Conduct in Question

by Mary E. Martin

  Albert Chin had said that money was no problem, and after all, there was lots of work in preparing those offers. He would search the titles to the properties, do the corporate searches, and prepare six offers and submit them. Surely that would add up to twenty-five grand. Besides, Chin would not have given him such a munificent retainer had he not expected a sizable bill. And Harry knew that he was not the only lawyer guilty of such an infraction.

  But the dreaded Section Four of the Code of Conduct refused to let go of his thoughts. Thou shalt not withdraw monies from trust without an accounting delivered within four days of any such transaction. The deed was done. Mudhali would have transferred the funds immediately.

  Suddenly, Harry brightened. When Chin came in to sign the offers tomorrow, he would give him a letter setting out the withdrawal on account of services to be rendered. It was likely that this maneuver would ensure compliance at least with the letter of the law, if not the spirit. Despite his rationale, Harry knew that his pride had driven him to rashness.

  Miss Giveny was waiting by the car, exuding a steam of impatience. He forced the Mudhali encounter to back of his mind.

  “Things are beginning to hum,” he said, with forced cheeriness. “The Chin money is safely tucked in the bank. Now, let’s see what Miss Deighton wants. Oh, by the way, did you bring Marjorie’s existing will?”

  She sniffed, offended that her competence might be in question. “Of course. I brought two copies of it and put the original back in the vault.”

  “Good. I wonder what changes she’ll want to make.”

  Harry climbed in next to his secretary. “She’ll only cause trouble,” muttered Miss Giveny sullenly.

  Astonished at the unmitigated bleakness of her tone, Harry stared across at her. “Why would you say that?”

  Miss Giveny shrugged. Staring straight ahead, she said, “Because it’s true. She was a great worry to Mr. Crawford. Always demanding his time over the silliest things.”

  “Really? She always struck me as a very pleasant, reasonable sort.” In the slanting sun, Harry could see the tightening at the corners of her mouth. “What sorts of things?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. She was always fussing about her nieces and nephew, and how they treated her.” Miss Giveny paused, as if debating whether to continue. “She was always talking about how to end it all, if she got really sick. Almost an obsession, if you ask me.”

  “You mean you think she’d try to kill herself?”

  Miss Giveny gazed at Harry as if he were a lowly student. “Hardly! She’s far too vain and selfish for that. All she wanted was to worry Mr. Crawford, just to get his attention. She never gave Mr. Crawford a moment’s peace. Always having to protect her.”

  “Protect her? From what?” asked Harry.

  Miss Giveny sniffed and crumpled up her Kleenex. “Mostly from her relatives.”

  Such fears often preoccupied lonely old aunts, thought Harry. Particularly the wealthy ones, and with good reason. Was a niece or nephew visiting this afternoon? He’d need to watch out for telltale signs of duress. Lots of clients had to be protected from their nearest and dearest.

  “If there’s anything more…?”

  “No, nothing,” she said, snapping her purse shut. “It was all before your time, anyway.”

  The conversation ended. Miss Giveny could speak volumes with her silence. They turned north onto Spadina Avenue, which, at the southerly end, was one of the broadest and most desolate streets in the city.

  Chinatown was further north. New buildings, oriental in shape and design, had appeared overnight. With waves of Hong Kong money swamping the city, the Seniors’ Home and the Chinese Emporium had replaced the older, worn structures. Beyond Chinatown, Spadina Crescent wound around the massive, turreted Connaught Laboratory, which was ensconced like a Victorian dowager protecting the leafy residential district of the Deightons further north.

  Time and again, he was reminded that Toronto was no longer the staid city of his childhood. Sometimes it resembled an ancient heap of unrelated jigsaw-puzzle pieces; at other times, the city seemed unified by a raw, surging energy, teeming with life.

  They arrived ten minutes early. Harry parked in front of St. Timothy’s Church, which stood next to the Deighton mansion. He decided to take a walk. Miss Giveny remained in the car.

  On the south side of Mount Rose was a small sporting-goods store, which resembled a concrete bunker. On the other side, shabby stores crowded in along the sidewalk. Three of Chin’s lots fronted on the north side of the street, just west of the church. Tenanted housing occupied the other three lots directly behind them.

  Harry turned back to the car. Without a word, Miss Giveny climbed out and followed him up the walk.

  The Deighton residence was a handsome example of mid-Victorian architecture. Like a fortress against the world, the house had two turrets rising up the three stories. A chill wind swept them up the steps to the broad veranda, which ran the along the front and down one side of the house. The sun was fading fast, leaving behind the bitter chill of an early spring.

  As promised, the front door was unlocked. Although he loved the oval expanse of beveled glass set in the door, Harry shook his head at the lack of security. Some of his elderly clients were terrorized by reports of rising crime. Undoubtedly, they would be hiding behind locks and latches, fearful that the Florist would break in. Others, such as the Deightons, were so insulated by their attitudes of class and status that they felt safe. An attack on their property or person would signal the total disintegration of society.

  Harry pushed Marjorie’s front door open.

  “Miss Deighton,” he called, as they stepped inside.

  The interior was dim and cold. The twilight flickered momentarily, illuminating the broad staircase, which led off the foyer. Harry rubbed his hands together for warmth, then took off his coat. The brass rings screeched along the rod as he drew back the heavy brocade curtains of the cloakroom.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Deighton,” he said more loudly, opening the parlor door. Her chair by the fireplace was empty, and the grate was cold. Miss Giveny shivered at his side.

  A strong draft caught his ankles from somewhere at the back. Moving through the shadowy parlor and dining room, he entered the kitchen. A naked ceiling bulb swayed slightly in the pantry off the kitchen, casting a stark and ugly light. The draft came from the back door, which was not properly closed. Shoving his weight against it, Harry slammed it shut.

  The telephone rang in the still house: once, then twice. Harry waited for it to be answered. The phone continued its ringing.

  On the main staircase, he called out, “Miss Deighton, it’s Harold Jenkins. Are you all right?”

  He held his breath to listen. Was that movement upstairs?

  Harry peered upward in the gray light. A shadow seemed to pass on the wall of the upstairs landing. The cursed phone continued to ring.

  On the stairs, Miss Giveny held him back. “I’ll go. She wouldn’t want a man coming up.”

  Abruptly, the telephone stopped. Miss Giveny rushed up the stairs. She rapped on the door and then twisted the knob.

  The staccato bursts from the telephone were the only sound throughout the house.

  White-faced, Miss Giveny stood at the head of the stairs. “The door won’t budge.”

  Harry mounted the stairs, two at a time. His sleeve brushed a potted plant, pitching it to the floor. He knocked again. “Miss Deighton, are you in there?”

  The knob was so loose that it might easily snap off. At last the catch turned, but the door still would not budge. He threw his weight against the door and it gave way.

  Marjorie lay peacefully on the bed, dressed in a deep-blue silk dress, as if ready to go out for afternoon tea. Her ankles were crossed rather primly and her arms lay in repose at her sides.

  Two straight-backed chairs were pulled up beside the bed. A broken teacup lay on the floor, its contents forming a dark stain on the carpet.

  A bedside lamp ba
thed her face in a soft rose light. He was moved by the utter peace in her expression. How clear her skin was—almost translucent. Care seemed washed away. Lowering his head to her chest, he listened for breathing. Gently, he took her wrist, but could find no pulse. He winced at the cold and stiffness of her fingers.

  No long suffering, no clinging to respirators, no indignities inflicted upon body and soul by modern medicine. A neat and peaceful passing, thought Harry. Just what Marjorie had wanted.

  The telephone broke the silence of the house again. Harry picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  He heard an indistinct sound. Was it breathing? Throat-clearing?

  “Yes? Who is it?” he asked.

  The line went dead. Harry shook his head and hung up.

  Briskly, Miss Giveny drew back the curtains. The orange twilight flooded the room. She straightened the upended pot in the hall. Watching her, Harry reflected that death seemed to compel the living into a frenzy of activity.

  He sat down and gazed at his client, then he dialed emergency services. He spoke quietly on the phone.

  At the death of an old client, Harry often felt a chapter in his own life had closed. A woman with eighty-five years of experience had valued his advice—and not just as a lawyer. Surprised at the keenness of his sense of loss, he took her hand once more. Here lay Richard Crawford’s lover. Such a union he could scarcely imagine. But then, their love needn’t make sense to him. With her passing, perhaps Crawford’s critical ghost would fade from his mind.

  Again the phone rang. Harry stared at it, then picked it up. “Yes?”

  This time the phone was slammed down. What in hell? he thought.

  Loud banging at the front door shattered the silence.

  Miss Giveny answered. Four men crowded into Marjorie’s bedroom. After a brief examination, the coroner pronounced her dead. A weary‑looking sergeant named Welkom took perfunctory notes.

  “So, you related to the deceased?” Welkom asked.

  “No, I’m Harry Jenkins, her solicitor.”

  The sergeant sighed as if this fact were a troublesome complication. “When did you find her?”

  “Ten minutes ago. We called right away.”

  “Touch anything?” he asked, glancing about.

  “Just her. To see if there were a pulse.”

  “What were you doing here?”

  “I had a four o’clock appointment with her, but she had a visitor at two.” Harry pointed out the two chairs drawn up to the bed, and the tea tray. “Certainly looks as if she had some visitors,” he said.

  The sergeant closed his notebook. “Well, we can send forensics around to check the place out.”

  “She was quite elderly, and she may have just passed away in her sleep.” Harry hesitated. “But she really was concerned about the appointment. Said she’d need my advice. Also, when we got here, the phone started ringing on and off. I picked it up twice and the line went dead both times.”

  Welkom shrugged and said to the coroner, “What do you think, Mel?” His eyes briefly lowered to the floor. “No signs of violence? No petal designs anywhere?”

  “You mean like the Florist’s handiwork?” said the coroner, examining the body. “No, none. But those were all young girls.” Mel shook his head. “Given her age, I think she just died of natural causes.”

  The paramedics moved the body onto the stretcher and headed downstairs.

  Welkom shouldered past the coroner out into the hallway. “Next of kin, Mr. Jenkins?”

  “Yes, two nieces: Katharine Rowe and Suzannah Deighton. And a nephew, Gerald.”

  “We’ll have to contact them,” the sergeant said, jotting down the names.

  Harry started down the stairs, only to stop on the landing. He tried the door to the back stairs, but it was jammed. He’d get someone in to make the minor repairs. Buyers with lots of money loved features such as back stairs and French doors. He smiled. Natasha would be the perfect appraiser of the property. As Marjorie’s executor, along with Gideon Trust, he would net substantial compensation. With a lighter step, he descended the staircase.

  At the foot of the stairs, he stopped again. Something was not right.

  “Shouldn’t there be an autopsy, sergeant?” he asked.

  Welkom shrugged. “That’s up to the coroner. There was no violence. Probably she just died of natural causes.”

  Harry began, “Yes, but—”

  “Listen, Mr. Jenkins, Leave it to us. We’ll let you know.” The sergeant snapped his pad shut and left.

  Once the body had been removed, Harry left a note for Rosie, Marjorie’s housekeeper, to call him when she came back from her afternoon off. Then he tried to reach the next of kin.

  Katharine Rowe, Marjorie’s eldest niece, was still in meetings. There was no answer at Suzannah’s. Gerry Deighton had left his dental clinic at noon and had not returned. Harry left his home and office numbers. He knew almost nothing of Marjorie’s relatives. Except for Suzannah and her problems with Frank, Marjorie had rarely spoken of them. Harry knew a client’s death could prove interesting. Next of kin frequently shed new light on clients he thought he knew well. It worked both ways. Relatives, formerly only names typed in wills, often came to life in the most surprising fashion. The maze of human relationships fascinated him. Together, Miss Giveny and Harry closed up the empty house.

  “I’ll take you right home, Miss Giveny,” he said as he opened the car door for her.

  “Thank you. I usually take the bus, but tonight…”

  “I know. After all of this, we ought to get home as quickly as possible.”

  “All these reports of the Florist are so troubling,” she sighed.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Florist was pleased with his name. It suggested an appreciation of his artistic talent and sensibility. That other name, “the Mad Artist,” that had been originally splattered all over the press, had infuriated him. Sipping his coffee, he glanced at the newspaper. Good! His letter to the editor was on the front page. It read:

  This world is filled with dreary, lackluster souls plodding through their lives. Those who criticize me for destroying and creating are philistines. Those who call me mad shall fear my judgment, which has the cleansing power of fire.

  His smile was thin as he lit his cigar. A photograph caught his eye. The woman’s head was tipped at lovely angle, exposing her long, slender neck. The line conveyed perfect elegance and grace, just like a Matisse drawing. He rose from his breakfast table to go to the window.

  In the bright morning sun, he examined her features. Such startling beauty. But then again, she had the haughty look of one spoiled by class and status. He despised that kind of woman: a socialite engaged in useless charitable work to salve her conscience. Her cheekbones were high and fine; her mouth was only slightly too wide, suggesting an untamed sensuality beneath a painted exterior. The short blurb read:

  Katharine Rowe (pictured above) accepting an award for her charitable works at Emma’s Hostel for abused women.

  In his office, next to the bedroom, he made ten enlarged copies of her photograph. Tonight, he would get out his book on Matisse and practice his drawing on the copies of her photograph.

  “Mother?” the Florist said softly. “At last I have found the perfect one.” He cocked his head, as if straining for a response.

  His eyes flashed with anger. “I do not understand you, Mother! Just what do you mean by ‘compassion’?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Harry found every possible traffic jam between Marjorie’s and Miss Giveny’s streets. Mercifully, his secretary remained encased in silence throughout the long ride. She lived on Mortimer Avenue, a broad and desolate thoroughfare cutting across the east end of the city. One dwarf maple per lot dotted the roadway, and each tiny bungalow had a huge carport attached, creating an unsettling, lopsided effect. Despite the early spring, not a soul walked along the dreary roadway. Perhaps the Florist had frightened people inside.

  As he pulled i
nto the driveway, his secretary sat in tense silence.

  “Good night, Miss Giveny,” said Harry, opening the car door for her.

  “Thank you for the ride,” she said stiffly. “Everyone’s worried sick about that dreadful Florist. I hope they catch him soon. People should be able to go about without worry.” Pursing her lips, she stared straight ahead in the gloom. Harry only nodded.

  Suddenly, the front door of the house flew open. A woman, about Miss Giveny’s age, stepped out, wearing a pink nightie. Framed in the light of the doorway, Harry saw her sagging body. With the eagerness of a small child, the woman waved and called out,

  “Hiya Gladdie! Where ya been?” Then she crouched down on the top step and giggled, clasping her hands around her knees. “Gladdie’s got a gentleman friend, I see.”

  Miss Giveny almost stumbled in her haste to get out of the car. Turning back, she peered in the dark at Harry. “It’s my sister, Merle, Mr. Jenkins.” She spoke with somber dignity. “She’s my responsibility. She’s not right in the head.” She shut the car door and took Merle inside.

  Heading home, Harry reflected on Miss Giveny’s world. Never once had she spoken of her burdens. Her truculence was much more understandable now.

  Squinting in the lights of oncoming traffic, his mind wandered to the worlds of Marjorie’s relatives. Although his client had rarely spoken of her niece, Katharine Rowe, he thought she worked in architectural design. The nephew, Gerry, was a dentist. Only her concerns for Suzannah had been voiced. And Donnie sounded like plenty of trouble. But for Harry, raising kids was unknown territory.

  Switching on the radio, he caught a tune from his early undergraduate years in the seventies. The face of Dean Faulkner, a friend from back then, floated in front of him. Only a few days ago, he had met him for a drink. Dean had done a better job of keeping his hair than Harry had.

  Dark figures had crowded around the bar. Even with the noise, Dean’s bitterness had come through loud and clear.

  “Orion’s been in the forefront of architectural planning for decades. But it’s running out of steam.” Dean stared into his glass, then looked up into Harry’s eyes. “I’m an ‘old-school’ planner accused of creating idyllic pastures for sheep.” He snorted. “Higgledy-piggledy neighborhoods are in fashion. Like untended gardens of weeds. Soon there’ll be no work for planners.”