The Dead Letter

by Finley Martin

  A flicker of embarrassment passed Gwen’s lips, but it diffused quickly behind a broad smile.

  “Hi,” Gwen said. “Thought you’d be resting up after your ordeal.”

  “There’s no rest for the forcibly unemployed.”

  “Or unemployed workaholics,” replied Jacqui.

  “Thanks for your support, dear.”

  “Glad to help in your search for the truth, Mom.”

  “How do you know that I wasn’t chilling out at home…or unwinding at the gym…or shopping for some small delight to make up for yesterday’s incomplete driving lesson, Miss Smart-ass?”

  “Mary Anne drove me over to pick up a few more things. Nobody was home. Your gym bag was in the closet. Your cell phone was turned off, and my call to your office went to voice mail.”

  “Sounds like there’s a bit of detective in her,” said Ben.

  “An attractive, single woman disappears mysteriously for a big part of the day…hmmmm…sounds more like an afternoon assignation to me,” said Mary Anne.

  Anne blushed.

  “Dr. Little had been asking about her,” said Gwen.

  “He looks like an owl,” said Anne. “Besides that, he can be quite rude.”

  “You know what they say about owls,” said Ben.

  “No, please tell me,” said Anne, her arms folded in front of her.

  “Absolutely no idea,” said Ben. “The words just popped into my head,” he said sheepishly.

  Anne gave his arm a slap. “You’re not helping,” she told Ben. Then she turned her attention to the others.

  “If you must know,” said Anne, “I had a meeting with Bernadette Villier, the murdered girl’s mother. I had another meeting with the girl’s former supervisor. I also filed papers to exhume Simone’s body for a forensic examination.”

  “Yuck,” said Jacqui.

  “What for?” asked Gwen.

  “She was pregnant at the time she died. There’s a chance we can get DNA from the fetus. That may lead to the father…and that may lead to her murderer.”

  “What makes you think she was pregnant?” asked Gwen. She seemed genuinely interested.

  “Her boyfriend said that she was three months gone.”

  “When?”

  “Several times. First in his police statement eleven years ago, then to me at the office that time he dropped in. You remember. You were there. You left just after he arrived.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s odd?”

  “That she was pregnant. There was no mention of it in the autopsy. You showed it to me when we verified the contents of the file.”

  “Why would they mention such a thing? That’s pretty personal, isn’t it?” said Mary Anne.

  “Autopsies of suspicious deaths are comprehensive investigations and produce quite detailed documents,” said Gwen. I’ve seen a few at the hospital in Halifax. The coroner would have checked for amniotic fluid and noted it in his report—at least most would.”

  “Even an early pregnancy?”

  “In my experience, coroners look for everything and inventory everything they find.”

  “You’re suggesting that she wasn’t pregnant!” said Anne.

  “If amniotic fluid wasn’t mentioned, I’d be very surprised if she were.”

  “Well, I guess I stepped in it this time,” said Anne. “It was difficult enough convincing Bernadette Villier to sign the application for exhumation in the first place. And now I’ll have to backtrack and break this news to her…that it was all for nothing.” Anne slowly sank into disappointment and a deep reflection.

  “Don’t get too upset just yet,” said Ben. “Who was the coroner on record?”

  “Rogers… Redding…something like that,” said Anne.

  “Remington?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Dr. Roger Remington. I know him. Let me give him a call. He’s retired now, but he may have memory of the case. Just hold on.”

  Ben got up and walked to a quieter spot at the back of the restaurant. He checked his address book and tapped the number into his cell phone.

  A few minutes later he returned to the table.

  “Did you speak to him?” asked Anne.

  “I did, but I’d forgotten. He was a crotchety man when I knew him years ago. Now he’s a crankier old bugger than he was then. But he was always meticulous. Very sure of himself.”

  “What did he say? Did he remember the case?”

  “Don’t know if he did or didn’t. All he said was ‘If I didn’t state amniotic fluid, then she wasn’t pregnant. Simple as that.’ Then he hung up on me.”

  “Oh boy,” said Anne, looking at the hole she had dug for herself. She contemplated how she could extricate herself from it and still maintain some level of dignity.

  62.

  Could my life possibly get any more screwed up? The concept was there; the sentiment was there, but those words had not completely formed in Anne’s mind. She was still asleep.

  It had been in a downward spiral for the last several days. There had been no signs of it letting up. She had slept in, though it seemed more like a state of suspended life in which she was awake but unable to move. Through some half-sense, though, she perceived that her mind and body were telling her that today would be no better. So why open my eyes, she wondered? Sleep on. Forget about everything. Rest beneath the warm blanket and all will be well.

  Then she felt a cramp in her calf. The blankness in her mind curdled into a sour headache. She could sense the minutes creeping by and somewhere in her consciousness she recognized a piece of paper passing mysteriously from one hand to another and, with each exchange, her path ahead became more impeded, as if she were entangled in a mess of rope. It frightened her, and she awoke.

  Anne stared at the clock. It was ten o’clock, but it took some time for her to believe that it was so. She had rarely slept so long as this. It startled her, and she leapt from the bed as if it were on fire and, less than an hour later, she stood awkwardly on Bernadette Villier’s doorstep, ringing her doorbell.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  Bernadette looked puzzled, but stepped aside to let Anne in.

  “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

  “Not today, thank you. Look. Bernadette, there’s no way to sugar-coat what I have to say. So here it is. I made a mistake.” Bernadette’s face became grim and taut.

  Anne continued: “Simone was not pregnant. Jamie, in his statement to police, said that she was, but the coroner’s report says otherwise. We contacted the coroner last night. He confirmed what he wrote in his report. So there will be no need to exhume Simone’s remains after all.”

  Bernadette remained stone-faced. Then she said, “Why are you doing this do me?”

  Anne’s lips parted and her mind stumbled for an answer.

  Then Bernadette’s eyes swelled with tears.

  “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you doing this to me!” Bernadette’s voice had risen to a shriek.

  Bernadette stepped toward Anne. Her face was frightfully distorted. Pained. Her arms raised as if to grasp some understanding of her confusion and hurt, but there was no such satisfaction to grab onto. Instead her fists struck down on Anne’s shoulders. Again and again they pummelled Anne, but they carried little force and no malice and struck at the anguish that she could not drive out of herself.

  “Why?” she sobbed. “Why?”

  Anne grasped Bernadette firmly, pulled her close, and held her. Bernadette’s arms lost their strength and purpose and fell limply by her side, but her sobbing continued. Anne said nothing. She could say nothing, but she continued to hold onto her comfortingly.

  “I was forgetting,” said Bernadette. “I was finally putting the dreadfulness of it behind me. Then you co
nfused me. Then you brought it back. It all came back. Why?” Bernadette asked and pulled away from Anne. Bernadette’s tears had dispelled her shock, but the dismay that remained hardened into a resurgent anger and bitterness.

  “I was looking for justice,” said Anne, “…for everyone…for Simone…for Dawson…and for Carolyn Jollimore, the woman who died as a consequence of Simone’s murder.”

  “I don’t care about justice anymore. I just want peace of mind. I want peace of mind.”

  “I think that the one needs the other, Bernadette.”

  Bernadette took another step back.

  “I want you to go. Now. No more of your words. No more of your theories. Just go…and don’t come back.”

  Anne stroked Bernadette’s arm sympathetically once more. Then she turned and left the house. Anne found it difficult to drive across town with tears in her eyes.

  Anne pulled her car into a parking space outside the Sullivan Building. Her eyes had dried by the time she reached the Chief Coroner’s office. The receptionist was a gaunt woman of sixty-something. Her hair was short, wiry, and badly dyed a rich black. Her lips had been coloured too red for a pasty complexion.

  “I delivered an application to exhume human remains on behalf of Bernadette Villier, the mother of the deceased, Simone Villier, yesterday. Mrs. Villier has had second thoughts and wishes to withdraw the application.”

  “Just a moment, please,” said the receptionist as she tapped keys on the computer console at her desk. “Are you Mrs. Villier?”

  “No, my name is Billy Darby. I’m acting on her behalf.”

  “I’m afraid that only Mrs. Villier can withdraw the application, and she must do it personally or submit a formal letter with her signature properly witnessed.”

  “That won’t be possible. Mrs. Villier is too distraught for that.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “There must be some other option.”

  “The application has already been processed by our office,” she said looking down at her computer screen. “It’s been passed on for approval of two other regulatory departments before the final okay. These things move rather quickly. That should happen by the end of the day. Then the onus returns to Mrs. Villier. She could choose to continue with the exhumation…or to do nothing at all, in which case the permit will simply expire.”

  “Good to know. Thank you.”

  “It just gets better and better,” said Anne. She slumped into a chair in Ben’s office and, like a cat, curled her feet up underneath her.

  “It does,” said Ben. “It does. Fenton Peale came in this morning. Red-faced. Thought he was about to take a stroke.”

  “Yeah? What about?”

  “He thinks you’re trying to do an end-run around your suspension. Are you?”

  “Of course, but what business is it of his? That’s between me and the Labour Department.”

  “Can’t say. Apparently, Bob MacEwen is talking about a restraining order, maybe charges of one sort or another.”

  Anne uncurled from her comfy chair and sat up.

  “Thought that might get your attention,” he said.

  “Can they do that?”

  “Charges? Criminal, no. Regulatory, not likely. Restraining order? That’s possible.”

  “Why is Fenton in the middle of this? What’s it to him?”

  “Your application for an exhumation permit? It touches base with Justice before approval.”

  “Is Justice going to block the application?”

  “Fenton was talking about it, but I don’t think it can be done. Justice has no hold on it. The case is closed. Besides, it was Mrs. Villier that made the application, not you, right?”

  “Technically,” she said. Ben raised his eyebrows suspiciously.

  “Good enough. Don’t give me details. Don’t want to hear them. Got some good news for you, though. Michael Underhay has gone to ground. Police tried to serve the warrant for his arrest, but he’s disappeared. He’ll be too busy dodging police to trouble you.”

  “I like the sound of that,” she said.

  “So…you’ve yanked enough chains for today. Why don’t you go home and take the rest of the day off?”

  “I like the sound of that, too, actually,” she said.

  Anne sounded sincere. Ben looked sceptical. Anne left the office with a wave. She looked tired and weary. It had been a rough week for her, thought Ben.

  “I don’t like it at all. She’s still causing trouble. She won’t stop. She’s like a fucking rat terrier. Something has to be done!”

  The caller was frantic and sounded desperate.

  “Which phone are you on?” asked MacFarlane.

  “My other cell,” said the caller. MacFarlane nodded.

  “Good, but there’s nothing to worry about yet. Can you stop the application?”

  “No. But if they dig her up they’ll know that it was mine. I can’t go to prison now. I’ve got too much to lose.”

  “You’re talking stupid now, dammit. Do they have a sample of your DNA to match it against?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything that connects you to her personally?”

  “No.”

  “So there’s no grounds to suspect you, and if there’s no grounds to suspect you, then there’s no reason to take your DNA to find a match. You’re being ridiculous. Just calm down. Calm down. You have absolutely nothing to worry about…except me…if you lose control and tie me into your problems. Then you’ll have a problem…a big one…maybe your last one.”

  There was no reply, but MacFarlane paused a moment for his words to register as forcefully and as terrifyingly as he intended them. Then he continued in a more reasonable and calm tone: “But let’s not dwell on that. We’ve had a pretty good working relationship so far, haven’t we?”

  There was no reply.

  “Haven’t we?” MacFarlane’s voice became sharp.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve helped you and you’ve helped me, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have something in play. It will take care of most of the loose ends. So you don’t need to worry.”

  “What is it?”

  “You don’t need to know either. It won’t affect you. Just keep your head on your shoulders.”

  63.

  The sound of her vacuum cleaner had masked the opening and closing of both the outside door and the entry to the main room of her boarding house, but she had caught a stray shimmer of light from that direction and that’s when she turned and saw Jacob Dawson entering.

  “Where were you last night?”

  Jacob looked well but sheepish, almost as if he was being reprimanded by his mother. Irene MacLeod was no mother in the real sense, but she did feel a maternal draw toward Jacob. The two other boarders in the house were older men, more independent and hardened by life. Jacob exhibited a veneer of toughness sometimes, but Irene viewed him as an innocent when it came to the real world. He was accustomed to its travails, but had enjoyed few of its joys and, having walked so often along the paths of his troubled life, he had no reliable compass to guide him toward happiness. And this worried Irene.

  “I’m okay, if that’s what you mean,” he said smiling at her. “I smell soup.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  Jacob nodded.

  “It’s in the kitchen. Wasn’t sure if you’d be here, but I made some on the chance.”

  Jacob dropped his backpack near the door and headed for the kitchen. He looked hungry.

  “Did you have breakfast?” she asked.

  “I did. I stayed at my sponsor’s overnight.”

  “Is that customary?”

  “No, but I had a lot of stuff to unload. It was good to have somebody to listen…somebody who’s been there.”

 
Irene ladled a bowl of beef barley soup into a bowl and set it in front of Jacob. She set a ham sandwich next to it. She added half a pickle. Then she sat down and watched Jacob wolf down the food. She felt happy.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  His mouth was full, and he nodded vigorously.

  “We talked half the night. Then we worked out a way to take some pressure off.”

  “Good. So…what shall I do with that quart of whisky? Toss it?” Irene asked.

  “Or give it to somebody who doesn’t need it.”

  Ben wouldn’t have believed it if someone had told him that Anne had taken his advice, but she had. She would have vigorously denied that she frittered away an afternoon, but that was what it amounted to, at least by her standards.

  Ordinarily, she would have followed her pattern of jogging from home toward Victoria Park and following the boardwalk along the water. The rhythmic padding of her feet and the ever-pleasing and ever-changing vista of Charlottetown harbour had always been refreshing, but she couldn’t follow that routine today. The car explosion had not seriously injured her, but its effects had left her worn and uninspired.

  Instead, she headed for the gym. Only a few others shared the recreational equipment with her that afternoon. She had a routine there, too. Stationary bike for cardio; bench press, leg curls, and arm curls for strength; and then the speed bag.

  She forced herself through her strength regimen and felt rather satisfied with herself when she matched her last weight and rep count. Then she slipped on a pair of light boxing gloves and strode over to the speed bag.

  She set up a slow one-two rhythm, then picked up the speed and shifted to double hits when she felt comfortable. Then she shifted back and forth between the two, the bag thumping hypnotically all the while. Occasionally, she lost the rhythm, but brought it back again and again. The rhythms were mesmerizing and soothing, and one could almost drift into mindlessness within the pattern.