“You’re looking good,” Casey said.
“What are you doing Saturday night?” Maggie said.
“You’re propositioning me, Maggie?”
“You bet I am. I thought we might go out someplace for that drink we already mentioned.”
“I’d like that fine. But I must tell you something. There’s already a woman in my life.”
Maggie’s face registered what, disappointment?
“Is this woman here in Vancouver?”
“She’s in Ireland taking care of her mother. She’ll be home soon.”
“What’s her name?”
“Emma.”
“What does she do?”
“Teaches school in the West End.”
“And you live together.”
“No.”
“You will let me know if ever you do become an eligible bachelor, won’t you?”
“I find it hard to believe there’s no permanent man in your life, Maggie.”
“There aren’t that many interesting and available men out there.” She pressed her lips together wistfully.
“That’s too bad.”
“You better believe it.”
“Look, I want to ask you about one of the councilors. You’re around them all the time.”
“I guess you’re still investigating George Nash. Especially now that the police say it’s a homicide.”
“That’s right. Do you know if Angela Brill and George Nash were seeing each other outside of work?”
“You think Angela Brill is involved in Nash’s murder?”
“Not necessarily. I just follow leads.”
“I don’t know a thing about Angela,” Maggie said, “except she’s always friendly.”
As they continued talking, Casey felt something in his brain trying to tell him something. But tell him what? A tiny fact, important but elusive, making it difficult for him to uncover it. And difficult to concentrate on their conversation.
He walked her to the elevator. “I don’t have a car. So you want to meet at Cardero’s? In Coal Harbor, on the waterfront? I can walk there in ten minutes. It’s usually quiet there. We can talk.”
“Sounds good,” she said.
“Eight all right?”
“Eight it is.”
There had been no rain all morning, only bright sunshine. After his conversation with Mullen at city hall, Casey waited on Cambie Street for a bus to take him back to the West End.
Maggie Mullen still on his mind.
Something niggling at his memory. Bothering him. Something simple and obvious but hiding beyond memory’s reach. He knew that this uncertainty had started less than thirty minutes ago, while sitting with Maggie in the coffee shop.
Something to do with Maggie? Something to do with her boldness, how she had asked him out for a drink? Or something else? What?
It was worrying him again now, like an irritating blister on his heel.
He boarded his bus for the West End.
He hadn’t noticed it before, but, in the angled lighting of Cardero’s lounge, he could see that Maggie Mullen had faint dimples in her cheeks.
They were sitting in a booth, Casey with an Irish whiskey on the rocks, Maggie with a Hemingway daiquiri. The place was quiet.
Maggie looked good. Dark hair loose to her shoulders, pink short-sleeved top with Peter Pan collar and simple silver heart necklace, silver heart earrings, blue jeans, tan boots with fur round the tops.
Casey wore a casual dark jacket, dark slacks and black loafers, one of the new outfits Emma had helped him pick out before they went away.
“You look nice, Maggie,” Casey said.
“Thanks. This is what I wear on friendship dates.”
“Brilliant.”
“What else do you do besides work for the Clarion and make a nuisance of yourself asking questions?”
“Not much,” Casey said. “Live a simple life. Enjoy my job.” He held up his glass. “I like to drink whiskey. Don’t smoke. Jog, work out a few times a week. That’s about it.”
“That’s your life story?” Maggie said.
Casey shrugged.
“You’re an uncomplicated man, in other words.”
“That’d be me.”
“You don’t even make long speeches. Most of the men I meet start talking about themselves and then forget to stop.”
“What about you?”
“Finished high school. Got a job in a real-estate office. Eventually got myself the council secretary job. Not high profile but pays well. A meteoric rise based mainly on my fertile brain, not to mention my fresh good looks.”
“I like your fertile brain and fresh good looks,” Casey said.
Maggie smiled.
Casey said, “Your mother didn’t remarry?”
“Once was enough for her.”
“It must have been tough going.”
“Yes, I think so, for my mother. Life is hard for a single parent. I know that now. There was never a lot of money, but we were happy.”
They talked together for an hour or so. Then Casey said, “Mind if I ask you a question or two about city hall?”
Maggie made a face. “So that’s why we’re here? And there’s me thinking it was because of irresistible me.”
“That too,” Casey said.
Maggie smiled. “So what’s up?”
She had a beautiful smile. Dimples appeared deeper. Teeth white and even.
“Wait. I already talked too much,” Casey said. “I really don’t want to ask questions and spoil the evening by talking shop. I’ll walk you back to your car.”
“We still have lots of other stuff to talk about. We could go back to your place for a nightcap.”
“Thanks, Maggie. It’s a nice idea, but…”
“You’re waiting for Emma.”
Casey nodded.
“Why is it,” she joked, “that whenever I find a man I like, it turns out he’s got principles?”
15
“Casey, it’s Emma.”
The connection was poor.
“Emma, where are you?” Casey said. “You still in Dublin?”
“I’m stuck here. All flights are canceled because of the ash cloud.”
“Not a good line,” Casey said. “Canceled because of what?”
“Ash cloud. There’s an ash cloud six miles high. Airplanes can’t get in or out.”
“I hear you. Sorry. The ash cloud. Of course. I should have realized. It’s in all the papers. What are they advising people to do?”
“Well, they think air traffic will be stopped for at least three days. Which means I’ll miss my connection at Heathrow. I’ll be stuck there for a further few days until I can get another flight.”
“What will you do in the meantime?”
“I’ll stay at a hotel here in Dublin until everything’s sorted. Oh, Casey, I’ll be so happy to get home to see your ugly mug. How are you anyway?”
“Same old me. Plodding along. I went out for a drink with a woman I met at city hall.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s the city council secretary. Margaret Mullen. Born here but Irish background. Easy to talk to.”
“What did you do after the drink?”
“Went home to bed.”
“Alone?”
“Of course alone. You’re the only one, Emma.”
“Are you sure?”
“Stay safe. I miss you, girl.”
After he hung up he reached for his whiskey and soda. His first that day.
Monday morning. As usual. Casey waited for a bus on Cambie Street to take him back down the hill from city hall to the West End. Maggie Mullen was on his mind again.
He was thinking back to that glitch in his memory, that niggle. Trying to tell him something. It had been after coffee with Mullen at the city hall. Irritating. Like a blister on his heel, he remembered thinking.
A strong breeze came up from Broadway. He pulled on his cap. A young office worker joined him, head bent as s
he texted on her iPhone. When the bus came, the still-texting young woman stepped on ahead of Casey and stood waiting for a ticket. Casey stood on the sidewalk, eyes level with her shoes. Black pumps.
Why were so many young people texting in public these days as they—?
Black shoes!
That was when it hit him. The buried memory. The blister on his heel.
Maggie’s shoes.
Black pumps with silver buckles.
The ones she had been wearing in the city hall coffee shop last Thursday.
Shoes that looked a lot like the shoes of the person on the Shangri-La security tape. The one who had moved in and out of George Nash’s apartment on the evening he was murdered. The killer. He or she had been wearing shoes that had buckles of some sort.
He needed to check that tape again to be sure.
Be sure that the shoes were not like the ones Maggie Mullen had been wearing.
The possibility of Maggie Mullen being a murderer was, of course, absurd.
When the Shangri-La security guard saw Casey, he groaned.
“I brought you something, Anthony.” Casey handed the guard a brown-paper bag containing a mickey of whiskey.
“I need a few more minutes on that tape, if you wouldn’t mind getting it out for me.”
Anthony loaded the VCR and left him to it.
It didn’t take long for Casey to find the two places on the tape: woman entering apartment; woman leaving apartment. He’d brought a magnifying glass with him. Though the tape was in black-and-white, he could clearly see the square buckles on the woman’s shoes. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before. They reflected light—probably silver—exactly like the ones on Maggie Mullen’s shoes.
He thanked Anthony and left.
How many women wore shoes with square silver buckles?
He checked out a couple of women’s shoe shops in the downtown.
“You don’t see buckles much these days, especially that big,” one store manager told him.
“Women are more likely to go for bows. Or more intricate designs, like this,” said another manager, showing Casey a shoe with clasped hands in silver. “Or this.” He produced a pair of pumps with tiny gold-colored handcuffs on the instep.
Casey nodded his thanks. “You have been a big help.”
“Sorry to be dropping in on you again so soon, Parker,” Casey said.
Pauline Parker, her young face smiling. “Not at all. I’m starved for company, not to mention whatever you’ve got in that little bag.”
“Blueberry-lemon cake,” Casey said.
“Ooh lovely! Come on in. I made fresh coffee soon as you called.”
Casey made himself at home in the chair that could have belonged to Elvis Presley’s mother.
Blueberry-lemon, the perfect coffee cake. In small quantities.
Parker collapsed herself onto the rug in her usual yoga position. “Before you start with the questions, Casey, I have news. First, the police paid me a visit on Thursday. Inspector Plink—”
“Plank.”
“Plank, Plunk, Plonk, whatever, and another plainclothes man. Thompson, I think his name was. So many questions!”
“Well, they’re professionals,” Casey said. “Sure to have more questions.”
“My good news is they’re taking me on again at city hall. In the licensing department.”
“Brilliant. I’m happy for you, Parker.”
“Thanks. So what’s up?”
“I asked about Angela Brill last time. But I didn’t ask you if there were any other women visiting Nash in his office.”
“Not really. Only that council secretary woman—what’s-her-name. Mullen.”
“Margaret Mullen?”
“That’s the one. Didn’t like me.”
“How often did you see her?” Casey said.
“Too often. Came in probably once a day to see Nash, usually in the afternoon.”
Parker poured Casey more coffee. “Have some more cake.”
“No, thanks. Unlike you, I’ve got to watch my waistline. Why do you think she didn’t like you?”
“No idea. Just gave me these dirty looks. Eyes like daggers.”
“What did Nash and Mullen talk about when they were in his office?” Casey said.
“Dunno. Nash kept the door closed.”
“You think they might’ve had something going on between them?”
“An affair, you mean? I wouldn’t know. They were cool with each other when I was around. But they could’ve been covering up. I checked her out. Split with her husband and three-year-old kid about the same time she started working at city hall. Ten or eleven years ago. What kind of mother does that?”
Casey’s mind reeled. “What do you mean, you checked her out?”
“City employee records and—”
“You had access to employee records?”
“No. But hacking into the city data bank is simple.” Parker waved a hand. “Nothing to it. They know zilch about security. Also, I asked around. Some of the older women remember that she abandoned her little boy. She’s been at city hall a long time. Lots of people know her. Mullen is her maiden name.”
Casey couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Parker’s Maggie Mullen was a completely different woman from the one Casey knew.
“Do you remember her husband’s name or where he lives?”
“Afraid not.”
“Thanks, Parker,” Casey said. “You’ve been an enormous help.”
As he was leaving, he said, “I’ll keep in touch, Parker. Besides, I’d like to know how that new job of yours works out.”
“Lovely,” Parker said with a radiant smile. “Thanks for the cake.”
Back at the office, Casey reported his Pauline Parker conversation to Ozeroff.
“Mullen walked out on her husband and kid?” Ozeroff said.
“That’s according to the gossip,” Casey said. “Who knows what really happened so long ago?”
“And Mullen told you she hardly knew Nash.”
“Right again, Deb.”
“What is this Pauline Parker like?” Ozeroff said.
“Nice. Young. I trust her.”
“So Maggie Mullen is a liar,” Ozeroff said.
“I never thought Maggie would lie to me,” Casey said. “But now I’m not so sure.”
“Maggie Mullen is a lot like me, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s witty and a lot of fun to be with.”
“That’s right, Deb.”
“And she’s a real good-looker, right?”
“How did you know?”
“Go figure,” Ozeroff said, rolling her eyes.
16
Following Tuesday cop shop, Casey called Ozeroff on his cell. “Hegel’s Bagels, Deb. High noon.”
The forecast was for light showers. It was already pouring sheets.
First to arrive, Casey ordered a toasted ham-and-cheese bagel and a small Caesar salad.
Ozeroff came in, hung up her dripping raincoat and ordered a garden salad.
They sat at the window counter so they could look out at the rain on Denman and the deserted seawall.
“So what’s up, Casey?” Ozeroff said.
“Shoes,” Casey said.
“Shoes?” Ozeroff said.
“Women’s shoes,” Casey said.
He told her about the security tape and Maggie Mullen’s square silver buckles.
“Shoes like that very common, d’you think, Deb?”
“Shouldn’t think so. Never catch me in them.”
“How so?”
“That style went out with the Puritans.”
“You never talk much about yourself, Deb. Why’s that?”
“Too uninteresting. Who cares?”
“I care,” Casey said. “You and Vera happy?”
“We were made for each other. Vera reads nonfiction. I read fiction. So we tell one another stories. Did I tell you I started writing a novel in January?
”
“A novel? No, you didn’t tell me. I’m impressed, Deb. Nothing uninteresting about that.”
“Always wanted to be a real published writer. A novel, not a newspaper column. But I never did anything about it. So come New Year’s, I made a resolution. This is the year I start my novel. So I did. I started it. Wish me luck, Casey.”
“Good luck, Deb. I look forward to buying a signed copy when it’s published.”
His first move once home on Tuesday evening was to mix himself a whiskey and soda.
Then he sat with his feet up and gazed out of his balcony window. Barclay Street was quiet. A light drizzle fell softly. A Beethoven sonata played on his stereo. Across the street, Matty Kayle’s ginger tomcat hunted birds in the shadow of the rhododendrons.
Casey pondered the question of Nash’s secret mistress and her silver-buckle shoes. On their own they were certainly evidence that Mullen was possibly the killer. But was this enough by itself ? The answer to that question was a definite no. He would need much more than shoes to support that theory.
But what?
And what about all the indications that Mullen was not the killer? Her sweet, friendly and outgoing personality. She was the kind of person who wouldn’t kill a fly. The kind of woman completely above suspicion. So why was he bothering to investigate her? To clear her, of course, to get her off the hook.
He finished his drink, got up and showered. He put on his bathrobe and mixed himself another whiskey.
What about Mullen’s car? He had seen her on more than one occasion driving out of the city hall parking lot in her shiny new Mini Cooper. What if she had a sugar daddy? What if it was Nash who had given her the car? A gift from a wealthy man to his secret mistress. It wouldn’t prove that she killed him, of course. But it would certainly prove their connection.
Wednesday morning was fine. The rain had stopped during the night, and now the sun was drying up the puddles and lifting Vancouverites’ hearts.
The Mini Cooper dealership was the only one in town.
Casey hung around the showroom until he could get the attention of the sales clerk. He was very young. Casey had been watching him for the past thirty minutes. The salesman was tall and thin, with dark, oily hair combed onto his forehead to form a fringe. Casey presented him with a paper on which he had written Margaret Mullen’s name and license-plate number.
A Woman Scorned Page 6