by Sky Curtis
As soon as we were in the hallway we burst out laughing again. What would Hannah analyze? Oh, who cared!
“Listen,” I said, as we walked down the hallway to the glass doors of the editorial room, “When I was down at the waterfront with Ra-a-a-l-ph,” I dragged out his name and joggled my eyebrows, so she would know I was teasing her, “The ship’s captain, Jimmy, said that Radcliff swung both ways, not in so many words, but that’s what he meant. And he implied that the two Everwave executives were in each other’s pockets, you know, really, really good friends. So, although he never said it, that they were, um, you know…” I wiggled my wrist. “I think we should get some photos of them, Radcliff and van Horner, and take them up and down Church Street into the gay bars and see what we can find out.”
Cindy was dismissive. “Radcliff and van Horner? Gay? With each other? Both were married guys. Not likely.”
“And how long were you married?”
Cindy eyeballed me, “Right. I get your point. Okay, let’s get ourselves a different motive than the police have and see if we can wrap this up. I’ll go with you.”
What a relief. She’d help me. “Where will we get photos? Maybe archives?”
“Yup,” said Cindy. “Let’s hassle Alison Trent in Research. She’ll find some photos of the two of them. They’ve been in the news for the past year. I’d be surprised if she drew a blank.”
We grabbed our bags out of our locked desk drawers and were heading for the elevators when Hannah Weiner strutted up the carpeted hall from the washroom, sliding her forefingers back and forth on each other as if she were sharpening knives. “Tsk tsk,” she bared her teeth in her inhuman waxy smile.
The elevator doors opened and we tumbled in. As soon as they whooshed shut, we burst out laughing again. “Must be hard being so perfect,” I said.
“Here, push ‘L’ for ‘lower,’ Robin. Research is in the basement.”
I’d never been in the bowels of the building before. We stepped out of the elevator and walked toward a steel grey door with the word Research etched slightly below eye level. The airlock on the door popped when we pushed it open.
I was shocked. What greeted me was the last thing I expected. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had been expecting a nerd; a young woman whose blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail with thick glasses on her nose. A North Toronto type who had made her parents proud by studying Political Science at McGill and then landing a plumb research job at the country’s largest paper. No easy feat when youth unemployment in Toronto was in the double digits.
But sitting behind the chipped Formica topped counter was the very same young woman who I had bumped into not once but twice at the Starbucks on Bloor. It was the same lip ring, beaded dreadlocks, and tattoos. There was no mistaking it. She was the thugette. She looked up at me and smiled, all innocent. This was Alison Trent, as the black embossed nameplate perched on the counter attested.
“You!” I cried, pointing at her.
“Hiya.” Alison was unfazed and waved back.
Cindy looked back and forth at us, “You know each other?”
“Have you been spying on me? In Starbucks?” I was flabbergasted. This creature was the furthest image of Alison Trent that I had conjured up as I could imagine.
“No. That was karma.” She swung her beads around, spreading an incense smell around the room. “How can I help you?”
I regained my composure. “Well, well,” I said, “that guy I was with on Thursday night? The one carrying the blazer over his arm, remember him?”
“You mean Mr. Dishonest? He who wears no socks?”
I chuckled at her description, “Yeah, him.”
“What about him?”
“He was murdered.”
Cindy interjected, “We think.”
“You told me already.” Alison was patient and forgiving. Maybe her mother had a mind like a sieve too. “How?”
“Probably a wasp bite.”
Alison nodded her head slowly, assessing this information. “Foxy,” she said. “Look at the love triangle,”
Cindy asked, “Do you have a picture of him? His name’s Todd Radcliff.”
“I know.” Alison turned and worked some magic on her computer. A printer on a shelf behind her purred into life. She spun her cloth-covered chair around with her heels and scooted over on its plastic casters to the printer, grabbing the piece of paper before it even hit the tray. She pushed her chair back to the counter and handed it to Cindy.
I looked over Cindy’s shoulder at the photo. The image wasn’t bad, a little grey and grainy, but Todd was certainly recognizable. He was standing in front of a lectern, his finger raised as if making a point. It would do. “Thanks,” said Cindy.
“And do you happen to have a picture of Richard van Horner?” I asked. “He was vice president of Everwave. He’s been murdered too. Shot. I think he probably spoke as much as Radcliff at various thingies.”
“Thingies, huh,” said Alison as she was typing at her computer. “Such a helpful description. Let me Google thingies.” She tapped on her keyboard, “Okay, here we go.” The printer did its thing, she did her thing with her chair, and the picture was in my hand. Presto.
The image was a little clearer than the one of Radcliffe, but van Horner wasn’t alone. On his arm was the beautiful, perfectly coiffed wife that we had seen at his house. I looked closely at her. A teardrop diamond was dripping down her neck onto an ample bosom and a slinky black dress hugged her boyishly thin hips. A perfect figure combination: voluptuously thin. How did she achieve that? A trophy if ever I saw one. I read the caption below the shot. The couple, Richard van Horner and his wife, Melissa Mowbray, at the New Year’s Eve Rotary Club charity ball. “How long ago was this taken?” I asked Alison.
She looked up the date in her computer. “Last January, so about six months.” Alison stared at the image on her computer. “She looks sort of familiar to me. A typical movie star look, I guess. Do you want me to cut her out and blow him up?”
“I think that’s already happened,” I said.
“You know what I mean,” said Alison, exasperated.
“Sure, it might make it easier for people to recognize him. She’s quite a distraction.”
In three seconds Alison produced a printed photo of Richard van Horner without his lovely wife.
I inspected it carefully. “Perfect.”
Cindy hovered next to me, “Thanks Alison, now we can get to work.”
Alison was busy with her printer. “Here’s a couple of copies of each.” She handed them over.
“Good thinking,” nodded Cindy as she took the extras.
“Go and find him,” Alison said with a shake of her dreadlocks. “Or her.”
“Her,” I thought. Stokes had hinted the murderer might be a “her.” Now there was a concept. It could easily be a “her.” No, that sniper was a “him.” I had no doubt. I’d felt that aura.
With pictures in a buff file folder, we drove in Cindy’s Accord up Church Street almost to Bloor and found some legitimate parking on a side street. I patted the file folder on my lap. “So, do we split up or do this together?”
Cindy chewed on her lip in thought, “I think we should stick together, Robin. Who ever is behind this is violent. Safety in numbers.”
I looked at my very tall friend and thought to myself, yeah, she’s an excellent bodyguard. Me, not so much. “Good point.”
The bar and grill joints up and down Church were filled with the lunch time crowd from Bloor Street offices and not with a predominately gay clientele at all. Not to be deterred and thinking that Todd and Richard could have come in at anytime, including lunch, after work, or even late at night, I walked up to all the bartenders and showed the grainy images. Cindy’s job was to walk around and flash the photos to the patrons. But after about ten shakes of the head from bartenders on the
east side of Church and Cindy getting no joy from the patrons, I felt like giving up.
“I’m getting hungrier by the minute. Let’s eat,” I begged Cindy.
“No, let’s keep going.” She was in her element, whereas I was a fish out of water.
“I’m hungry,” I whined.
“Okay, we’ll go up the west side and when we are past Wellesley Street there’s a local pub a little further north where we can get a burger.”
“Or a salad? I’m turning over a new leaf.”
“Very funny.” Cindy was already cantering on her long legs into the next place. I waited outside.
I had simply lost my enthusiasm for the task at hand. These guys were way too discrete to go out in public together, that’s if, and a mighty big if, they were gay partners at all.
When she came out, I grabbed her arm and started dragging her up the street. “Forget it. I’m starving.” I felt like a little kid, grabbing my mommy’s hand and tugging. “We can come back and do the next few places after we eat. Let’s get some food.”
Cindy laughed, “Okay, darling.”
I gave her an old fashioned look.
We entered the pub through the bar side and Cindy, knowing her way around, kept walking past the customers to finally push through some wooden double doors. She led me through a restaurant decorated in a cottage theme and out through a fire door to an outdoor patio. She swept her arm towards a table away from Church Street with a view of a delivery entrance to an office building, “Does this suit you, Madam?”
I groaned and shook my head while rolling my eyes. “Sure. Let’s eat.” At least we were outside, even if the view was a little too urban for my liking.
A waiter in blue jeans appeared out of nowhere and handed us two menus. The pocket on his black shirt was embroidered with the name “Suzette.” Hmmm. I see. My first transgendered person? I quickly glanced at the selection and saw to my relief four different salads. Not an almond in sight. What luck.
“So, Suzette,” Cindy was reading the waiter’s name off his shirt, “how’s business?”
“It’s Sam,” he grinned, “this is someone else’s shirt. Business is pretty good, out here on the patio. Dull inside. I’ll be back to take your order in a minute or two.”
After he left Cindy looked over the top of the menu. “You getting a burger?”
“Nope. I’m resolved. I want the walnut and blue cheese salad with the raspberry dressing.”
“I’m going to try the Caesar. Maybe I’ll put some chicken on top. Maybe salmon.”
When the waiter returned with some waters we quickly placed our orders. I asked for my salad and Cindy ordered hers.
“Do you want your chicken on top or underneath,” he asked Cindy suggestively.
“I’m bisexual, so it really doesn’t matter,” smiled Cindy, playing along.
“Oh-h-h,” he turned like a ballerina on his heel and pranced away. “We’ll just see how it comes, then.”
“Thanks, Suzette, I love a mystery.” Cindy watched him shake his bum with amusement in her eyes.
I was having a bit of trouble with the prattle and self-consciously dusted some salt off the top of the table with the palm of my hand. Then I reached into my bag for the photos. I laid them out in front of us and said, “Who would of thought it would be so hard to find someone. It’s not like a needle in a gaystack or anything.”
Cindy acknowledged my attempt at humour with a sardonic smile, “Nice one.” With the pictures strewn around us, we checked our emails on our phones while we waited for Suzette/Sam to bring us our salads.
I had received one from Creston. My heart gave a little happy jump. When I opened it I read that Sarah Clovelly, the Coroner, had found a small injection site in the back of Todd’s right hand. She believed that’s where Todd had been bitten. Wow. I was right! The wasp had been put in his pocket, and when he’d put his hand in his pocket, he had been bitten. It would have been easy to slip a wasp into a pocket. Or relatively easy. Just shake one out of a little pill container.
I emailed him back immediately. Great. Was any wasp evidence found in his jacket pocket?
The answer flew into my inbox. No. Probably an accidental wasp bite.
My ass it was. But that was odd. I’d need some sort of evidence that the wasp had been in his pocket. But, wait, the lab results from the tests on his jacket had yet to come in. Maybe they’d reveal something.
Sam was balancing our huge plates of salads in his hands and had a pepper grinder tucked under his arm. He stood at the side of our table while I gathered up the photos.
“Don’t mind my asking, and I’m not being nosey or anything,” he shifted on his feet, “but why do you have pictures of Robert and Tim?” I stopped shuffling the papers and looked up at him. His dark brown eyes were curious.
“Robert and Tim? Who are Robert and Tim?”
“Those two guys,” Sam gestured with his chin towards the photos, while holding the salads high. “Robert and Tim come in every Wednesday for lunch and sometimes Friday, too.” He put the plates down in the cleared spots in front of Cindy and me. “Not that I’m a gossip, but they’re a pretty solid item. Little presents and stuff like that. Cards.”
“How long have they been coming in?” Cindy hid her excitement well.
“Well, I’ve been working here for three years, I guess maybe the last two. I mean, they were pretty serious, I think.”
Bingo.
27.
AFTER SAM LEFT OUR TABLE, CINDY LEANED towards me. Her head was almost touching mine and I could smell her perfume. It was an old-fashioned one: L’air du Temps. “Do you believe this? You were right, Robin. One of your hunches has paid off. These two were lovers. So, now we have a problem.”
She was sawing into the chicken breast on top of her salad and shoving huge hunks into her mouth. I could tell it wasn’t that tender as strings were dragging along the edge of her knife. One day I would tell her to chew with her mouth closed, but not today. I needed her help.
I was having trouble following her line of thinking. A problem? What problem? Besides, I was starving and my salad was beckoning. Didn’t she ever let up? Take time out from her busy brain? My mouth was full of some kind of dark green leafy mix. It wasn’t that good. Why did salads full of vitamins taste like pond scum?
“What’s that?”
“This chicken is delicious,” she said, chewing hard on a mouthful. Maybe she didn’t cook much. She took another huge bite and double forked it in. Cindy wasn’t great on table manners. “The problem? Well, to begin with, why are both of them dead? I mean, say if van Horner’s wife Melissa did it, then only Radcliffe would be dead, right? Kill off the lover. But, her husband is dead too, so, did she really do it? Why would she kill off that meal ticket? With a gun? Women don’t use guns to kill. They use poison.” Cindy sat back and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “God, I was hungry.” Her salad had been inhaled. She picked her teeth with her thumbnail, trying to get out one of the strings.
I felt rather proper as I delicately finished my plate. “I disagree,” I chewed discretely and swallowed. When I was done I licked my gums, trying to suck off any dark green morsels from my teeth without looking too obvious. “Maybe there was a large insurance policy on him. Or maybe she simply couldn’t stand the fact that he had betrayed her. Maybe she hired a hit man?”
“I dunno, Robin. I think there’s something else going on. What about the theft of the water? What’s that about? We have to think of all the facts, not solely the ones we want to.”
“The theft of the water isn’t a fact. It’s an idea. Maybe England was lying about Radcliffe stealing the water. But let’s say he wasn’t. Let’s not throw cold water on his theory. Let’s say he knows something we don’t. Besides, Creston said there was no evidence about an international theft, so that’s probably a dead end. I think he’s a pretty good cop,
so he’s probably right about this. But he hasn’t dismissed the idea and he isn’t ready to embrace new theories, but he has his doubts. So, let’s not flush Radcliffe as a water thief down the toilet. Ha ha. Maybe these two Everwave guys were going to steal water, and someone else wanted it, so they killed them.”
“But how would van Horner and Radcliffe pull that off? And who would they sell it to?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone in Boston, from Todd’s university days, a water broker or something. The market is huge; everyone needs water, it seems. How they would steal it is another matter.” I thought for a moment and tried to imagine a solution to the problem. How on earth does one steal a lot of water? “Maybe England was right. Maybe they were thinking of diverting it from the cold water system pump in the middle of the lake into a tanker. They could siphon off around fifty percent and no one would really notice.”
Cindy jumped in, “Or maybe from a pumping station on land, you know, the John Street pumping station, into a big truck, like a milk truck. You know those ones that you see on the highway, all shiny metal? That’s a really big container. It could easily go over the border and into the States.”
Sam showed up at the table and whisked our plates away. “Tea? Coffee? Me?” He struck a pose. He was so hilarious but I didn’t know if I should laugh.
“I’ll have a lotta.” Cindy on the other hand was right at home.
“Mint tea,” I looked away embarrassed and shuffled the photos back into their file.
“Righto.” He cha-cha’d away.
“Listen.” Cindy had pulled out her compact and was redoing her lips. “Maybe Sam knows more than he thinks he knows about these two. I mean, they came into this place at least once a week, and he probably overheard them talking, you know. He’s not an idiot, even though he’s being quite silly, performing for us.”