Conduct in Question

by Mary E. Martin

  “All right, Frank.” Marjorie sighed deeply, turning her head away from him on the pillow. “I’ll do it. Get a lawyer to draw up the will, and I’ll sign it.”

  Frank grinned. “Right away, Auntie. I’ll take care of everything. I knew you’d see reason. You’re really a very intelligent woman.”

  Marjorie raised her head from the pillow. “You’ve got what you came for, Frank. Now, leave!”

  “Sure. I’m going.” He bent to kiss her cheek, but she pushed him away.

  “Still got some fight left, eh?”

  Marjorie drew herself up. Momentarily, anger flared, but quickly she was flooded with over-powering weariness. Where was the Deighton strength, she wondered? She knew she was too tired to fight him. Perhaps Suzannah felt the same.

  “See ya, Auntie. I’ll be back with a good lawyer for you.” Frank slammed the bedroom door shut.

  In his air-conditioned car, Frank began to sweat. The day was not perfect. He could not forget his meeting with the Chinaman, Albert Chin, that morning.

  He had carried the leather satchel up two flights to the Sunrise Trading Company on Spadina Avenue.

  The Chinaman, with great care, counted every bill.

  “Mr. Sasso? There is not enough money here. The gentleman in Buffalo said he was sending over eight hundred thousand.” Chin’s eyelids flickered.

  “Look, Chin! Every goddamned penny is there. Believe me, Benny only sent over six hundred.”

  Chin reached for the phone.

  “No…Al. C’mon. I’ll check and see. If there’s anything missing, I’ll get it to you by Friday at the very latest. You’ll see.”

  The Chinaman scared Frank. He steepled his long, thin fingers, seeming to go off into some crazy trance.

  “I promise, Al. Don’t call Benny.”

  “Your job, Mr. Sasso,” Chin began with a low tremor in his voice, “is to bring all the money with each delivery to the conglomerate from Buffalo. There is a serious problem if any is missing.” Chin stood up and bowed. “You have until tomorrow at noon, sir.”

  ***

  Returning home from the meeting at Gideon Trust, Suzannah sat on the couch in the darkening living room, drinking. By early evening, the bottle of scotch was half-empty.

  At first, just a tear or two trickled down her cheek. If she had not told Frank about the pills, Marjorie would still be alive. He must have given her an overdose. But how did he make her change her will? It couldn’t be very hard. Frank liked it when things were easy.

  She tried to reason. With the house, she had a hope of freedom. Marjorie would have told her to throw Frank out, but what did Auntie know about men like Frank? Katharine wouldn’t put up with crap from any man. Secretly, she hoped Katharine would fight the will and fix Frank once and for all. Sometimes she wished she could just disappear. Suzannah knew about running. Once she had worked in the church mission house for street kids on the run, serving soup and handing out blankets. Struggling upward on the sofa, she reached for the light, but slumped back.

  She had a brilliant idea. She could use Marjorie’s house for homeless kids. She sat up straight. That would be doing some good. But Katharine would probably laugh at her. So expert at everything—always talking about her work with battered women at Emma’s Hostel.

  More tears slid down her cheeks. Maybe she could buy Frank off with her share of cash in the estate, if he promised to leave. Ridiculous! It wasn’t just the money; he needed somebody to hurt.

  As he pulled into the driveway, Frank picked up the champagne on the front seat. Suzannah’s car was there, but all the lights in the house were out. Probably she’d dozed off, he thought. Taking too many Valium, and with all the liquor, her mind was like a soggy Kleenex. But it made it easier to keep her in line. He heaved himself out of the car and banged the front door open.

  “Hey, babe! Where the hell are you?” Frank shouted from the hallway.

  Suzannah could not breathe in the still living room. She could run out the back door, but her legs would not move.

  “In the living room, Frank,” she said quietly.

  Frank stood in the doorway. “What the Christ you sitting in the dark for? You know how to turn on the lights, don’t you?”

  She knew that tone: half humorous and half menacing.

  Frank circled the coffee table, tossed off his jacket, and then sat beside her on the couch. “You okay, babe?”

  She nodded.

  “Listen, sweetie, I brought us champagne. Time you and me had a little celebration.”

  He grasped her thigh. “Been into the scotch, eh?” His tone was light. “Hope you can still see to cook the dinner.”

  He shoved his hand up under her skirt and jammed his thumb into her thigh. Encircling her neck with his other hand, he dug his fingers in and wrenched her around to face him.

  “What’s the matter, babe? We haven’t done it for at least two weeks.” He shoved his tongue between her lips. His weight on her was crushing.

  “Frank, no. Wait.” She struggled out from under him. “Listen, let’s have dinner first. Drink the champagne and then go to bed early.”

  He stopped and studied her.

  “You’ll see, Frank. I’ll be good tonight. We can do anything you want tonight. But let’s eat dinner first.”

  He sniffed suspiciously, “Don’t smell nothing cooking. You’d better not be playing games with me.”

  “Honest, Frank, you’ll see.” She squirmed to the far end of the couch, fixed her hair, and said, “Let me pour you a scotch. Dinner will be on the table in no time.”

  Moments later, she set the drink in front of him. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down. She struggled away. He pinched her hard. “You are one fantastic piece of ass,” he said, laughing. “Too bad your brains aren’t as big as your tits.”

  Suzannah took two lasagna dinners from the freezer and set them in the microwave. With a paring knife, she cut up some lettuce and tomatoes and tossed them into a bowl.

  Fifteen minutes later, Frank occupied his chair at the head of the table and stuffed a napkin into his collar. She served the lasagna, salad, and bread. Retreating to her end of the table, she poured herself another scotch.

  “Well babe, we’re on easy street now.” Frank grinned. He broke off a chunk of bread and reached for the butter. “No more money worries. No living from one deal to the next, hoping the money’s gonna be there.”

  “What do you mean, Frank?”

  “Auntie’s property must be worth at least two million.”

  “Really?”

  “In this market, no problem.” Frank crammed a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed. “But listen, sweetie, don’t you trouble your head about that kind of stuff. I’ll get the money into the highest-return investments. We’ll be all set then, just you and me.”

  Frank spooned more lasagna onto his plate. His napkin trailed into the serving dish. “This is our chance, babe,” he began wistfully. “People are gonna start showing us respect once we got money. Just think of that sister of yours.” Frank lounged back, smiling in recollection of the meeting at Gideon. “Katharine’s gonna understand, real soon we’re not some trash she can laugh at.” His mouth tightened in frustration. He seemed to speak to himself. “I’m sick of them looking at us like we crawled out from under some rock. With their fancy degrees, they’re always laughing at us.”

  Suzannah stared at her fork. She knew he would never change. “Frank?”

  “What?”

  “Auntie’s house is mine. You’ve no right to tell me what to do with it,” she said quietly. She hated her wheedling tone.

  Frank stopped chewing. “I think your poor little brain has forgotten something, babe.” He tossed his napkin down. “If it wasn’t for me outsmarting all of them, that house would not be yours. You’d be sharing with your sister and that wimpy brother of yours.”

  It was too dark in the dining room to see Frank clearly, but there was no mistaking his tone.

  Suzannah continued bl
indly, “What did you do, Frank, to make Auntie change her will?”

  Frank spoke calmly. “Your aunt is not a stupid woman. She can see reason.”

  “I’ll bet you reasoned with her, all right!” Suzannah’s breathing was short and sharp. “What did you threaten her with, Frank?”

  With exaggerated patience, Frank said, “Listen babe, I’m not going to tell you this twice. You are going to forget this crap about the will, and you’re going to do exactly what I tell you.”

  “Forget it, Frank!” Suzannah’s voice rose shrilly. “I’m sick of the way you think you can kick me around. You’ve no right!” The scared faces of the street kids flickered through her mind. “I’m not going to sell Auntie’s house. It’s mine! I’m going to turn it into a halfway house for kids!” She tried to fight back the tears back, but it was no use. Too late, she heard the stem of Frank’s wine glass snap.

  He grasped her hair and jerked her neck back. “A halfway house, is it? And just how did your pea-brain come up with that?” he taunted. “Don’t you mean a half-wit house for people like you?”

  Frank slammed her hard against the table. Awkwardly, she teetered. With one hand, he knocked her to the floor. He towered over her, with her plate of lasagna in his hand.

  “Listen, you moronic bitch!” He dripped the lasagna onto her head. “Get this into your brain: I’m selling the house and investing the money.”

  He kicked hard at the side of her head and threw the plate to the floor. Fragments of china stabbed her cheek.

  Suzannah was very cold on the floor. She drifted into unconsciousness. When she awoke, she could hear Frank snoring in the bedroom. Finally, she got to all fours and raised herself to a standing position. In the bathroom, she wiped the congealed blood from under her eye and around her mouth. She thought she looked dead. Not bothering to change, she fell asleep on the living-room couch.

  CHAPTER 23

  As soon as Harry entered his house, he called out for Laura. There was no response. In the kitchen, he saw a note propped up against the coffeepot. It read: I’m having dinner with Martha tonight. Don’t wait up. L.

  He sank onto a kitchen chair. Restlessly, his eyes roved about, taking in the barrenness of the house. People who had a life together put photographs of happy times on the wall, and magnets and calendars on the fridge. Angrily, he tossed the marriage counselor’s appointment card beside Laura’s note.

  Looking into the dining room, he saw a large wicker basket on the table. Laura must have put it there when she had dropped by. He knew immediately, without reading the card that Chin had sent it. He was almost afraid to open the green, glistening cellophane wrap. Inside, he could see boxes of cookies and chocolates. At last he opened the card.

  Dear Mr. Jenkins,

  I have discussed our conversation with the conglomerate. We do hope you will reconsider. We are willing to pay handsomely for your services, as we know you will complete the work in a timely and expert manner. Please reconsider your position carefully.

  Sincerely,

  Albert Chin

  Harry crumpled the card and flung it into the kitchen wastebasket, then dialed his client, only to encounter a voice-mail recording. He said, “Mr. Chin, I’m very sorry, but as I explained, I cannot act in the Deighton offer as I am already the estate solicitor. Oh…and thank you for the gift basket, but please do not send anything more. Good night, sir.” Surely, by God, that should be clear enough.

  He opened the refrigerator. In the pale white light, he saw a small selection of neatly packaged carrots, lettuce, and tomatoes. Further back was some cold meat and a tub of tofu. The sparse stock undoubtedly reflected the thin spirit of their marriage. A world without pleasure now enveloped them.

  At the kitchen table, he thought of their long, leisurely dinners, years back, filled with wine and conversation until midnight. In bed, their lovemaking was first as soft and sensuous as shadows, then as wild and violent as August storms. Then they would lie exhausted in the dark. Desperately, he wished for a return of such passion. Surely such a love could not simply evaporate. Unable to swallow, he set down his sandwich and snapped on the television.

  The six o’clock news was on. Hunger drove him to try again to eat. Over the last few days, it had been painful to move, eat, or breathe. He forced his mind back to Marjorie.

  No doubt Frank had procured the new will, but Harry was puzzled about Suzannah’s promise. It was likely that she had agreed to nurse Marjorie at home if she were to become really sick. Marjorie did have a justified horror of nursing homes.

  Frank was in the center of the mess, but Harry had to prove at least undue influence. Just because Frank was a money-grubbing fraud, that didn’t necessarily mean he murdered her. He couldn’t envision Suzannah as someone involved in a murder. She seemed to wander dreamily from one day to the next. Perhaps she didn’t know a thing. If someone knew about Marjorie’s call to him about the will, he or she might have decided to get rid of her fast. Unless Marjorie had spoken about the appointment, no one else would have known of it.

  Rosie had been badly cut up with ugly petal designs. Welkom, for what it was worth, thought the work wasn’t artistic enough to be that of the Florist. And Harry was at a loss to understand why Rosie might have fallen prey to the mad Florist. If the two deaths were connected to the Florist, why on earth would he poison one and strangle and carve the other? Maybe Rosie had come back early from her free afternoon and interrupted the killer, who had attacked her in a brutal rage. Theories ran rampant in his mind, but nothing added up.

  On the television, two gurneys with bodies shrouded in black were being removed from a house somewhere in the east end of the city. Against the backdrop of the street, the reporter spoke.

  “In this modest bungalow on Pape Avenue, two young women, Deirdre Jamieson and Linda Lee Hong, were brutally slain. Both were paralegals in the law firm, Cheney, Arpin. The question on everyone’s mind? Has the Florist struck again?”

  Photographs of the two smiling women appeared on the screen. Slowly, Harry set down his sandwich and squinted. Good Lord. He knew Deirdre Jamieson. She was the pretty one from Cheney, Arpin who had come to the land registry office to complete the Chin deals.

  The closing had been difficult. All the documentation had appeared to be in order, but there had been a few missing items. When it came to real estate, Harry was a stickler for detail. Usually, the vendor directed the purchaser, in a formal document, how to make out the checks. Deirdre had given him a direction signed by Zaimir Heights on behalf of all the numbered companies. Not satisfied, Harry had called Chin, who had immediately instructed him to pay the funds to Zaimir and close the deal. Only now did Harry remember that McKeown was the lawyer behind Zaimir. Harry dumped the remains of his sandwich into the garbage and poured the rest of his beer. The telephone rang.

  “Hello?” Harry swallowed hard.

  “Sergeant Welkom here.

  “Yes, sergeant?” Harry was on his guard.

  “Need you down at forensics.”

  “What for?”

  “To identify something for us.” Welkom’s tone was flat, revealing nothing.

  “If it’s something to do with the breakin,” Harry said, checking the annoyance in his voice, “can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  Harry sighed. He knew to be careful with the sergeant. “All right. Where are you?” Resigned to his task, he wrote a note for Laura and set it beside the coffeepot. Missives passing in the night, he reflected sadly.

  The forensics lab was temporarily housed in the cavernous medical building on the University of Toronto campus. Looking for parking, Harry drove slowly along the road circling the broad, grassy playing field. On the crescent, only the medical building was lit up. The other turreted structures rose up dark and menacing in the fog.

  As he mounted the steps, the sweet, sickly smell of formaldehyde wafted into memory from his undergraduate years in science at the university. The hall must have received a new c
oat of paint in the last thirty years, but it was the same putrid hue of green. The steel door of the elevator was narrow and heavy, but the brass inner gate clanged open easily. By the time the elevator had risen to the third floor, Harry had read the fine print of the elevator license twice.

  The upper hallway was well-lit. At the far end, two policemen sat on wooden chairs, drinking coffee and chatting. As he approached, one of the officers stood.

  “I’m looking for Sergeant Welkom, officer,” Harry said.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Jenkins, Harry Jenkins.”

  Harry was immediately motioned inside. The immense lab was all too familiar. Globe lamps hung from the high white ceilings, and a pale and eerie light was diffused throughout the room. The windows were high and blackened by the night. People felt dwarfed in these rooms.

  Welkom appeared at the far end of the lab, walking stiffly toward him between the tables equipped with sinks and stools.

  Without preliminaries, the sergeant said, “Want to show you something, Mr. Jenkins.” He guided Harry past the rows of stainless-steel autopsy tables. He ushered him into a small room at the far end, which was dim and very cold. Harry heard the whir of a fan.

  The sergeant switched the light on. Two stretchers were lined up on either side of the white-walled cubicle, with scarcely two feet between them. A body, covered with a sheet, lay on each gurney.

  “Why have you brought me here?” Harry cleared his throat. There was a chemical odor in the air. The sergeant eyed him and did not answer for a moment.

  “Hope you have a strong stomach, Mr. Jenkins. This is pretty ugly.”

  Harry had seen more than his fair share of corpses in his line of work. He liked to believe in the existence of the soul and an afterlife. Corpses reminded him of empty, scattered cartons and drained tins. The contents were gone and only the packaging remained.