A Woman Scorned

by James Heneghan

  Casey climbed the stairs to DI Plank’s office.

  Plank looked up. “Top o’ the morning, Casey. What’s up?”

  “What’s with this Nash suicide stuff, Frank?”

  Casey had proved helpful to DI Plank in a recent investigation. Plank had shown his appreciation by allowing Casey easy access to his office. They were friends. Almost.

  “Open-and-shut case, buddy,” Plank said. “No signs of any monkey business. Of course, the investigation isn’t complete until we get the full lab report.”

  The inspector wore a smart suit and tie. He regarded Casey over the top of his glasses with a friendly grin. He was a heavy man, with sparse gray hair and liquid brown eyes.

  Casey said, “I’m not so sure it was suicide, Frank. Could it have been a stroke or a heart attack or—?”

  “Off the record, Casey—Nash left a note. Until there’s evidence to the contrary, it’s suicide.”

  “Handwritten note? Or typed?”

  “Typed. Computer.”

  “The ME come up with the time of death?”

  “Wednesday evening between five and nine, give or take an hour.”

  “Can I get a crime-scene report?” Casey said.

  “I’ll fax you a copy. All off the record.”

  “Of course. Nash used what? Gun, knife?”

  “Butcher knife. Cut his arm to the bone, severing the artery. Bed soaked in blood. No signs of a struggle. No signs of the presence of another person. I’m pretty sure the coroner’s report will conclude that Nash committed suicide. While the balance of the mind was disturbed, as they say.”

  “Mind if I see the note?”

  “Not available. Crime lab checking it for prints.”

  “Then maybe I can view the body.”

  “Right now it’s police and coroner’s office only. Later maybe.”

  “Then what about photographs? Could I see—?”

  “Look, Casey, it was an ordinary suicide. Man leaves a note, uses sharp blade to sever an artery, bleeds to death. End of story.”

  “What about motivation? Why did he do it?”

  Plank lifted one shoulder. “Tired of life. Can’t take it anymore. That’s what he said in his note.”

  “What about Nash’s wife? Does she say he was tired of life?”

  “I still need to see her. They were separated.”

  “Was the knife found in his hand?” Casey said.

  “It was.”

  “Which one?”

  “Which one what?” Plank growled in his raspy voice. He was growing impatient.

  “Which hand?”

  “Right, of course.”

  “Why ‘of course,’ Frank? He could’ve been left-handed.”

  Plank sighed. “Not likely. Ninety percent of the population of the planet is right-handed. Close the door behind you, Casey. And leave the police work to us.”

  Casey got up. “See you later, Frank.”

  Brenda handed Casey two typed pages as he came through the door. “Just in,” she said.

  He nodded his thanks.

  Plank’s crime-scene report. Casey hung his wet raincoat in the hallway, skimmed the report, then headed into his office. He passed the fax to Debbie Ozeroff at her computer terminal. He waited for her comments.

  Debbie looked up in astonishment.

  “Councilor Nash? Suicide?”

  An attractive woman in her early fifties, Ozeroff had dark hair cut short in the current yellow-streaked fashion. She had a warm, if sometimes excitable, personality. Debbie lived in the West End with Vera Taniguchi, an alternative medicine practitioner.

  “No suspicion of foul play,” Ozeroff read aloud. “Why would a man like George Nash commit suicide? The guy had good looks, and money oozing out of his pores.”

  “My thought exactly,” Casey said.

  Ozeroff bent her head to the report. “His Shangri-La condo. Wednesday, between five and nine PM. Makes no sense.”

  Casey shrugged.

  “Who’s in charge of the case?” Ozeroff said.

  “Detective Inspector Plank.”

  “Where is our old friend Maggoty these days?”

  Maggoty was Ozeroff’s disrespectful name for the officious Detective Inspector MacAtee.

  “Promoted to superintendent,” Casey said.

  “Of course. The Peter Principle. The incompetent bungler gets promoted.”

  Casey said, “Details of Nash’s death are off the record. Not much we can print. We wouldn’t want to tell our readers the details anyway. Nash bled to death, arm slashed open to the bone.”

  “Ugh!” Ozeroff said.

  Simmons poked his head in the door. “I just heard about Nash,” he said.

  Ozeroff said, “How long does it take for a man to exsanguinate?”

  “To what?” Simmons said.

  “Bleed to death,” Ozeroff said.

  “It’d be quick,” Casey said.

  “Percy?” Ozeroff said. “You any idea?”

  Simmons shook his head. “Depends on the artery. Death could be fast. Could be slow.”

  Percy Simmons was not only the news editor, managing editor, chief editorial writer and publisher of the West End Clarion, he was also the rewrite man and copy editor. A small untidy man in his mid-sixties, he had thick white hair that contrasted with his bushy, expressive dark eyebrows. His wardrobe consisted of outdated clothes. Like today’s flared polyester trousers and faded green thrift-shop sweater.

  Casey liked Simmons, in spite of—or because of—his old-fashioned ways and opinions. Besides which, he was a darn good editor.

  Ozeroff, however, often found their editor tiresome and slow to make decisions. She was also envious of his large, mostly empty office, which he had all to himself. “You ready to talk about trading offices yet, Percy?” she sometimes asked him when she was in a combative mood. “There’s three of us in here,” she used to say before Jack Wexler retired, “jammed together like goldfish in a pickle jar while skinny little you rattles around that huge office like a bluebottle in a greenhouse. Where’s your sense of fairness? Where’s your sense of common dec—?”

  Simmons always ignored Ozeroff’s complaints, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and emitting a long-suffering sigh.

  Now, he looked down at his ancient Hush Puppies and shook his head. “Maybe you could do an obituary on him, Casey, okay?”

  Casey nodded. “I’ll get on it, Percy.”

  7

  When Sunday came around again, he had his whiskey and soda ready. The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and listened to her voice with pleasure. Her accent was rediscovering its Irish lilt. She was tired. It had been a long day. Her mother was comfortable. She had mixed smoothies for them both, but her mother could take very little. She read aloud to her mother for short periods. Mostly, though, the old woman slept.

  He told her about cop shop. How much he enjoyed it. How he and Ozeroff missed Jack Wexler now that he had retired. How much he missed her. How much he was looking forward to her returning home. Ireland was no longer her home. She belonged in Vancouver now, with him. How much he loved her.

  When they were done talking, he bade her goodnight, even though it was only two o’clock in Vancouver. Then he fixed himself another whiskey and soda.

  Neither of them had mentioned John Burns.

  Back from cop shop on Monday morning, Casey carried two coffees into the office and handed one to Ozeroff.

  “Thanks, Casey. You’re a lifesaver. Anything new on the Nash suicide?”

  “Nothing,” Casey said.

  “You find out anything on Nash’s wife?” Ozeroff said.

  “Not much. Her name is Moira. Otherwise, the information is about the same as before. Husband George walked out on her. More than twenty years of marriage and he walks out. Leaves his fancy penthouse on Stanley Park and moves into an even fancier new condo in the Shangri-La. He’s alone. No other woman in the picture, far as I know.”

  “Walked out on his wife and offed h
imself a couple months later,” Ozeroff said.

  Casey nodded. “That’s about it, Deb.”

  “Who owns the Shangri-La condo?”

  “Nash.”

  “Two luxury condos,” Ozeroff said. “Won’t need them now.”

  “Multimillionaire,” Casey said. “One of the richest men in the city.” He sat in his swivel chair and rocked gently. “He was,” he added. He stared out through their rain-streaked office windows at a moving blur of pedestrians and umbrellas on Denman Street.

  “Any kids?”

  “No kids.”

  “You really think he committed suicide?”

  “No.”

  “Then it was homicide.”

  “Most likely.”

  “Who stands to gain from his death?” Ozeroff said.

  Casey shrugged. “Probably his wife.” He checked his watch. “I better take care of Nash’s obituary. Got a face-to-face lined up with his wife.”

  “You need me along?” Ozeroff said.

  “I do,” Casey said. “Thanks, Deb.”

  Moira Nash buzzed them into the Roosevelt Building. They took an elevator up to the penthouse. A small woman in nurse’s uniform opened the door and let them in. Mrs. Nash, standing with the aid of a cane, was waiting for them in the living room.

  “I’m Casey of the Clarion, and this is my colleague, Debbie Ozeroff.”

  “Thank you, Gerda,” Mrs. Nash said to the nurse. Turning to her guests, she said, “Please sit down.”

  The nurse melted away.

  The apartment was huge. Casey and Ozeroff sat at opposite ends of a large beige sofa. Moira Nash sat facing them, on an upholstered wing chair. Posture straight and formal. Casey tried to study her without staring. Fine-looking woman. Short dark hair to the neck, blond highlights, milk-pale skin, gray eyes. She wore a simple blue dress fitted to her slender figure. Shoes to match. Except for the cane in her hand, she could have been posing for Vogue magazine.

  “We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Nash,” Casey said.

  “Please call me Moira.”

  “The Clarion is running an obituary on Councilor Nash,” Casey said. “We’d like your input.”

  Moira nodded. “Of course,” she said quietly. “I have already made some notes for you. I think you will find them helpful.” She passed him an envelope.

  “Your husband was an important man,” Casey said, weighing the envelope in his hand.

  She bowed her head. Then she looked up. “My husband and I are separated. Since April. After twenty-one years of marriage.”

  Casey and Ozeroff remained silent.

  “He was a disappointment,” Moira continued. “You would perhaps understand my feelings if you were abandoned suddenly, without notice, only a week away from major surgery.”

  “Surgery?” Ozeroff said. “Then we shouldn’t disturb you further.” She stood.

  Casey stood also. “We’ll go, Mrs. Nash—Moira,” he said.

  “Please sit down,” Moira said.

  They sat.

  “The surgery was a month ago. My husband was cruel. There. Now you have it. You can print that in your obituary if you like. ‘George Hamilton Nash was a cruel man!’ I said so to the police when they were here.”

  Moira spoke softly. Ironically, her quiet tone lent more power to the harsh words.

  Casey looked uneasily at Ozeroff, who looked uneasily back at Casey.

  “You know we can’t print that, Moira,” Ozeroff said. “But you have our sympathy. We wish you a swift recovery.”

  Silence.

  “It was a hip replacement,” Moira said. “Recovery depends on intimate help at home. I was forced to hire a stranger, a nurse.”

  “You appear to be recovering well,” Ozeroff said.

  “Yes,” Moira said, “with the help of a good nurse. Gerda has been a lifesaver.”

  Silence.

  “Your husband’s death must have come as a great shock to you,” Casey said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Silence.

  “Mrs. Nash—Moira,” Casey said, “do you know of any reason why your husband might have taken his life?”

  Moira shook her head. “None, Mr. Casey.”

  “It’s just Casey,” Casey said.

  “Was he depressed?” Ozeroff said.

  “Just the opposite,” Moira said quietly. “He was looking forward to living alone. Away from me.”

  “Mr. Nash left a note,” Casey said. “I can’t live with myself. His exact words.”

  “That doesn’t sound like George,” Moira said.

  “What about Mr. Nash’s business?” Casey said. “Any problems there, do you know?”

  Again she shook her head. “None that I know of. But he had many business interests. I have included the names and telephone numbers of two business partners in my notes.”

  “Do you have children?” Ozeroff said.

  “None,” Moira said.

  Casey said, “Did Mr. Nash leave you—pardon the question, for it has nothing to do with the obituary—did he leave you for…someone else? I know it’s none of our business, but as an investigative reporter, I always like—” He stopped, leaving his sentence hanging.

  Moira was silent for a moment. Then she spoke. “You’re right, Casey. It isn’t any of your business. But I’m not proud. George, to my knowledge, had always been a faithful husband.” She frowned and regarded her fingernails, as if mentally rehearsing what to say. Then she said, “For about a year or so, before George left, a woman called here several times a month, asking to speak to my husband. A woman. She told me her name but…” Moira shrugged. “I can’t remember it. It’s just council business, George assured me. I believed him, of course. At the time.”

  “But now you don’t?” Ozeroff said.

  “No,” Moira said. “He left me because he wanted to live alone. That’s what he said. But now I’m convinced he was having an affair—or had a mistress. I shouldn’t be telling you all this.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “But I’ve no one else to tell.” Her eyes widened. “Nothing of this will appear in your paper, I hope.”

  “Not a word,” Casey said. “But if you think of the caller’s name—the woman—could you let us know?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you believe Mr. Nash committed suicide?” Casey said.

  Moira dried her eyes on a tiny handkerchief. “I don’t know. My mind is so confused, I don’t seem to know anything for sure.”

  “You have been most helpful,” Casey said as they got up to leave.

  “Thanks for meeting with us,” Ozeroff said.

  Mrs. Nash stood. She tapped her cane on the floor. The nurse came and showed them to the door.

  “Oh, Moira, there’s just one more question,” Casey said as they were leaving. “Was Mr. Nash right- or left-handed?”

  “Left,” Moira said.

  The nurse closed the door.

  “So what do you think, Deb? Was it murder or was it suicide?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  They were walking back to the office in the drizzling rain. Ozeroff had her umbrella. Casey wore his trusty cap.

  Casey said, “If it was suicide, then why was the knife found in the right hand of a left-handed man? Wouldn’t a left-handed man be more likely to slash his right arm?”

  “Good point,” Ozeroff said.

  “And where’s the motive?” Casey said. “Nash was, as far as anyone knows, a healthy man with a bright future. If it was murder, did Moira Nash kill her husband? No children. She stands to inherit a great deal of money.”

  “She’d be my main suspect,” Ozeroff said. “Underneath her confusion Moira is angry, I think. She fought hard to control it. But I sensed it, under the surface. I’d be angry too if my husband walked out on me. Maybe she hired a hit man.”

  “Or hit woman. Thanks for coming with me, Deb.”

  “Don’t mention it, Casey,” Ozeroff said.

  8

  Moira Nash called Casey the next day. />
  “The woman who telephoned so often. I heard George call her Cally.”

  “How’s it spelled?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Nash. I’ll be in touch if I learn anything.”

  “Do me a favor, Deb?”

  “Sure, Casey. You want me to leave Vera and run away with you?”

  “Not yet, Deb. I’ll let you know when I’m ready. Meanwhile, I want you to use your superior research skills to find all the information you can on Nash’s business partners. The first is Joanne Drummond of Oasis Investments.”

  “Like what?”

  “Reputation of her company, her boyfriends, lifestyle, including recent changes in her life, where she lives, what she pays in rent, what she eats for breakfast, brand of toothpaste she uses—the works. The same background check on Nash’s second partner, Sam Spencer of Everest Enterprises.”

  “Will I be able to get a reference from you if I apply for a job with the FBI?”

  “Of course.”

  After cop shop on Wednesday morning, Casey took a bus ride to the Harding Building downtown.

  Nash’s second partner, Sam Spencer, occupied a luxurious office at Everest Enterprises on the seventeenth floor of the building. He was a small balding man. It was difficult for Casey to guess his age. Could have been anything from forty to sixty. His name appeared in gold leaf on his office door. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and an expensive dark business suit with a colorful silk tie.

  Standing up from behind a neat mahogany desk, Spencer offered his hand. “You must be Sebastian Casey of the Clarion.”

  “It’s just Casey,” Casey said. “Just want to ask a few questions about your friend and partner George Nash. About his untimely death.”

  “Of course. Please sit down, Casey.”

  Casey took a seat.

  Spencer sat behind his desk. “I’m glad you’re here. The fact is, I have questions of my own about George’s death. I was with him a few days before he died and…” He paused.

  “Yes, go on.”

  “We lunched together, at the Vancouver Hotel, just the two of us.”