’re too busy with your other commitments to stay around and provide the care they need, well, what are fathers for? I can be here.” He smiled. “And I was.”

  “I was working, for Chrissakes—” Judith yelled, but she was sorry as soon as the words were out. He had her on the defensive. There was no reason to feel on the defensive. She was the one who had supplied the food and money while James was finding himself...

  “Now, now,” he said again, a quiet little smile on his lips, “you mustn’t allow yourself to get so easily upset. There was no criticism intended. I happen to think you’re a wonderful woman. You’ve done a superb job with Jimmy and Anne. No one, I don’t think, could have done better. Under the circumstances.”

  Judith dropped her suitcase onto the carpet where it rolled over like a beached whale and smashed into the stereo set, making Willie Nelson jump from the road to a slow whine about Good Time Charlie and the blues. “All right, James,” she said in the most controlled tones she could manage, “what the hell are you doing in my house?”

  “It’s a long story,” he said, sitting up, his elbows on his knees, head bent forward, gazing at his gray toes. “I’ve been back to Chicago. I mean after the holiday with the kids—”

  “Where are the kids?”

  “They’re... around...” He fluttered his fingers to indicate it wasn’t a big deal wherever they were.

  “Where?”

  “All right. They’re upstairs in their rooms. I checked what time your flight was coming in, asked them to leave us alone for an hour or so. I...we have a lot to talk about.”

  “We,” Judith repeated with his emphasis, “have nothing whatsoever to talk about. Furthermore, I’m exhausted. I want to say hi to my kids, I want to change into my pajamas, and I want to go to bed. Can we have our little chat some other time?”

  While she was still halfway through that monologue, he had bounded into the kitchen and was now on his way back with a tall martini glass topped up with a bunch of olives. He placed it in her hand. “A peace offering. I dug out all the pimientos myself,” he said. “You never used to like them. Or has that changed?”

  Judith shook her head. Nothing like a red pimiento center to ruin a perfectly good olive. She shook off her damp high-heeled shoes; they were still sweaty from the Bermuda spring. The martini was just as she liked it. She didn’t bother to take her coat off. She wandered over to the armchair facing the couch and sat across from the waiting James. “All right,” she said, as conciliatory as she could manage, “what do you want?”

  James, who had settled back into his former position on the couch, nodded sadly, as if to indicate that she had spoken exactly as he had, alas, expected her to speak. “Want...want... want...,” he murmured. “There is too much want in this world and not nearly enough give. I’m not here for what I want, Judith, it’s what I have to offer that’s brought me here. It’s what I have to give. All you need do is accept with grace—not one of your most characteristic qualities, that—grace...”

  Judith gritted her teeth in silence and bit on the olives.

  “It is time you and I began to deal with our relationship, Jude. Not that we hadn’t tried to before, but we were much younger then and didn’t possess the tools...”

  “What relationship?” Judith inquired, swallowing martini, olives, and venom.

  “Oh Jude, Jude,” he said softly, “you mustn’t blame yourself. That’s the problem with these things, too much apportionment of blame. Fact is...”—he balanced his fingertips on top of one another as a mirror image, then opened and closed them. A spider doing push-ups—“...there is too much unresolved tension between us. No. Don’t answer me now,” he warded off the nasty little question she was about to pop, “hear me out, at least. We owe each other a hearing, don’t we?”

  Judith finished her martini and stuck her feet on the coffee table.

  “It happened on top of the biggest hill at Collingwood. Big John. I was looking down at the other skiers from the top, getting ready for my run, and suddenly I felt apart. I don’t mean superior, just apart. Perhaps lonely. I don’t know why, I thought of you then, and why we had decided to separate. I ran the whole thing before my eyes, like watching a movie, in slow motion, and none of it made sense. None. Jude, we never resolved our relationship. We never tried to find out what went wrong. Never tried to fix the damage. You know, it’s like finding that the walls of your house have cracks in them and instead of caulking the cracks and painting them over, deciding to abandon the house and look for a new dwelling. That’s dumb, don’t you think?”

  “You can’t be serious,” Judith suggested.

  “Mm-hmm,” said James, grabbing for her glass and going for a refill.

  This time he returned with drinks for both of them.

  “Point I’m trying to make is that I haven’t been very happy without you. I know, you’ll think it’s taken me too long to come to that realization and that seeing you and Jimmy—and Anne,
of course, she is such a super girl, never tire of telling her how beautiful she is becoming. Very important that, for girls her age. It’s when anorexia starts and that other thing—bulimia? yes—not having enough confidence in themselves. Growing up is so very hard on young girls. You do remember, don’t you?”

  Barely. Being over a hundred years old. “What are you trying to tell me?” Judith asked. “Not being a house, I’m not sure what you are planning to substitute for caulk.”

  “I’m serious,” James warned. “I went back to Chicago, after the holiday. It didn’t feel right, so I saw my analyst for advice. He’s used to my fits and starts. Despondent, then out of it, but this time, he realized I meant it. I miss you all. I want to come back home.” He smiled. “That’s it.”

  Judith stared intently into her glass. When no inspiration emerged from that careful study, she looked back at James’s cheerfully expectant face. “Oh dear,” she said at last.

  “Well?” James asked. “What do you think?”

  Judith finished her second drink, picked up her shoes and suitcase, and began to climb the stairs toward her children’s bedrooms. When she was halfway, she called over her shoulder, “Fuck you, James.”

  Thirty-Nine

  DAVID TOOK THEM TO brunch at China House. He had asked for an extra-large table with a round server so they could have a whole lot of dishes to choose from. Jimmy ate up all the sweet and sour pork, and Anne had most of the barbecued ribs. They fought over the spring rolls.