Cut to the Chase

by Joan Boswell

  “You collect stamps?”

  “I have a few,” Poppy said.

  “Do you own the particular one mentioned in the article?”

  Poppy shrugged.

  “I take it that means you do. Danson knew that and wanted you to call the number in the paper. What did you say?”

  Poppy sighed. “I told him I didn’t want to get involved. That whoever had put the article in was on a fishing expedition to locate those stamps. Although it said it would be to a person’s advantage to phone, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know a come-on when I read one.”

  “Why do you think Danson wanted you to phone?”

  Poppy smiled. “When it comes to me, Danson worries that I’ll be poor in my old age, and he thought this might be a way for me to make money. He gets carried away.”

  “How did you respond?”

  “I said whatever it was, I doubted very much that it was good news. That’s what crooks say to get you to respond. Think of those sweet Nigerian people who have your interest at heart, and if you send them a small amount to pay the costs, you’ll end up with millions. I’m not stupid. There was no way I’d contact an anonymous person.”

  “What did Danson say?”

  “He asked if I had any secrets he should know about.” She wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips. “He’s changed since Angie died. He’s become a vigilante bloodhound always on the scent of returned bad guys. He’s suspicious and nosy about absolutely everything. The darling boy loves us and wants to take care of us, but sometimes he goes too far.”

  “What did you say about your secrets?”

  Poppy allowed herself to smile. “Every mother, particularly one who has led the kind of life I’ve led, has secrets. I told him that. He said, ‘Poppy, you’re right to question the reason the anonymous person put the ad in the paper. Checking it out may not be a good idea, but I could judge that better if you tell me what you think it’s about’.” Her shoulders lifted, her head tossed, and she threw her hands up, palms flying. “Since I had absolutely no idea, I couldn’t say. I didn’t want to guess. I told him that.” Her head, hands and shoulders dropped. “I still don’t.”

  A dramatic performance, but Hollis felt like shaking the woman. Danson was gone. This was the last conversation she’d had with him, and she refused to make the connection, to worry that he might be in trouble because he had chosen to follow up on the newspaper item. Candace had said Poppy lacked the “maternal gene”. She’d got that right, but there was no point in antagonizing Poppy by telling her what she thought of her total disregard for Danson’s welfare.

  “I believe that this mysterious stamp is connected to Danson. Now that I know precisely what I’m looking for, I’ll root through my recycling box, and if I don’t have that paper, I’ll find it at the library. Then I’ll contact whoever ran the notice in the paper.”

  Poppy shook her head and sighed. “Good luck. I probably should have told you sooner.” She glanced at her elegant diamond-studded watch. “I’m off to the studio. Let me know what you discover.”

  Upstairs, Hollis riffled through the paper recycling bin without success and moved on to the rattan box where she stored the paper she used for her papier mâché. Newsprint topped the pile, but underneath she found Globe and Mails. She flipped through them until she located the Saturday Life section she wanted. There it was—the notice that might have sent Danson on a dangerous mission.

  She phoned. And listened to endless ringing.

  She hung up and dialed Canada 411, searching for a name to match the number, and learned it was unlisted. Hurling the phone across the room would serve no useful purpose. She faced that fact that she’d smacked into yet another dead end. That wasn’t quite true. If the DNA matched Danson’s, she’d pass the article on to the police who would identify the caller and the phone’s location. She hoped the DNA wasn’t Danson’s, but either way, there was nothing to be done until the results came back.

  She pushed the phone to one side and pulled her computer in front of her. George, Danson’s Montreal friend, had answered her e-mail.

  “Danson did phone me about a guy named Gregory. I was confused, because I couldn’t remember giving anyone Danson’s address, and I don’t know any Gregorys. I didn’t think much about it at the time. I remember how Danson always called his sister on Sunday, so if he missed phoning, it’s a reason to worry. Without knowing Gregory’s surname it’ll be hard to track him down. I’ll be downtown today, and I’ll go to Concordia and see if they have a class list for the Sociology course. It’s a long shot but the only thing I can think of to do.”

  Good news—bad news. Good that George was on the case, but it looked more and more that Gregory was bad news indeed.

  While she thought about her next move, Hollis returned to her flock. She donned her gloves and began the soothing practice of repeatedly dipping, applying and smoothing paper strips.

  * * *

  On Monday morning when Rhona’s alarm blasted the night’s silence, she reluctantly rolled out of bed. She showered, tamed her unruly hair and applied makeup before she slipped into a red print blouse, a pressed, unspotted grey pantsuit and black cowboy boots with a red leather inset design. Ready for the day, she trundled to the kitchen, had a quick breakfast and fed her cat, Opie. He eyed her suspiciously and repeatedly stopped crunching through his kibble to cast sly sideways glances at her. Normally she pampered him on weekends, but this past one she’d rushed out first thing in the morning and fallen into bed exhausted when she returned late at night. Opie had noticed.

  She felt guilty. “Maybe I won’t be too late,” she said.

  What was she doing? Why should she feel guilty about leaving a cat? That’s why people had cats—they were independent beings who needed to have their physical wants attended to but were quite happy to look after themselves. That was the theory. It might apply to some cats, but not to Opie. He always hung around when she was home. He did get lonely, and she did feel guilty.

  “Treats. I’ll give you treats when I get home,” she promised and avoided his accusing gaze as she made for the door.

  Homicide hummed with activity when she arrived at seven thirty. Ian, mug in hand, contemplated a pile of paper. The detectives spent much of the day fighting their way through piles of paperwork. Multiple copies of reports inundated their desks. They’d spent the weekend following new leads from anonymous callers, many of whom had claimed they suspected a neighbour or a coworker of being the killer, the wild man, the crazy person who wanted to kill every drug user. All their calls had been recorded, and detectives would have to follow up on the off chance they might identify the killer.

  They’d made headway on the first stack of paper when a second mound arrived. Rhona flipped through the new reports. “You aren’t going to believe this. I don’t believe it. The DNA report is here,” she said to Ian, whose desk faced hers.

  “What magic button did we push?”

  “Probably happened because the boss is frantic to make headway. The press is really on our case. I expect he pressured the lab to make this the absolute first priority,” Rhona said.

  “What does it say?”

  Rhona sighed. “That I have a phone call to make.”

  “The DNA belongs to the Lafleur man?”

  “It does.”

  They stared at one another. DNA didn’t lie. Danson Lafleur lay in the morgue with his face smashed and his fingers removed.

  “Time to talk to Candace. I don’t have her office number.” She grimaced. “And, even if I did, I don’t like giving bad news in the workplace or over the phone. I’ll leave a message that we’ll drop over this evening. That will give her a clue that the news is not good. She’ll guess that if it was, we’d phone her.” She thought briefly of her promise to Opie, but cats definitely came second.

  “Not a part of the job I enjoy,” Ian said.

  “I agree, but it’s good we can identify the victim. It will be a terrible shock for the family, and it’ll be even worse
when Candace comes to the morgue. Even though the face is destroyed, we should ask her if she can confirm that the body is his. Maybe she’ll recognize his body, his clothes or his personal effects. We can cover up the worst bit. I don’t want to show it to her, because the image will imprint itself on her mind and be there forever.”

  A shadow of sadness crept over Ian’s face. Should she ask or not? She didn’t want to come across as hard-bitten or insensitive but also didn’t want to be nosy. Ask—all he could do was say it was nothing.

  “Something like this happened to you?” she said.

  He nodded. “My younger brother was killed in an accident. I went with my mother when she identified the body. I see him in nightmares. I’ve seen a lot worse in police work, but when it’s family, it’s different.”

  “I’m sorry. How do you deal with it?” Rhona asked. Everyone dealt differently with trauma.

  “I used to try to go back to sleep, but that didn’t work because the dreams returned. Now I get up, make a hot drink and turn on TV. Sometimes Mom, who’s a light sleeper and has her own nightmares, wakes up and joins me. We talk about Fergus, remember the good times and blot out his death. It helps.”

  He lived at home. Interesting. He had to be forty, but he still lived at home. Maybe he’d been married and divorced? Or never married? Or his mother was handicapped and needed him? If the appropriate moment came along, she’d inquire. Her attractive partner intrigued her, but he wasn’t forthcoming, and she’d have to be skillful if she wanted to learn more.

  “Maybe you can share your solutions with Candace Lafleur.”

  “Maybe, but I think finding the way out of the deep, dark pit is a solitary journey.”

  * * *

  Later Monday afternoon, Hollis heard Elizabeth and Candace come home. Before she had time to clean up and talk to them, Candace pounded up the stairs and banged on the door.

  A wave of apprehension swept through Hollis. Candace normally phoned, unless she’d been invited upstairs.

  Candace, carrying Elizabeth, who still wore her pink outdoor jacket, rushed into the room. She set Elizabeth down unceremoniously. MacTee, carrying a stuffed toy, hurried to greet them and diverted Elizabeth, who wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his fur.

  “Detective Simpson left a message. They’re coming round after supper. It can’t be good news. If it was, they would have said so. Will you keep Elizabeth out of the way while I talk to them?”

  Hollis opened her arms and hugged her friend. It was pointless to say that it might be a mistake, that maybe that wasn’t why they were coming, that DNA testing usually took much longer.

  “Of course.” Hollis squeezed her again and stepped back. “I’m sure you don’t want to cook. Let me make your dinner.”

  Candace stood with a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were running an old movie tape or seeing something in the far-distant past.

  With hours until the detectives arrived, it was time for a distraction, an alternative plan. “Elizabeth must be psyched about Hallowe’en tomorrow. At her day care they’ve probably talked about dressing up and everything that makes Halloween fun.” She waited for a response but none came. “The Hallowe’en decorations in this neighbourhood are amazing.” She grasped Candace’s arm to pull her back to reality. “Why don’t you take Elizabeth for a walk? Two blocks east on Belsize Drive, there’s an electrified display, a white ghost that rises out of a huge orange pumpkin. It scares MacTee, but Elizabeth will love it.”

  Candace shook her head as if to close down whatever she was seeing in her mind’s eye. “Sorry, I missed what you said.”

  Hollis repeated her suggestion.

  “Good idea. I’ll park her in her stroller and walk fast or even jog. Exercise is exactly what I need right now.”

  After supper, just as Hollis volunteered to give Elizabeth her bath, the doorbell rang.

  Candace slid off the kitchen stool, straightened, threw back her shoulders, muttered, “Here goes,” and headed for the door.

  MacTee responded to the pealing doorbell as he always did. Golden retrievers love visitors, but do not like to meet newcomers without presenting a welcoming gift. He searched the floor for something to offer. His gaze fixed on one of Elizabeth’s dolls that had fallen under her high chair. He scooped it up and trailed after Candace.

  In the bathroom, Hollis ran the bath. Elizabeth permitted Hollis to lift her in. Hollis wished she were in the living room with Candace, but it was important to adhere to Elizabeth’s routines and attempt to prevent transmitting their anxiety to her. After a happy ten minutes while the toddler filled and emptied various containers and allowed Hollis to wash her face and neck, Elizabeth eyed her speculatively. Not having bathed her before, Hollis didn’t recognize the warning signs until a deluge of water splashed over her. She pulled back in surprise.

  Elizabeth giggled. “Again?” she said and scooped more water.

  “No.” Hollis stayed her hand. “Time to get out. I’m sure you know you’re not supposed to do that.”

  The child’s guilty smile spoke volumes.

  Hollis finally hoisted Elizabeth into her crib, kissed her goodnight and headed for the living room. When she walked in, Rhona stood up, said hello and introduced Ian Galbraith before she perched again on a sofa.

  Hollis had expected to see Zee Zee, the Ethiopian-Canadian detective who had been Rhona’s partner the last time Hollis had met her. She’d found it easy to talk to the two women and wondered how it would be dealing with this man.

  Candace, face pale and eyes wide, was slumped on the other sofa.

  Hollis didn’t need a GPS system to figure out what she was about to hear, but until the words were spoken, she’d hope she was wrong.

  Eight

  The DNA is Danson’s,” Candace said in a voice totally lacking inflection.

  “I’m so sorry,” Hollis said.

  “They,” Candace pointed at Rhona and Ian, “have asked me to go to the morgue and see if I can identify his effects or. . .” she took a deep breath, “his body. I suppose it should be Poppy, but I’m not going to ask her to do it. Until there is absolutely no doubt that it’s him I’m not going to tell her.”

  Given Poppy’s indifference, up to that point, Hollis wondered what effect the news would have. Poppy might well rationalize the tragedy. Perhaps she was being callous? Surely no mother, no matter how detached, deals well with a child’s death.

  “Good idea,” Hollis said.

  Candace wasn’t listening. She was reading from an internal script that didn’t require answers. “These officers tell me his face has been...” she gripped one hand with the other and pulled them against her as if to hold herself together, “…badly disfigured. He’s such a handsome man.” She eased to her feet as if every joint, muscle and bone protested the action. “I suppose I’d better do it now. The job won’t get any easier the longer I leave it.”

  “I’ll take good care of Elizabeth,” Hollis said. Looking at her friend’s stricken expression, she thought ahead to what Candace was about to face. While the procedure at the morgue would be familiar—anyone who watched any TV knew how it went—the reality would be something else. Until the last possible moment, Candace would hang on to the hope that the body would not be Danson’s. Even when denial was no longer possible, one part of her brain would reject the truth.

  * * *

  “You’re sure it’s him,” Candace said as Ian piloted the car to the morgue.

  “It would be great to say no to give you hope, but DNA matches are hard to argue with,” Rhona said.

  This part of her job upset Rhona, no matter how she hardened her heart and tried to distance herself. The next-of-kin’s meaningless, time-filling conversation as they steeled themselves for the ordeal they were about to face broke her heart. She preferred silence, but some people chattered. Others seemed frozen in a time warp where they wouldn’t have to confront what lay ahead of them.

  When the moment came and the attendant d
rew the sheet away to reveal the person they had known, many could only nod. Words deserted them. The body’s reality shocked them, no matter what their relationship with the deceased had been.

  Rhona knew it would be even worse for Candace, because the corpse was faceless. Without recognizable facial features, she would only have the man’s hair, ears and general build to examine and decide that this once had been her living brother. If the sheet was pulled down far enough to reveal the bloody finger stumps, it would add to the horror.

  Candace did not initiate conversation on the walk to the morgue. The squeak of her running shoes, the clump of Ian’s brogues and the clicking heels of Rhona’s cowboy boots accompanied them down the tiled hall to swinging doors that creaked open and allowed them in the viewing room. An attendant wheeled the body out.

  Rhona heard Candace’s sharp intake of breath as she viewed the devastation that had once been a man with an intact face and hands with fingers.

  “If the DNA matches, I’ll have to take your word that it’s Danson, because I can’t...” Candace faltered, shivered and turned away.

  “We have his effects at the station. We’ll show them to you now,” Rhona said.

  Ian drove. No one spoke until they’d entered the building and proceeded to a room furnished with a steel table and molded plastic chairs. Ian left to retrieve the effects.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” Rhona said and gestured to the chairs.

  Candace didn’t hear or the words didn’t register.

  Rhona repeated the offer.

  White-faced, with slack facial muscles and unfocussed eyes, Candace stared at her. She continued to stand.

  Ian, carrying two bags, returned. “I’m sorry,” he said. No matter how many times this happened, he empathized with the survivors. Their body language always brought back memories of the day he and his mother had identified his brother. The black bottomless sorrow in his mother’s eyes and voice had imprinted themselves indelibly on his mind.