Prisoners of Hope

by Barbara Fradkin

  “You didn’t really expect he wouldn’t, did you? He’s a cop, after all, and kiddo, this is bigger than either of you. There’s been a BOLO out on Danielle for days.”

  “I know. It’s just as well. George Gifford is out there looking for Danielle too, and I’m not sure he has rescue on his mind. George is actually the person we’re looking for.”

  “Does Neville Standish know about George?”

  She hesitated. She hadn’t given the clerk much detail. “Not specifically.”

  Silence. Had she lost the signal? The rhythmic roar of the boat made it difficult to tell. “Matthew?”

  “Listen,” he said. “Call Chris, will you? He’s … he’s …”

  His last words were garbled. She thought he said “He’s not the enemy,” but she couldn’t be sure. “I’m losing you, Matthew. Bye,” was all she said before signing off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When Matthew stepped out of the sunny chaos of Toronto’s Bloor Street into the cool hush of the church, he was glad he’d hauled his best suit out of its garment bag at the back of his closet. His decision to attend the funeral had not been a whim; he’d been toying with the idea for days. Amanda — even Chris Tymko — had met the storied Saint Clairs, and after his meeting with Julio, Janine loomed as a powerful central figure in the drama unfolding around her husband’s death. She piqued his curiosity. Some people made the news, others were the news. In the story he was drafting in his head, she was a pivotal character; whether victim or villain, he had yet to discover.

  Despite hanging in his apartment window for an hour, the suit still smelled slightly of mildew, but it was a sedate navy pinstripe that, paired with a conservative white shirt and a blue and grey paisley tie, made it funeral perfect. He was surprised and relieved that it still fit after weeks of excesses at his espresso café, and he tweaked its pocket square with all the flair of a Stratford actor. He would be rubbing shoulders with the elite of Toronto society at St. Paul’s Anglican Church, but years on the international diplomatic cocktail circuit had taught him how to play that role.

  He walked down the centre aisle at a measured, respectful pace, choosing his seat carefully. Not too close to the family at the front, not so far back as to be inconsequential. He didn’t want to be among the hired help and the secretarial staff of the hospital. He wanted to eavesdrop on Benson’s medical colleagues and the society crowd who gathered around the Saint Clair flame — friends and admirers Janine might deign to speak with.

  The interior of the church was hushed and imposing, a powerful and enduring monument to the upper class that had founded it. Pale limestone arches soared overhead, and stained glass windows flashed in the sunlight. Soft organ music reverberated through the hall. His newly polished black shoes echoed on the stone floor, and his hand touched the dark wood pews as he passed. Heads turned discreetly, and people greeted each other with subdued but barely concealed excitement. Gossip was afoot.

  He doubted anyone would question who he was; he had only to behave as if he belonged. He greeted total strangers with nods of recognition and finally chose a pew with a few promising-looking couples. He tuned his ears but heard only snatches of whispered conversation. “Did you know …? I heard … Ridiculous! Well, you never know what people …”

  At the front of the church, the nave gleamed of ornate wood and limestone against stained glass, with a discreet array of floral arrangements. Taste and discretion in all things at St. Paul’s. The organ struck up a suitable processional hymn — Bach, Matthew thought — and soon the pallbearers were rolling the coffin down the aisle. A blindingly elaborate casket of polished mahogany and brass befitting a prince, his first hint that Janine didn’t do anything by halves.

  Behind the pallbearers walked the widow, a pale vision in a black suit with satin detailing and a black rose fascinator perched at a tilt on her sleek copper hair. She walked alone, her head held high and her gaze fixed straight ahead. Her make-up was impeccable, and if she had spent the morning, or indeed any time in the last few days, weeping, there was no trace of it.

  Behind her, holding the hands of two small twin girls in puffy navy dresses, was a platinum blonde wearing a modest black dress set off by red stiletto heels and a red silk scarf that trailed over her shoulder. Matthew assumed from the pecking order that she was Candace, Janine’s sister.

  Both women looked stunning. Money could buy a lot of style, but Matthew suspected Janine would turn heads even wearing a potato sack. There was a challenge in her stare and a confidence in her stride that was hard to resist.

  A weepy-looking middle-aged couple, hopelessly outclassed in bearing and attire, followed Candace, their anxious eyes flitting over the crowd, possibly in search of a friendly face. Remembering Benson’s modest Prairie roots, Matthew surmised these were his parents. He gave them an encouraging smile. Behind them came an assortment of younger couples, presumably siblings, cousins, and their spouses.

  The funeral service was mercifully short, with a minimum of religious babble. A few hymns, a psalm or two, a poem read by Benson’s brother, the Lord’s Prayer, and then it came time for the eulogy. Matthew was astonished when Janine herself rose to deliver it.

  She was either a consummate actor who knew her role to a T, or she had a heart of stone. For the first ten minutes, her speech was pitch-perfect. Her voice rose to the rafters, clear and elegant with just a hint of quaver at the right moments. She thanked people for coming to honour her husband. She touched on the difference he made in so many lives through his work and his philanthropy. She talked about his dedication as a father, son, brother, and husband, pausing to look at each family member in turn and her voice quivering on the last. She talked about his humble roots and the values of integrity and compassion his parents had instilled in him. Here, she let a small smile play across her lips.

  “Everyone knew that if they wanted anything, it was Benson they approached. He was always ready with a helping hand and always thought the best of people. Perhaps that was his downfall.”

  It was a throwaway comment, quickly glossed over as she moved on, but Matthew snapped alert. He doubted Janine threw anything away for free. Was she implying something sinister about his death? Did she believe something other than the official party line of accidental overdose? And if so, to whom was she referring?

  “The world is a smaller, meaner place without Dr. Benson Humphries,” she continued, back on script. “His death leaves a hole in my life, in the lives of my children, and the many people who loved and needed him. But he died in the place he loved best and spent his last day enjoying the peace and beauty of the lake. He will be with us in memory and in spirit always, and nowhere more than in Georgian Bay. Godspeed, my love.”

  Matthew felt like clapping. All that private schooling had not been entirely lost on the wild child. When she returned to the front pew, she accepted the embrace of every single family member. Benson’s parents seemed less effusive, but perhaps it was just their nature.

  He had not intended to go to the reception afterward, because he doubted he could pass for a family friend under closer scrutiny, but Janine’s performance had intrigued him. Could he use her throwaway comment as a segue into further confidences?

  The St. James Club was a rambling red-brick mansion occupying prime real estate on Bloor Street, sheltered from the crowds and press of downtown by a ring of magnificent old trees. Stepping through the wrought-iron gates was like stepping into the cradle of privilege. The St. James Club had been a gentlemen-only club until it was dragged kicking and screaming out of Victorian times into the late twentieth century, but the gentlemen’s touch was still evident in the carved panelling and wainscoting of aged oak and walnut, the heavy maroon velvet drapes and the brown leather chairs worn thin by use. Matthew suspected the décor hadn’t been changed in decades, and some spots looked sorely in need. Still, to the blue-blooded rich, a touch of shabby lent the weight of tradition.

  The reception was being held in a lounge that could
easily have passed as a ballroom in Buckingham Palace. It was crowded, and the buzz of conversation created a dull roar that echoed from its fifteen-foot ceilings. Waiters in waistcoats threaded through the crowd with trays of drinks and canapés. Matthew snagged a glass of red wine and drifted through the throng, alert for gossip and hoping no one would recognize him. Former ambassadors or trade attachés might, although perhaps not out of context.

  Shreds of animated conversation swirled around as he walked. It seemed the cause of death was an open secret. Expressions of disbelief and outrage mingled with allusions to Benson’s darker side. Doctors learn to play fast and loose with drugs during their punishing residency years. Some of them never kick the habit of that instant “on” and “off.” You never know.…

  Whenever he stopped to listen, however, voices dropped and people edged away. In the corner, he spotted Candace, who seemed to have her hands full with the twins. She was immaculately made up, but as he drew near, he noticed the concealer was caked thick around her eyes.

  He approached and leaned in. “You seem to have your hands full. Can I get you a drink or a few snacks for the children?”

  She looked at him as if he had two heads. He flushed. Women had never been his forte, and she obviously thought his offer was a pick-up line. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Just that I know a lot of this is falling to you.”

  She didn’t look much appeased. “Just send a waiter over and I’ll tell him what I want.”

  He slunk away to waylay a waiter and grabbed a glass of white wine off a passing tray before returning. “He’s coming,” he said, handing her the wine, “but I thought this might help in the meantime.”

  She had the good manners to thank him.

  “Your sister gave a beautiful eulogy this morning.”

  “Didn’t she, though.”

  He filed away the irony in her tone. “I was impressed by her composure.”

  Candace took a sip. “Do you know my sister?”

  “Well … no.”

  Candace shook her head as if to stop herself and managed a polite smile. “You’re right. She was very brave.” She tipped her glass toward him. “Thank you for the wine,” she said and turned her back.

  As a journalist, he was no stranger to rebuffs. He tried to act nonchalant as he strolled in search of another mark. He wanted to snag the grieving widow, but she was still encircled by a crush of people waiting to talk to her. He spotted Benson’s parents standing alone in a corner, clutching drinks and looking forlorn. People were drifting by to offer their condolences but seemed to run out of words after a minute or two.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Humphries? I’m Matthew Goderich.” He offered his hand and hoped his name would be lost in the blur of grief and new faces. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I didn’t know your son well, but from what I saw, he was a remarkable man.”

  Benson’s mother nodded vacantly, while her husband muttered perfunctory thanks. I must sound like every other complete stranger in this room, he thought. “Janine gave a wonderful eulogy. You must be very proud of your daughter-in-law.”

  Mr. Humphries said something approximating agreement, but his wife’s lips grew tight. Matthew’s instincts stirred. He tossed out another feeler. “I especially liked how she said if anyone needed anything, they went to him, not her. That was the Benson I knew. I was a patient of his.” Warming to his story, he leaned in as if sharing a confidence. “And she was right. He would give you the shirt off his back, and sometimes, as Janine implied, people took advantage of that.”

  “Her more than anyone,” Mrs. Humphries retorted, as if the dam was threatening to burst.

  “Well, I don’t know her, but they do seem an unusual match.” He hoped that would encourage further indiscretions from the mother-in-law, who clearly had little affection for her daughter-in-law. When none were forthcoming, he pressed on. “Although she certainly is a beautiful woman.”

  The mother snorted. “More fool him.”

  “Now, Susan …” Her husband piped up. “It was as much her spirit as her looks, you know that.”

  Susan cast her husband a withering look. Spirit could mean a lot of things, Matthew thought, but clearly in Susan’s view, none of them were good. He nodded toward Candace, who was trying to wrestle the twins out of the room. The little girls were building up a head of steam.

  “That’s Janine’s sister with your granddaughters, isn’t it? They seem to have plenty of spirit.”

  “No discipline. They’ve been left with nannies all their lives. Benson did what he could to give them attention, but …” She lifted her shoulders in defeat.

  “He was busy with work,” Mr. Humphries added.

  His wife scowled. “She had the time.”

  “I’m surprised the nanny isn’t here to help out. To let the sister …” Matthew waved his hand to encompass the crowd.

  “Oh no! She’s … she’s …” The woman almost choked on her outrage.

  “Gone,” the husband supplied. “And there hasn’t been time to find a replacement.”

  “Oh, that’s rough.” Matthew nudged them along. “Losing their nanny at the same time as their dad.”

  “She’s the reason he’s dead!”

  “Susan …”

  She arched her eyebrows defiantly but kept her mouth shut. Mathew debated whether to plunge to the heart of the secret, which would either lose them or open the floodgates. “What? They think the nanny supplied the drugs?”

  Susan stiffened. “Benson didn’t do drugs.”

  “But I understood …”

  “Our son would never take drugs,” she said coldly. “He’s a neurologist. He knows what they do to the brain.”

  Matthew let the silence lengthen between them, hoping more details would come tumbling out as she defended her son. And sure enough …

  “I know what the autopsy said. Janine says the nanny put them in his drink. She wanted her documents, and now she has them and she’s gone. And our Benson is gone.” Susan drew herself up with dignity and turned to leave. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to the hotel. I’m tired, and Janine has an event planned at the house tonight. Henry, are you coming?”

  Henry shot Matthew a reproachful look before he scuttled after his wife, leaving Matthew with one last tidbit of family dynamics. Janine Saint Clair had a Rosedale mansion large enough to accommodate a royal entourage, and yet her grieving in-laws were staying at a hotel. Her decision, or theirs?

  He scanned the room to see what she was up to now and noticed the informal receiving line around her had dissipated. She was in the corner of the room in animated conversation with an elderly man in a charcoal-grey suit, striped maroon tie, and white shirt with cufflinks. Cufflinks! Who wore those nowadays? His silver hair was so perfectly swept across his brow that Matthew took it for a hairpiece until the man raked his long hands through it shakily.

  Janine was leaning in, peppering him with questions. Her voice was low, but her fingers dug into his arm and tears glinted in her eyes. Matthew was just sidling over to catch a few words when she shoved the man and stepped back.

  “What the fuck, Charlie!” She stormed across the room, scattering well-wishers as she disappeared out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Matthew was walking along Queen Street on his way back to his apartment when his cellphone rang. It had been a most informative morning, more innuendo than established fact, but it had helped to flesh out his impression of the family dynamics. He’d been hoping for a more nuanced picture of Benson — if not confirmation of his philandering at least some tarnish on his halo — but the halo shone more brightly than ever. Matthew needed a better source.

  He didn’t recognize the number on his display, but he did recognize the voice once the man uttered two words in his Spanish accent. “Mr. Goderich?”

  Ah-hah! Perhaps a source dropped from heaven. “Yes, Julio,” he shouted over the roar of the traffic. “How can I help you?”

  “I have more trouble. Can
you give me the telephone number of that lawyer?”

  “What’s happened?” Aware of the glares from fellow pedestrians on the busy street corner, he strolled toward the shelter of a building.

  “I work on the house today. Finish the tile in the bathroom. I hear the front door open, someone walking around. I call hello, no answer. I come upstairs. Dr. Benson’s wife is standing in the kitchen in a black suit and hat. She is opening the cabinet doors and looking at the windows. I say hello, Mrs. Humphries. You tell me she owns the house now, so I think okay, Julio, you better be nice to her.”

  Matthew rolled his eyes. Out on the street, the noon sun was baking off the pavement and the fumes from cars and buses washed over him. “Julio, what happened?”

  “She is very rude. She didn’t say hello, she just say Julio, I want you out of my house. I try to explain it’s not finished. She says I give you half an hour to take all your tools out of my house. But the tile is half done, I say. I’m bringing my own people in to finish it, she says. It’s going on the market next week.”

  Matthew jumped into the flow. “She’s going to sell it?”

  “That’s what she say. She was very angry. I am afraid to tell her about Danielle, but I say I can finish it for you, I have all the supplies. Then she gets very, very angry. Really, Julio, she says, you think I don’t know what you do behind my back? You think I’m going to pay you one cent for all this work? You leave the supplies here, they belong with the house, and you don’t show your face here again. You won’t get a cent, and she waved her hand at the kitchen, and your little friend Danielle is not going to move in here either.”

  Matthew groaned. He’d been afraid this would happen. Hell hath no fury … “How did she find out about the property? Did you approach her about getting paid?”

  “No! I was waiting for after the funeral. To show respect.”

  Well, she didn’t waste any time, Matthew thought. She must have stormed directly over from the funeral reception to the little house. Who had told her? Was that the altercation he’d witnessed at the reception?