Flush

by Sky Curtis

  “Performing?” I was dumbstruck. I had so much to learn about the gay world.

  “Sure he is, you don’t think he’s really that camp, do you? He’s having fun.”

  “Oh.” I had no idea.

  “Let’s ask him when he brings us our drinks.”

  “You ask,” I said. Cindy had a better repartee with the guy.

  Sam placed the coffee and tea in front of us.

  “I know you don’t gossip, or anything like that,” Cindy grinned mischievously while slightly widening her green eyes, “but did you ever happen to hear anything Tim and Robert were talking about?”

  She was good at this.

  “Like what?” Sam said cautiously. “I don’t really like to talk about my customers’ personal lives.”

  “Oh nothing like that,” she assured him breathlessly. “I dunno, sort of anything interesting in their conversation. Not about them, but you know, businessy kinds of things.”

  He relaxed. “Oh sure.” He wiped away some spilled tea in front of me with a ragged piece of terry cloth that smelled like bleach. “They were entrepreneurs. You know the type, always hustling something new. Like I said, I knew them for a couple of years. At first they talked about a new gadget, a sticker with circuits in it, to track down lost electronic equipment, like computers. An attachable GPS gizmo. They went on about that for a few months but then they gave that up. The technology wasn’t advanced enough.”

  “Always an issue,” I contributed, but it seemed from the look Cindy gave me that I should have kept my mouth shut.

  “After the GPS gadget doodad they moved onto a solar-powered fountain idea. I think they actually went through with that. They sold these fountains, bird baths, online. I think they did okay. Miniature solar panels, like those lights people use to light up their gardens. It was just a hobby, because they had regular jobs for a company called Everwave. It was in the news recently. Technology that extracts the cold out of lake water for air conditioning.”

  Cindy played dumb. “So creative. But what about recently?” She was as patient as a cat stalking a mouse.

  Sam shut up suddenly and began diligently writing out our bill. Over his shoulder I saw that his manager had come out onto the patio and was surveying his domain. Satisfied with what he saw, all his waiters busy, he blew back into the restaurant.

  “Lately?” Sam looked over at the fire door, making sure his boss wasn’t coming back. “Well, the most recent idea was an ice cream factory. Ice cream is really taking off in the city. They were having trouble creating an efficient cooling system to freeze the cream. Apparently the energy this takes is the main cost of the ice cream.”

  “Who knew?” Cindy was looking for her credit card.

  I kicked her under the table. She scowled. “What?” As if Sam wasn’t there.

  “What,” I queried pointedly, “was their solution to this problem? Did you hear them talk about it?” I already had my theory.

  A light dawned in Sam’s eyes. “Oh,” he breathed out, “Everwave. Cooling system. Maybe they were going to steal cold lake water to help freeze the ice cream. No, not those guys.” He efficiently ran our credit cards through his handheld processor, covering up his discomfiture.

  I stood up. It was time to get a move on. Cindy gathered up her stuff. “Thanks Suzette, you’ve been very helpful.” Sam was already clearing off our table. He looked up briefly and waved somewhat guiltily with two fingers as we walked through the patio gate.

  “So, what do you think of all that?” There was a buzz in my chest. “We know so much more than we did half an hour ago. Do you think I should tell Creston and Stokes?” We arrived at Cindy’s Accord parked around the corner. “I can’t make sense of it.” She beeped the remote locking system. We got in the over-heated car and Cindy drove south down Church Street. The sun had passed well over to the west now.

  I was thinking out loud while holding my hands in front of the air conditioner. “I don’t think they were going to steal the water. No. Creston asked Jimmy—”

  “Who’s Jimmy?” Cindy was squinting in the bright sun that was slashing in between two buildings right into her eyes.

  “The captain that installed the pump. As I was saying, Creston asked Jimmy if Radcliff or van Horner had requested any help in the future, you know, with the crane. And Jimmy said no, why would they, they were going into the ice cream business.”

  “And your point?” The glare was pissing her off.

  “They didn’t want the water. Maybe they wanted the technology. Maybe they were stealing the technology of how to extract cold from water.”

  Cindy tossed her bag towards me. “Find my sunglasses, will you? I can hardly see.” The sun was fracturing into small rainbow fragments through the accumulated street grime on her window.

  I rooted in her bag for a pair of sunglasses. When I finally found them I snapped the arms open and passed them to her.

  She placed them on her nose. “And it would hardly be stealing the technology if they owned the company. Or if they owned the patent.”

  “But did they own the company? Companies are often owned by many people. There are all sorts of investors who get a slice of the pie. Even the government can have some shares in a company. So it would be interesting to see how much Radcliffe and van Horne actually owned. Maybe they owned nothing and just had salaries. It’s possible. So then they would be stealing the technology. We need to find out about the structure of the company. And about the patent. Maybe somebody wanted to stop them from stealing.”

  “Well aren’t you the wealth of information. How did you know all this, smarty pants?”

  “I learned a lot when I did that corrupt condo story. Plus my dad always ranted about the companies the government was investing in, about the patents that were great but got no funding.”

  “I think we should tell Creston, at least, about what we’ve discovered. Those two were an item. They were planning an ice cream business. I think Ralph’s hit a blank wall and is barking up the wrong tree. It’s not like he’s totally dismissed my idea that Todd was murdered by a wasp. He might be open to this. Van Horner and Radcliffe being together could be a motive. And besides, we are no closer to finding the killer now than we were a few hours ago. It frankly doesn’t make sense that the wife did it. From what I could see, when van Horner was shot she acted like she was madly in love with her husband. She seemed truly distressed that he’d been injured. Either that or she’s one helluva an actor.”

  “Yes, she looked like she loved him.”

  “We’re driving right by a police station. I think its Creston’s home base. The one on Dundas is where he’s been assigned for this case. Shouldn’t we go in?”

  Cindy vehemently shook her head, tossing her red curls. “Are you kidding? We are about to scoop a great story. The last thing we want to do is go to the police. Next thing you know all the other papers will have the story. They’ll pick it up from their moles and scanners. Jack England will be fast on our heels.” Cindy drove past the station without a backwards glance. We were going to the office.

  Dammit, I had had it up to here with people dismissing me. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to go to the police, but going back to the office? That made no sense at all. That would accomplish nothing. I was itchy to get more information.

  “I don’t know why we’re going to the office. It’s not as if we can write anything. We still know nothing. All we have are ideas, not facts. It’s a waste of time.”

  Cindy propped her sunglasses on her head and turned to look at me. Her green eyes were sparking. So, she didn’t like to be challenged. Tough shit. “And just where do you think we should be going, oh wise one?”

  Geezus. She could be such a bitch. Some friend. Did I want to even be around her? Well, not a lot of choice, given I was sitting in her car. If I were in the driver’s seat, where would I be going? Well, back to t
he police station, for one, stupid idea or not, the police should know about Radcliff and van Horner. But, failing that, Alison might have had a good idea when she said we should look at the love relationships. Yeah, even though van Horner’s wife put on a good show, she should still be talked to. Maybe I was wrong about her. Who knew what she knew?

  “I think we should be interviewing van Horner’s wife. See what she knows.” I felt stressed with the effort of swimming against the tidal wave of Cindy’s strong will. I waited for her barbed rebuttal. Nothing but silence. Then she yanked the steering wheel hard to the left and the car screeched a U-turn. Back up College Street we went.

  “Good idea. Who knows what she knows?”

  “My thoughts exactly.” I was so relieved that she hadn’t fought me on this. I had a strong feeling about where this was going. It couldn’t yet put it into words, but I knew something was about to break.

  “She’ll probably be at home this time of day. Let’s go shake up her coiffed hair. She looks like a real estate agent type, what with the highlights and pencil skirt. Google her, why don’t you. Melissa van Horner. No, Mowbray. I put my money on her working for a real estate company.”

  Cindy wasn’t great about not being in control and heading north was a big concession. It cost me nothing to acquiesce and be her servant, even though I felt it was irrelevant. I tapped on my phone. Surprise, surprise. Sure enough, she was a number one sales person at a real estate company that catered to the rich crowd. “Yup, you win. Gold-star producer. And that explains the van Horner’s big house. She made the money. Not him. Their wealth is because of her. See?” I held my phone up for Cindy to glance at.

  Cindy took her eyes off the road to look at the picture closely. “Nice teeth.” She was jealous. Melissa had perfectly white veneers on her front teeth. Caps certainly weren’t covered in a reporter’s benefits, unlike Shirley and Doug’s.

  I mused, “What big teeth you have, Grandma, said Little Red Riding Hood.”

  Cindy got it right away. “We’ll put her through the wringer.”

  She drove expertly, turning left and right through various side streets until we headed north on Mount Pleasant. When we got to van Horner’s street, I saw a section of crime scene tape flapping forlornly against a manicured hedge, out of place in the landscaped neighbourhood. We parked and I tugged at the tape until it was freed. I scrunched it up into a small ball and tucked it into my purse.

  Cindy laughed at me, “Always the protector of homes and gardens.”

  At times she really could be such a know it all. “Fuck you.”

  Cindy laughed again, “Lighten up,” and strode towards the house on her long legs, me scrambling behind her.

  When we got to the top of the flagstone steps, I noticed that the frosted glass in the door had already been replaced. Man, what money could buy. It had been repaired over the weekend. Cindy rapped on the glass with her knuckles. The home sounded empty. Then she lifted the brass lion knocker and let it fall. The bang reverberated through the house. Was there nobody home?

  Without warning the door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. A lavender scent wafted out and I recognized the brand of the plug-in product. I hated those things. Pollution, if you asked me, but of course, the big wigs who manufactured these things never did. And there stood Melissa Mowbray.

  Although she was only in her late thirties, her face had aged a decade or two and looked closer to fifty. Lines sagged around her full lips. Her hair, although highlighted and sprayed into a modern somewhat jagged cut, seemed lifeless and dull. She was dressed in an off-white flowing pant suit, soft and diaphanous. Her eyes were deadened, perhaps with a sedative of some sort. Or maybe she’d been drinking. Maybe both.

  This woman was suffering. She had recently lost her husband in a shocking way and she had young children to support. My heart reached out to her and I had to reel it back in. She knew something, I had to remind myself. She was involved in this mess, somehow. I also knew we had to be careful. She thought nothing of smashing her stiletto heel into the top of a policeman’s foot. Karate? Kick boxing?

  Cindy lowered her voice in an effort to sound sympathetic. “Mrs. van Horner, Mowbray, I mean, I’m sorry to intrude. I know what you’re going through. I am very sorry for your loss.” Cindy’s hand covered her heart as she said this. I knew exactly what she was trying to do. “We’re from the Express, the paper that gave your husband a lot of press for Everwave. I was wondering if we could come in and talk to you about what’s happened.”

  A small spark ignited in Melissa’s dulled eyes. Everyone hated the press. “You have no idea what I’m going through. Why should I let you in? Leave me alone.” Some of her words were slurred. Drinking, then. The door started to swing shut.

  “Ms. Mowbray, please.” I stopped the door with my foot. “I lost my husband a few years ago. I do know what you’re going through. You feel like you can’t go on. You are shocked and traumatized. Maybe you would like to talk to someone who’s been through the same thing.”

  “Your husband wasn’t murdered, stupid. You have no idea how that feels.”

  Stupid? So, despite the appearance and house, she was from the streets.

  “Actually, he was murdered. By a drunk driver. Snatched away from my children in an instant. It was devastating.” All this was true, even if I left out the bit about my being relieved he was dead. Maybe Melissa Mowbray’s life wasn’t a bed of roses.

  Melissa turned her back and simply walked away, leaving the door swinging open behind her. She staggered on her high heels across the wide expanse of the marble foyer towards double French doors that led out onto a flagstone patio. Cindy and I looked at each other, shrugged soundlessly, and entered the house, stepping around the brown blood stains in the tile grout by the front door.

  We weren’t stupid; we’d follow her.

  28.

  MELISSA MOWBRAY METICULOUSLY POSITIONED her tanned and lean body on a plush cushion in a wicker wingback chair until she looked tragic. I was trying not to be cynical about her, but I never did like the really rich. The view over the golf course was stunningly beautiful. Willow trees and stately oaks blew softly in the early September breeze. A tangle of bushes, probably raspberries, seemed weighted down with the burden of ripening fruit. Wasps flew lazily around, their long legs dangling like ill-attached undercarriages on awkward airplanes. Melissa swatted at them absently as her unfocussed eyes drifted about. She had definitely been drinking.

  Cindy cleared her throat to get Melissa’s attention. It worked. “I’m sorry to be asking questions at this time.”

  “No you aren’t,” snorted Melissa. “It’s your job and you paps love it.”

  Paps? What did she mean? Pap test? Oh, I know, paparazzi. I was paparazzi? My kids would love that one. Meet my mom, the cougar paparazzi.

  Cindy, undaunted, cooed soothingly, “You’re right.” She smiled innocently, “I’d like to figure out who murdered your husband. We were standing on your doorstep right after it happened.”

  Melissa jolted up, as if a she were a puppet whose strings had been yanked. She looked directly at me, not at Cindy whom she seemed to dislike, her eyes brightening with a slow burning curiosity. “Is this true? You were there when it happened?”

  “Yes, the bullet must have passed directly over us when we were sitting in our car in front of your house.” I let the seriousness of what I told her sink in. When it did, Melissa’s head jerked up again.

  “Oh,” she cried, “That must have been horrifying. Did you see the shooter?” She sat perfectly still for a few seconds. I could see the wheels turning in her jumbled brain. “But why were you at our house?”

  “We wanted to talk to your husband about Todd Radcliff’s death.” I watched her carefully. Although she was in a sedated and woozy state I could see she was making an effort to put on a puzzled look. She finally finished arranging her features to her satisfac
tion.

  Melissa squealed, “Todd? He’s dead?”

  Nice try. I knew she already knew that he was dead. I could tell. Her response was too contrived. Had she been involved? I felt a chill run down my spine and the hair on my arms stood up as if a cold breeze had touched me.

  “Yes, he died three nights ago. In his condo.”

  “Oh,” she adjusted her eyes to look sad. “I’ve been preoccupied with Richard’s death and haven’t turned on the TV. But that’s terrible. How?”

  Well, that was interesting. Was she fishing for information? Did she want to know if how Todd had died was public knowledge? I felt compelled to fib. “The coroner has yet to determine the cause. The police think it’s suicide. Maybe he had a heart attack. Maybe he took sleeping pills They’re doing advanced lab tests to tell.” I was steering clear of murder.

  I watched Melissa visibly relax, settling her body deep into the cushions of the wicker chair. “Probably suicide. He was depressed lately, you know, always slouching around with his hands in his pockets.” She tittered and then covered her mouth. What was she hiding? How well she had known him? Although she was stoned out of her noodle, her neurons were still zapping, making her mouth feed us a pack of lies. Or were they? Maybe there was some truth in what she was saying. She sat forward and abruptly changed the topic.

  “But if you were there, you could have helped my Richard. If he had got help sooner, he would not have lost so much blood and he would have lived. The bullet hit an artery. He was pumping out blood. Why didn’t you help him?” She had started to sob, her thin shoulders shaking. “Why did you leave him there to die?” she bleated with a bit too much protest.

  This was going to be tricky. Cindy started manufacturing excuses. “We didn’t know he was hit, Mrs. van Horner. Mowbray. We only saw a bullet hole in the glass, and the glass was frosted. It didn’t cross our minds that a shot had been aimed at him and that he was lying on the other side of a door, bleeding. The shot’s target wasn’t visible from where we were standing by the knocker and the glass was frosted. We couldn’t see in the house. We didn’t hear a shot.”