The Price of Love and Other Stories

by Peter Robinson

  Upstairs, I rummaged through her bedside drawers and checked out the walk-in closet, but found nothing I didn’t expect to. I assumed the police had already been through the place before me and taken anything they thought might be related to the crime. On the other hand, if they believed they had caught the criminal and had enough evidence against him, then they wouldn’t go to the expense of an all-out, lengthy crime scene investigation. Not exactly CSI; they’d leave their lasers and luminal at home. Valerie’s clothes were high-quality designer brands, her underwear black and silky. I felt like a voyeur so I went back downstairs.

  Next I moved into the kitchen, where the parcel of books still lay on the table, brown paper and string loose around it. The books, first editions of early Mavis Gallant and Alice Munro, were from an antiquarian dealer in Halifax, I noticed, and the string was a quaint, old-fashioned touch. The only thing missing was the knife itself, which the police had taken as evidence.

  The door opened onto a back stoop, and my intrusion scared off a flock of red-throated house finches from the bird feeder. Judging by the untidy lawn surrounded by its flagstone path, neither Tony nor Valerie had been very interested in gardening. At the far end, the lawn petered off into bracken and roots where the ravine threatened to encroach, and finally the land dropped away. I walked to the end of the garden and noticed that the ravine was neither too steep nor too overgrown to be accessible. There was even a path, narrow and overgrown, but a path nonetheless. You certainly wouldn’t have had to be a mountain lion to gain easy access from the back.

  The ground had been hard and dry at the time of the murder, I remembered, and we’d had a couple of heavy storms in the last week, so there was no point in getting down on my hands and knees with a magnifying glass, even if I had had one. I stood at the end of the lawn for a while enjoying the smell of the trees and wild flowers, listening to the cardinal’s repetitive whistling and the chip-chip sounds of warblers, then I went back inside.

  Fine. Now I knew that it was possible for someone to get up and down the ravine easily enough. But how about getting into the house? I sat at the kitchen table toying with the string. I could think of no way of getting through a locked screen door without leaving a trace, unless it were either open in the first place, or somebody had opened it for me. Valerie might have opened it to someone she knew, someone she felt she had no reason to fear. If she were distracted by her anger at Tony, her surprise at seeing a friend appear at the back door would surely have overruled any caution or suspicion she might otherwise have felt. On the other hand, if the door was locked when the police arrived, that was a problem.

  As I sat twirling the string around my fingers and idly glancing at the two first editions in their nest of brown paper, I became aware of a niggling discrepancy. It was unconscious at first, nothing I could put my finger on, but as it turned out, it was on my finger. I unraveled the string and tried to fasten it around the books. It didn’t fit. Much too short. I looked around on the floor but saw no more, and I could think of no reason why either Tony or the police would secrete a length of string.

  I went over to the screen door and examined the catch, which looked like an upside-down earlobe, and surely enough, when I looked closely, I noticed faint scuff marks around the narrow neck. Making sure I had the house keys in my pocket, as an experiment I opened the door, hooked a length of string over the catch, then shut the door, standing outside, holding the string. When I tugged gently, the catch engaged and the screen door locked. I let go of one end and pulled the string toward me. It slid free. Like many old screen doors, it wasn’t a tight fit.

  I still had nothing concrete, no real evidence, but I did have the solution to a very important problem. If Valerie had let someone in through the back, then whoever it was could easily have killed her, left the same way, and locked the screen door from outside. Now I knew that it could be done.

  PART FIVE

  Jacqui Prior, my next port of call, lived in an apartment off the Esplanade, close to the St. Lawrence Market, the Sony Centre for the Performing Arts, and all the wine bars and restaurants that had sprung up around there. I found her in torn jeans and a dirty T-shirt, lustrous dark hair tied back in a ponytail, busily packing her belongings into boxes she had clearly picked up from the local LCBO store. While she seemed surprised to see me, she was also curious. She said she was just about to take a break anyway and offered me a cup of Earl Grey, which I gladly accepted.

  There was a superficial resemblance to the photograph of Valerie Pascale I had seen at Tony Caldwell’s house, but Jacqui seemed somehow unformed, incomplete. She had the kind of face that was beautiful but lacked the stamp of a personality. I imagined that was probably what made her a good model. She must be the kind of person who would shine and sparkle in front of the camera, given a role to play. Her olive skin was smooth as silk, perfect for beauty soap, shampoo and bath oil commercials, and I could imagine her looking wholesome in a way that Valerie Pascale didn’t.

  “Where are you moving to?” I asked.

  “I’ve found the perfect little house in Leaside.”

  “Leaside? Won’t that be a bit quiet for you after all this?”

  She smiled, showing perfect dimples. “I like things quiet. I need my beauty sleep.”

  There wasn’t much I could say to that, so I sipped some Earl Grey.

  Jacqui frowned. It could have been real, or it could have been a model’s frown. I didn’t know. “It’s awful about Valerie and Tony,” she said. “I feel terribly responsible in a way, but I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. “People do what they do. I’m just not convinced that Tony Caldwell did what he’s been accused of.”

  “Oh? What makes you think that?”

  “Just a few inconsistencies, that’s all. You and Valerie were old friends. How did you meet?”

  “We were at high school together, then we both went to UBC. We shared an apartment in Kitsilano.”

  “So you knew her pretty well?”

  “As well as one could know Valerie.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “She wasn’t exactly an open book, you know.”

  “She had secrets?”

  “We all have secrets. Valerie could make the most innocent thing into a secret. It was her nature to be mysterious, enigmatic. And she liked to be in control, liked to have the upper hand. She needed to feel that, ultimately, if the walls came tumbling down, she’d be safe, she’d have an escape route.”

  “Didn’t work this time,” I said.

  Jacqui wiped away a tear. “No.”

  “Who told her about your affair with her husband?”

  Jacqui looked shocked, and I was beginning to feel more and more that I was being treated to her repertoire of faces. She was good. “Do we have to talk about that?”

  “I’m trying to help Tony.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know how she found out. I was sure nobody knew about us.”

  “What happened when the two of you went to the washroom?”

  “Nothing. We just talked it out, that’s all. Sort of made up.”

  “Sort of?”

  “I told her I’d end it with Tony. She was still upset, but she accepted my word.”

  “Would finishing with Tony have been difficult for you?”

  “A little, perhaps. But it’s not as if we were in love or anything.”

  “So it was just an affair? A fling?”

  “Yes. Oh, don’t sound so disapproving. We’re both adults. And it’s not as if I was the first.”

  “Tony had other affairs?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did Valerie know?”

  “She never said anything to me.”

  “Are you sure you don’t plan to go on seeing Tony now that Valerie is conveniently out of the way?”

  “I don’t like what you’re implying. I’ve just lost a very dear old friend. There’s nothing ‘convenient’
about that.”

  “A dear friend whose husband you stole.”

  “I didn’t steal him. Don’t be so melodramatic. These things happen all the time.”

  “Where did you go after you left the restaurant that night, Jacqui?”

  “I came here. Scott and Ginny dropped me off. They’ll tell you.”

  “Did you visit Tony and Valerie’s house often?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “About a month ago. They had a barbecue. We were all there. Me, Ray, Ginny, Scott.”

  “So you knew the ravine well enough?”

  “We all went for a walk there, yes, but, look—”

  “And you had plenty of time to get back out to the Beach the night Valerie was killed, if you wanted to.”

  “I don’t drive.”

  “There are taxis.”

  “They’d have records.”

  “Maybe. But Valerie would have let you in the back door, no problem, wouldn’t she?”

  “What are you talking about? Why should I go to the back door?”

  “So you wouldn’t be seen from the street. Because you went with the intent of killing Valerie. You just didn’t know that Tony would get the blame. When you found out he was in the shower and Valerie was all alone, you seized the opportunity and killed her.”

  Jacqui stood up, hands on hips. “This is ridiculous. On the one hand you’re saying I went there with the intention of killing Valerie, which is absurd, and on the other hand you accuse me of seizing the moment. Which is it? It can’t be both. Look, I don’t want to talk to you anymore. You’re not a real policeman. You can’t make me.”

  She was right. I had no special powers. Standing, I reached in my pocket for the key. “Recognize this?” I asked.

  She looked at it, pouting. “No.”

  “It’s a safety-deposit key,” I told her. “Were you ever aware of Valerie having a safety-deposit box?”

  “No. But I told you she could be very secretive.”

  “Any idea what she might have kept in it if she had one?”

  “I don’t know. Money? Jewelry? Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got more packing to do.”

  Jacqui’s response to the whole safety-deposit box issue was just a bit too rushed and casual for my liking. I followed her to the door trying to decide whether I believed her or not. I wasn’t sure. The problem was that Jacqui Prior wasn’t a WYSIWYG sort of woman. Tony Caldwell had called her complicated, but in a way she struck me as shallow, empty without the role to assume, the correct expression to wear or gesture to make. As I rode the elevator down to my car, I found myself wondering if I was being manipulated. Just how much did Jacqui and Tony’s affair have to do with what happened to Valerie? In my mind’s eye, I saw myself as Charles Laughton riding his stair lift in Witness for the Prosecution. Had they planned it between the two of them, I wondered, and was my getting Tony off part of their plan? Was I being used in their game?

  If Tony Caldwell or Jacqui Prior hadn’t murdered Valerie, then who else might have done it? Discounting the passing tramp theory, my money was still on one of the dinner guests: Jacqui, Ray Dasgupta, Scott and Ginny Schneider. Valerie would have let any one of those four in the back door. But which one? And why? And what part did the safety-deposit box play? Maybe I would find out something from the others who’d been at dinner that night.

  PART SIX

  I found both Scott and Ginny Schneider in the office of their modeling agency just off Spadina, in the garment district. On the surface, Scott seemed very much the outgoing, charming type, while Ginny was more reserved. They were both in their late thirties, and I’d guess from her cheekbones that Ginny had probably been a model herself in the not-too-distant past. Her husband looked more like a trendy stockbroker in casual business attire.

  “I thought the police had settled the matter of Valerie’s death,” Scott said.

  “They’ve arrested Tony Caldwell, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “But that doesn’t settle anything.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m just not convinced. I understand Valerie worked for you?”

  “She helped out sometimes, yes. She’d been a model herself, and quite a good one, too, so she was able to work with some of the girls and with the clients, help us with our selections. It’s an important part of the business, and it can be very tricky, matching the model to the product.”

  “Was anything bothering her around the time of her death?”

  “Her husband’s affair with Jacqui Prior, I should imagine.”

  “Did she talk to you about that?”

  “No. We only found out at the dinner, along with everyone else.”

  “You, too?” I asked Ginny.

  “Yes.”

  “And were you surprised?”

  “Naturally,” said Scott, looking over at his wife. “We both were.”

  “Do you have any idea how Valerie knew?”

  “I’m afraid not. We certainly didn’t tell her.”

  “Well, you couldn’t tell her if you yourselves didn’t know, could you? You must have worked closely with Jacqui, though. Did she ever let anything slip?”

  “Nothing. Look, Mr. Lang, I’m very sorry about Tony and everything. I’ve known him for a number of years and count him as a good friend as well as a business colleague, but don’t you think the police know what they’re about? He and Valerie did have a terrific row—we all witnessed that—and not long afterward, she was dead. It makes sense. Any one of us could snap under pressure like that.”

  “Indeed we could,” I said. “Any one of us. Where did you go after you left the restaurant?”

  “We dropped Jacqui off at her apartment, then we went home,” Ginny answered.

  “Did anything unusual happen on the way?”

  “No. Scott had had too much to drink, so I drove.”

  “Where’s home?”

  Scott answered this time. “Scarborough, down near the bluffs.”

  “So you weren’t too far away from Tony and Valerie’s place?”

  Scott’s bonhomie vanished in an instant, and he stuck his chin out. Ginny watched on coolly. “What are you getting at?” Scott said. “You come around here asking damn fool questions, and then you start accusing me of murdering Valerie.”

  “I haven’t accused you of anything,” I said.

  “You know what I mean. You certainly implied it.”

  “I merely implied that someone other than Tony could have done it.” I looked at Ginny. “Did either of you go out after you got home?”

  Ginny looked down at her hands folded on her lap before answering, “No.”

  “Of course we didn’t,” Scott snapped. But something was wrong. Ginny didn’t want to look me in the eye, and Scott was blustering. Was she protecting him? I took the safety-deposit box key from my pocket. “Have either of you seen this before?”

  They both looked genuinely puzzled. “No,” said Scott.

  “Never,” said Ginny.

  “Okay. Thanks for you time.” I pocketed the key and headed back to my car.

  Tony Caldwell’s photographic studio was located in that urban wasteland of movie studios and soundstages between Eastern Avenue and the Gardiner, where Toronto pretends to be New York, London, and even a distant galaxy. At least parking in one of the vast, empty lots was easier than around Spadina, which had cost me a small fortune. The studio had an empty feel to it, but Ray Dasgupta was in the office working at the computer. He stopped and looked up when I knocked and entered. I told him who I was and what I was doing.

  “You probably think it’s odd, me working here while all this is going on?” he said.

  “I suppose it takes your mind off other things,” I said. “And no doubt there’s work to be done.”

  “Mostly bookkeeping.”

  “What’s going to happen to the studio now?”

  “I don’t know. Tony was the real creative energy behind us. I’m not much more than
a glorified administrator. Oh, I know a shutter speed from an f-stop, but that’s about as far as it goes. Tony has a flair for striking up relationships with his models…” He paused. “That wasn’t meant to come out the way it did,” he said. “I mean behind the camera.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “But seeing as you mention it, how much do you know about these other relationships?”

  Ray sucked on his lower lip, frowning.

  “It’s not that tough a question, Ray,” I said. “Jacqui wasn’t the first, was she?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Never mind. But if anyone ought to know, it’s you, his partner. How many? How long?”

  Ray squirmed in his chair. “Always,” he said. “As long as I’ve known him Tony’s been chasing women. He couldn’t seem to help himself.”

  “And Valerie didn’t know?”

  “I don’t know whether she suspected or not, but she never acted as if she did. Not in public.”

  “And you think she would have done something if she’d known?”

  “Yes. Valerie is a proud woman, and jealous, too, not someone to take an affair lightly. She might not have divorced Tony. After all, she’d given up her own career, and she liked the lifestyle, but…”

  “Maybe she’d have killed him?”

  “But he’s not the one who’s dead, is he?”

  Still, it was another possible scenario. Maybe Jacqui was the last straw. Perhaps there’d been a struggle, Valerie with the knife, trying to kill Tony, and things had turned around. That didn’t help me much, though, as he hadn’t even tried to claim self-defense. “What do you think of Jacqui?” I asked.

  Ray’s lip curled. “Jumped-up little slut. It’s not as if she can’t have any man she wants. Why Tony? Why steal her best friend’s husband?”

  “And Valerie?”