Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery

by Linda Moore

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t think she’s ever really felt at home here. She’s kept herself removed, and I imagine she was lonely. I believe she travels back to Europe quite a bit, to visit friends.”

  “Yes, that’s what Daniel said. Do you know him?” I asked.

  “You know I haven’t actually seen the boy for a few years. I do remember having quite a good conversation with him when he was going to the School of Architecture at TUNS. Peter took me to an exhibit of student designs and Daniel had a very interesting piece in it. He did well at the school. I certainly don’t know enough about him to analyze his character. But Peter was proud of him and I would say that if he believes that something’s amiss, it’s certainly worth investigating.”

  “Well, it’s his nickel at this point. We’re far enough along in the case that the next logical step is getting a permit to have Peter’s body exhumed. Harvie, do you know anything about how all that works?”

  “I’ve actually never exhumed a body, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a complicated, utterly exasperating administrative nightmare. But hey—that’s the story of my life these days. I’d be happy to look into it and provide you with the information.”

  “I don’t want to take advantage of you,” I said.

  “Feel free,” he replied.

  I could feel myself blushing. “God, Harvie,” I said laughing. “We better go shopping.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “What are we going to have for dinner?”

  After thoroughly exploring a number of superb stalls at the market, we put our various purchases into the trunk of Harvie’s funky 1990 pale green Mercedes and decided to amble along the harbour boardwalk. The market had been hectic and it was a relief to get away from the crowds. It was a brisk but bright morning and the sunlight glinted off the water.

  “La mer porte ses bijoux,” Harvie said.

  “The sea…wears her jewels?” I said, feeling rusty with my French.

  He nodded, smiling.

  “Nice,” I said.

  As we walked along I was interested to see that all traces of Hurricane Juan’s devastation from the previous year had disappeared. The boardwalk had been restored, and the five tugs and several familiar old ships were all in their berths. We made our way as far as the Wave sculpture at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic and then turned and walked back to the parking lot. We drove along Water Street and then up to Brunswick. Harvie dropped me at home and as I got my parcels and bags out of his trunk, he invited me over to his place for an early meal.

  “4:30,” he said. “Just some salmon and a fresh salad. Set you up for your rehearsal.”

  God he is so great, I thought to myself as I watched him drive away. I can’t believe he wants to cook for me. That’s happened when? Never.

  The message light was flashing. “Hi Roz, it’s Sophie.”

  Harvie had distracted me so much I’d actually forgotten all about her eleven o’clock assignation with Aziz.

  “I’m calling you so you won’t worry. Aziz is in the kitchen finishing his tea, and I am just about to do his tarot reading.” She was speaking softly, most likely from the bedroom extension. “I just wanted to assure you that all is well, and everything is in its place. See you later at rehearsal.” She sounded quite pleased with herself.

  It was already 12:30, so their meeting was probably over. Her message would indicate that she had safely stowed whatever information she had gotten from Aziz. I dialed her number and got the machine. “Hi Sophie—got your message. Hope to hear from you this afternoon. Otherwise see you later.”

  I put my groceries away—a rare experience for me—and settled down to work for a couple of hours on the Claudius/Laertes conspiracy, Hamlet’s return to Denmark, and the gravedigger scene. Around three o’clock in the afternoon, I couldn’t handle the knots in my shoulders any longer, so I decided to have a hot bath and disappear from the world for an hour before heading up to Harvie’s. The cat joined me, revelling in the chance to pick her way along the curved rim of the old clawfoot tub, repeatedly reaching her paw down to swat at the crackling bubbles. Though I did my best to discourage her from this daredevil sport, I always gave in. Otherwise, she would sit outside the bathroom door and find ways to make my life hell—like demonstrating her extended vocal technique or knocking over the hall lamp. Besides, I enjoyed her company. She would let me talk on, and had a slightly sardonic look that kept me honest. The water was nice and hot, and I took a couple of deep relaxing breaths.

  As I lay back, I heard a thump from downstairs at the front door. I stretched my arm out and pulled the bathroom door open a bit. Nothing. Probably just some fliers coming through the mail slot. I closed the door and sank down further into the steamy bath. The cat had stationed herself in a crouch near the taps, her eyes half closed. I rested my neck on the curved rim of the old tub, placing the hot, lavender-soaked washcloth over my face and eyes. “Oh it just doesn’t get better than this,” I said through the cloth, letting out a sigh.

  An unfamiliar shrill ringing made me sit up abruptly, the cloth sliding from my face. Startled, the cat fell right into the water. During the mad scramble to get her out of the tub without clawing me to pieces, the ringing stopped. So much for a blissful respite. Better get out and see what on earth had come through my front door. Barely dried, I threw on my old chenille dressing gown and ran barefoot down the stairs.

  A manila envelope lay on the hall floor. On it was written in large scrawl, FOR ROSALIND. Okay, so this is from someone who knows my name and where I live. I picked it up and tore it open. It appeared to contain a cellphone—nothing else. As I was reaching in to take it out for a closer look, I stopped myself from touching it. It looked like McBride’s phone. I laid the envelope carefully on the hall table so that the phone was lying on its back. I could see the little green message light flashing. Had the message been left just a few minutes earlier, while I was in the tub?

  I took a pencil and, with the eraser end, depressed the message button. I then picked up the whole package and held the envelope to my ear. For a few seconds, I could hear the sound of dripping water, as though it were in an echo chamber. Then, a woman’s voice, distressed, “But long it could not be.” Here she broke off to get her breath, and then again, “But long it could not be, Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay, to muddy death.” And then a sudden click off.

  “Jesus Christ, it’s from Hamlet,” I said aloud, recognizing the final line in Gertrude’s famous willow speech, in which she describes Ophelia’s death by drowning. In a sudden panic I pushed the message button and listened again more carefully. There was no mistaking it—the voice on the recording was Sophie’s.

  My knees went and I dropped down onto the bottom step opposite the hall table and sat there, frozen. What could this mean? That the thug who had gotten the cellphone from McBride had possibly followed Aziz to Sophie’s and was now threatening her? Or did we have this all wrong—was Aziz himself the threat?

  I decided to call Sophie’s place first. What if she were being held in her own apartment?

  I was having trouble holding my hand steady enough to dial. No answer. Next? Go over there and take a look.

  I called Harvie’s number.

  “Greenblatt.” Again, he answered before the second ring.

  “Harvie, it’s me, Roz.”

  “Oh good. I’m just making this sauce base for the salmon. Do you eat onions?”

  “Look I’m…I can’t come for dinner. Something’s happened.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Sophie, my friend. Someone dropped McBride’s stolen cellphone through my mail slot and—this is crazy but—it’s her voice on the message. I have to go over there. I don’t know where else to start.”

  “Start with the police. Listen, I have an old school friend there who’s a detective.”

  “I need to see her place first. This could be just a weird scar
e tactic or something.”

  “Don’t move.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right there to get you. Two minutes.”

  He hung up. I stood still for a second. Dressed. Go get dressed.

  I had brought the manila package with me and on the way over to Sophie’s I pressed the message button. I held it up to Harvie’s ear as he drove.

  “Oh boy, that is creepy. That water dripping. She sounds scared.”

  “I know, and the weird thing is that in rehearsal we’re exactly at the point where Ophelia makes her final exit to go to the willow.”

  “Then she drowns,” he said.

  “Oh god Harvie, I feel sick to my stomach. Can you…just pull over!”

  Harvie stopped the car by the military gates on Gottingen and I got out and threw up on the curb. I felt dizzy but I took a deep breath and tried to pull myself together.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, getting back into the car.

  Harvie got some tissue from the glove compartment.

  “Thanks,” I said wiping my mouth. I leaned my head back against the seat.

  “You’re white as a sheet. Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah—let’s keep going. We’re almost there.”

  We went into the building and up to the second floor. When I knocked on Sophie’s door, I could hear Molly barking, but it sounded distant. I knocked again, and called out Sophie’s name. More barking.

  “I’ll have to get someone to open up,” I said to Harvie. I ran down the stairs and along the main floor hallway, praying for a little sign. At the end of the hall, there it was: “Superintendent.”

  “Please,” I said to the woman who answered, “my friend lives in one of the second-floor apartments and I think something may have happened to her. Can you come up and open the door?”

  “Against the rules,” she said, cigarette in her mouth. “You have to have the police with you for me to open someone’s apartment.” I could hear the TV going. She was watching wrestling. Central casting.

  “Yes,” I said mustering authority. “I’m a criminologist and I have a lawyer with me.” That seemed to confuse her enough to get some action.

  “Okay—we’ll take a look. But I have to be there.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She closed the door in my face and reappeared a moment later without the cigarette and carrying a large ring of keys. “Which apartment?” she asked as we headed up.

  “207.”

  “Oh yeah—the actress,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Sophie.”

  “No trouble. Pays her rent on time.”

  She was so slow on the stairs; I had to counsel myself to keep calm. Harvie had come to the top of the landing.

  “This is the lawyer I was referring to.” I was behind her looking directly up at Harvie. “So what we’re doing is legal, right?” I said, nodding at him.

  “Yes,” he said on cue. “Perfectly legal.”

  In front of 207 she wheezed as she fumbled with the keys. Once again, there was the sound of Molly’s distant barking. “She doesn’t have a dog in there does she?”

  “She’s just looking after a friend’s dog temporarily,” I said quickly.

  “No pets allowed here.”

  “It was an emergency,” I said, trying to stay even.

  “Well she should have asked me. Listen to that barking. I’ll be getting complaints.”

  I was staring at the woman’s nicotined fingers, waiting for the moment the door would open.

  Finally, finally the right key! “Great, thanks,” I said, and pushed past her.

  As we entered it was obvious something horrendous had occurred. Drawers were turned out and papers were strewn everywhere. On the low table in the living room, a tarot reading was laid out. I followed the barking to the bathroom door, which was closed. Molly was making a serious racket now.

  I looked over at Harvie as I reached out to open the bathroom door. He nodded, and stepped closer to me. “Molly,” I called. “It’s okay.”

  As the door opened the dog leaped out and was all over me, licking and whimpering.

  “Come on girl,” I said. “It’s okay, Molly.”

  Harvie sped past us into the bathroom. I held my breath, expecting the worst. But there was no sign of Sophie. The Super was standing in the hall just outside the bathroom with her arms crossed, looking askance at the dog and the mess.

  “What’s been going on here?” she said following me into the kitchen.

  The back door, which opened onto a series of fire escape porches, was ajar. I stepped out. There was crushed cigarette on the landing. I got a baggie from Sophie’s counter, put on her dish gloves and retrieved the butt. The kitchen drawers and cupboard doors were pulled open but not turned out.

  Harvie called to me from the bedroom. Here was a much more chaotic prospect. Everything was upside down. The mattress was overturned and hanging over the foot of the bed. Lamps, books and cosmetics were all over the floor. Clothing and contents of the closet spilled out into the room.

  I turned to the Super. “Obviously something has happened to Sophie. We’re going to have to call the police. We’ll stay here. Please go down and direct them up when they arrive.”

  “I better call them,” she replied.

  “No,” I said. “I will. It’s okay. As I said, I’m a criminologist. Please go down and wait.”

  As soon as she was out the door I turned to Harvie. “Okay, who was that detective friend of yours?”

  “It’s Saturday,” he said as he reached into his wallet and took out a card. “Home number’s on the back.”

  “Donald Arbuckle, Crime Division. I’ve heard McBride mention him. Would you mind calling him for me?”

  “Not at all Roz.”

  “There’s a phone in the kitchen.”

  The second Harvie went to the kitchen I was at the low tarot table. I felt carefully for the depression Sophie had showed me the night she had taken out the runes, and pressed it. The secret drawer released and sprang out a couple of inches. I pulled it open, and there inside was a green file folder. I opened the file quickly and spotted the City’s letterhead.

  “This is it,” I said to myself. I closed the drawer and quickly slipped the folder into my shoulder bag.

  Harvie came into the room from the kitchen. “Luck is with us—Donald was at work—and there’s a team on their way.”

  “Good. Thanks for being here, Harvie,” I said.

  “Hey, whatever I can do,” he replied, trying to keep things light. “How are you feeling, Roz? Are you alright?”

  “Look, I need to be really careful here. I’m not going to fill the police in on the Peter King investigation yet. We’re in the midst of gathering enough evidence to bring charges and we’re not ready. If we blow it open now, we could lose everything we’ve got.”

  “Well, I would advise you to sit down privately with Arbuckle and come clean.”

  Within twenty minutes a crime unit was on the site, along with Detective Arbuckle. After introductions, I gave him the evidence I had found on the back steps, and told him about the back door being ajar. Somewhat reluctantly I also gave him the envelope with my name scrawled on it, explaining that it contained what I thought was the same phone that had been stolen from McBride a few nights before. I told him about my present work with Sophie on the Hamlet production and the alarming recorded message in her voice quoting from the play.

  “Well, if this all comes back to McBride’s cellphone, we can bet the situation is a lot more complicated than it appears at first glance.”

  “I know what you mean. Listen, I haven’t touched the cellphone. With any luck you’ll find prints on it.”

  I could see Arbuckle restraining himself from making a comment about me not needing to tell him his business.

  “And where is McBride?” he asked.

  “He’s had to fly out west for a family emergency.”

  “What
’s his involvement here? Does he have a connection with this woman?”

  “She’s the one who found him the night he was assaulted, and she’s been looking after his dog for him.”

  “Whoever turned this place upside down was obviously after something. You say Sophie is an actress. Any lucrative sidelines, like drugs?”

  “No, not her thing,” I said.

  “And you. Harvie says you work for McBride.”

  “I’m his researcher.”

  “So, do you have any idea what they were looking for? What else can you tell me about this situation?”

  “I don’t know what to make of it.”

  His eyes moved from me to Harvie and back to me. “I’m going to take a look around. Don’t go anywhere.” I looked at Harvie. I knew he wanted me to tell Arbuckle everything, but I was determined to get a close look at the file I had hidden in my bag before having to hand it over.

  “Roz—” Harvie began.

  “I know, but I have to talk to McBride first,” I said under my breath.

  “You have to think of Sophie’s safety,” he continued.

  “Look, it’s my fault she’s in this mess. We’re going to find her.”

  I went and sat down on the couch behind the little table where I knew Sophie would have been sitting during the tarot reading. I looked at the cards. The Significator—the card Aziz would have randomly chosen from the deck to represent himself—was the Knight of Swords, clearly an embattled figure. The Knight was covered crosswise by the card of Death. Even with as little as I knew about the cards, that was alarming. I decided to write the reading down for future reference. I took a notebook out of my bag and started to make a chart. Below the two central cards was The Hermit, an old man searching in the dark with a lantern, and above them was The Moon, with its baying dogs. To the left of the two central cards was The King of Wands and to the right was the Ace of Swords. Farther to the right were four cards not yet revealed.

  I was about to turn them over when Arbuckle reappeared in the doorway holding a clear plastic bag containing a scrap of Indian print fabric. “Does this look familiar?”