“It will go with your dress,” Gina said. “I know you love vintage.”
Pieces of turquoise in a filigree-like pattern of silver. It was gorgeous, and statement necklaces were so in style these days.
“Oh my! Lovely! Spectacular!” Becki did get up from her chair then and came around and hugged Gina tightly. “Thank you so, so much!”
“It’s for being by my side on the most important day of my life.”
Becki had to sit down again for the emotion. “Wow, thank you so much!” she said again. She had to clear her throat. “It’s totally my privilege, Gina. I wouldn’t be anywhere else for the world. On the day of your wedding I’ll wear your gift with the greatest pride. And I’ll treasure it forever because it’s from you and will be a reminder of your special day. Moreover, my dear…” She couldn’t not say it. “…this is one killer necklace!”
Sylvia’s eyes darted around the room. A curtain of faded green, peach and mauve stripes at the side of her bed was pushed back to reveal insipid green hospital walls.
She blinked again. Definitely a hospital. From this position lying on her back, she could see the shabby grey-white acoustic ceiling tiles disappear around the corner.
It was quiet. The door to the room must have been closed. She tried to lift her head to see better.
Ouch! Not happening.
Sylvia relaxed back into the pillow, and tried to think.
The car coming at her. The determined face. She had dodged left.
Had it been the right choice?
She was alive. That’s what counted.
Sylvia tried to take stock. Her neck had hurt when she tried to rise up. Bugger.
Her left arm appeared to be okay. She could move it, and the hand. Her right arm was in a sling.
Her right leg was heavy. It appeared to be encased in plaster.
Shit. How am I going to get anything done with a cast?
Her head hurt too, just a dull ache. She put her good hand up to her forehead and felt along there. At least her hair was still there.
A metallic clunk broke the silence. The door swung open. Someone was coming into the room. Instinctively, Sylvia tensed.
Not a killer—a policeman.
Sylvia relaxed a bit. But not totally.
The man at the foot of her bed was a well-known face around town. He was the police chief, she knew. Even though he was probably over fifty, she instinctively reached up to check her hair. A good-looking man was a good-looking man, whatever the age, and you can’t fight biology.
The frown on his face smoothed away when he saw she was awake.
“Good,” he said, in a low masculine voice. “You’re back with us.”
He reached over, and with a big square hand, moved the plastic guest chair into position so he could sit on it. The chair rocked with his body.
“My name is Karl. I’m a policeman. Do you know where you are?”
Sylvia remembered the neck pain just in time. Instead of nodding, she spoke. “In the hospital.”
Gad, her voice sounded strange…like it was underwater.
The big policeman nodded. “Do you remember why?”
Should she tell the truth? Sylvia rarely told the truth.
Okay, that isn’t quite true. It’s just that she didn’t tell the truth without thinking about it beforehand.
And right now, she couldn’t think of a good reason not to tell the truth.
“A car hit me.”
That seemed to satisfy the policeman. He nodded and leaned forward.
“Did you see who was driving the car? Was it anyone you recognized?”
Now she hesitated. She tried to look thoughtful.
“No. It all happened so quickly. I saw it coming and I tried to get out of the way.”
He was staring at her now, really making her uncomfortable.
“Did you happen to catch any of the license plate?”
She shook her head, and immediately flinched from the pain. It must have shown on her face, because the policeman snapped out of his hard look.
“I know you’re in pain. This won’t take long. I just need to find out if you can help us find the person who did this to you.”
Ice water couldn’t make her feel colder. Now she knew it was deliberate, for sure.
“So…it wasn’t an accident?” Her voice was a harsh whisper.
The big man looked away. “We have a witness who says the car went right for you. Have you any idea who would want to do something like that?”
Shit, shit, shit. Of course she knew. She just couldn’t believe it. Well, she didn’t know for sure, of course, because the car windows were tinted. There definitely were a few contenders, some more probable than others.
It’s just that she couldn’t believe anyone would go to this length.
Her business had been mildly lucrative, and seemingly safe. Secrets were worth money. A little here, a little there. Not enough to cause this sort of reaction.
The policeman was waiting.
Sylvia cleared her throat. “I can’t imagine. I’m just a person who cleans houses.”
She tried to sound helpless and simple. It usually worked with men, and Sylvia had perfected the technique. But then, she suddenly had the most brilliant, clever thought. Something that would put him right off the obvious track.
She shifted her eyes over to his and opened them wide.
“Do you think it has anything to do with that poor murdered woman? I used to clean her house.”
She watched his face consider it, looking for some sign that he was buying her act. It was hard to tell. He looked weary, that’s what he looked. A good sign.
She congratulated herself on so cleverly throwing him off the scent, and tried one more thing.
“Is it,” she managed a little gasp, “an insane person? A serial killer?”
Karl rose slowly from the chair. “We’re considering everything. I’ll be back to see you tomorrow. Rest well.”
I’ll try, she said to herself. But it’s going to be hard what with someone wanting me dead and all.
The doorbell wouldn’t stop ringing. Garry Davenport cursed. Why the hell Cathy had to go to the hairdresser…
Now the door was being pounded out of the wall.
He charged down the length of the hall and flung open the wooden door.
“Hello, Mr. Davenport.”
Garry felt the air being sucked from his lungs.
On the step was a short, dark-haired man in a charcoal grey suit with no tie. The fabric strained over his arms. He looked like a boxer. His nose had been broken at least once.
He wasn’t a stranger.
Garry watched his face. There were deep lines now, where there hadn’t been years before, but he still had that thick head of hair. Lucky bastard.
“Johnny,” Garry said, holding the door firm. He didn’t invite the man in.
“Nice to see you’re out.” The younger man reached into his pocket.
For one brief moment, Garry thought he was done for.
But Johnny’s hand came out with an envelope, not a gun.
“My boss would like to meet with you. To welcome you back, like. Here’s where and when.” He handed the letter to Garry.
Garry took it and continued to stare at it. He felt glued to the ground, unable to move.
“Oh. A word of advice. You don’t want to miss this meeting,” Johnny said. “Wouldn’t be polite.” He smiled with a lot of small white teeth.
“Have a nice day.” He turned and sauntered off the porch, down the flagstone steps to the road. Parked there was a black, late model Mercedes.
When had they started driving Mercs? Garry wondered. In the old days, it had been Cadillacs. Damned unpatriotic, not supporting our industry.
He watched the sedan pull away from the curb. Then he re-entered the house and locked the door behind him.
His heart was still racing.
So they had found him. It wasn’t enough to hide out at Cathy’s. They could
obviously find him anywhere in the city.
He looked down at the envelope in his hand like it contained poison.
He wasn’t safe here. Worse, Cathy wasn’t safe here. If they couldn’t get to him, they would get to Cathy.
Hot sweat oozed from every gland.
He had to get Cathy away from here.
Chapter 25
According to Gina, if they wanted to make it to St. Francis of Assisi in Little Italy by 11:30 they really had to boogie.
Sunday brunch dishes hastily piled on the counter, they grabbed their purses and dashed from the condo, Gina locking the door quickly behind them.
The elevator brought them smoothly down to street level. A few more steps and a swoosh through the rotating front door of the building and they passed from acclimatized and shady interior to humid and brilliant exterior. A little ducking and weaving allowed them to slip into the throngs of other people doing their thing already on Yonge.
While keeping pace with Gina, Becki marvelled at her surroundings and compared them to her adopted home up north. Black Currant Bay is like traditional, block-printed wallpaper in the most simple of patterns and a couple complimentary colours. Charming. Serene.
Toronto is like avant-garde, freehand paper of intricate design with full-spectrum colour. Fascinating. Exuberant.
She would have loved to stay above-ground but the first leg of their trip was to be by subway. The underbelly. Greyer. Damper. Colder.
Too many other jostling commuters to get a seat so it wasn’t a good time to talk.
They exited at College Station and transferred to WEST—506 CARLTON toward HIGH PARK. Streetcar. It had been a long time since Becki rode the Rocket! Where did the dreadful screeching come from exactly? The wheels on the tracks or the pole on the electric lines? Karl would know.
Through the windows of the lurching vehicle, Becki watched the community change from block to block. That was another neat thing about Toronto. It never stayed the same.
“We’re almost there,” Gina said, getting up just before their stop.
The doors opened for them and they hopped off at College and Grace.
“Not too far now.”
“Oh don’t worry about me. I walk all over the place in Black Currant Bay.”
“Can’t wait for you to see it. I think it’s beautiful. St. Francis has been our family church for forever.” Gina winked. “Maybe I should have brought you to the 9:00 mass. All in Italian.”
As they walked south on Grace, a street of older homes and mature trees, a square church tower beckoned on the left.
“Tell me what you think,” Gina said when they stood right in front.
“Ah, it is beautiful, Gina. A romantic place to be married for sure. I do love stone.” She was quiet for a moment. “Gothic Revival.”
“Only you would know that. All I know is it was finished in 1915 and has 21 stained glass windows.”
“I love stained glass windows.”
“Come on in.”
Lottie grasped the necklace as if it were a rosary. The cross with eleven purple stones dangled from its solid gold chain, trapped between crooked fingers. But instead of counting and praying, she worried the strand.
“Louisa,” she moaned. “My friend, how can I make you understand? How can I explain myself to a ghost?”
She rocked, and as she rocked she twisted the necklace. She couldn’t sit still.
“It’s Sunday today, Louisa. It’s less than a week until my young friend Gina gets married. St. Francis of Assisi. She told us that. Wasn’t it a lovely shower?
“Oh yes. Such a doll Gina is. A celebrity too. We’re fast friends now, you know. Gina invited me to her wedding.
“And I want to go, Louisa. So you mustn’t say anything at all to her.”
While Gina was talking to some folks she knew, Becki dropped coins into the proper box and then lit a candle for Gina and Tony and their future happiness. She loved the symbolism of a flame burning in a church in support of love.
When Gina was ready to go, Becki suggested, “Let’s cross the street to that park and sit for just a bit before we head back. It’s such a lovely day.”
“Are you hungry?” Gina asked.
“No, not yet.”
“’Cause we could get a gelato. This is the right neighbourhood.”
They strolled to a bench under the dappled shade of a big old maple. It reminded Becki of the maple behind Godmother’s house. Gina’s deceased grandmother. Let’s not go there.
When they were settled and doing nothing more than watching park pigeons poke for crumbs or bugs or whatever pigeons typically scrounged for, Becki said quietly, “There’s something wrong, isn’t there, Gina?”
Gina looked at her hands. “You noticed?”
“Of course I noticed.”
Then Gina sighed.
“Do you want to tell me?”
“No.”
“But you will, right? Get it off your chest? Maybe I can help. If not me, your mother?”
“No. You.”
Becki waited patiently. She’d pushed enough already.
“Remember when Tony called before the shower and said he was going to Montreal?”
“Yeah.”
“That…that job of his is an issue with us still. There’s still tension.”
“I’m sorry.” That’s the first thing to say.
For a marriage to work the bride and groom must begin head over heels in love with each other. No doubts, thought Becki. When that’s the case then there’s a right decision to look back on.
Unfortunately, from her experience, when a couple started off with doubts it inevitably ended in disaster.
“I don’t think he’s going to stop all his spy stuff even if he says he is,” Gina explained.
“And you want him to stop because you worry about him.”
“There are occupational hazards.”
“More than…”
“More than when you’re an architect.”
“Such as.”
“Such as he’ll be gone all the time.”
“You’ll miss him.”
“And he could get killed.”
“You love him.”
“And there are the secrets.”
“Don’t you trust him?”
“Of course I trust him.”
Becki remained silent. The leaves rustled in the trees above. The patterns changed on the ground. The pigeons pecked.
“No, I don’t trust him.”
“Did he ever give you reason not to trust him?”
“Like what?”
“Has he ever really lied to you, Gina? As opposed to just not telling you the whole story?”
“That’s the thing. Not telling the whole story seems like lying to me. I’m a reporter. What if I reported only half the news? ‘Sun, sun, sun,’ for instance, and neglected to add, ‘until midday when a tornado will swoop down.’”
God, relationships are complicated!
At one point Becki herself had been tempted to discount marriage. With a fifty percent failure rate, who would not challenge wedlock as an out-dated model? Oprah Winfrey seemed happy as a lark as a monogamous but unwed partner.
But then she got to thinking that it’s not the institution that’s corrupt but that we’re not taught how to make it work.
We’re forced to learn other basic life skills. Language. Math. We happily sign up for knitting classes and read cookbooks. But how many of us willingly study relationships?
“You know, Karl and I have had several counselling sessions over the years,” Becki admitted.
“What?”
“Surprised?”
“You and Karl?”
“We’re not perfect.”
“You always seem so happy.”
“It takes a lot of work to be happy.”
“Well I’m prepared to work.”
“And Tony?”
“I think so.”
“So the issue is just trust then…” How
much should she share? “You want to know an exercise a therapist had Karl and me do once?”
“Sure.”
“We laid a mattress—”
“Do I really want to hear this?”
“No sex.”
“Okay.”
“We laid a mattress or something on the ground and then we had to take turns falling backwards into each other’s arms. Could you do that with Tony?”
“Um.” Gina looked up at Becki.
“Do you think he would catch you?”
Chapter 26
Cathy was also thinking about marriage. Specifically, the possibility of marrying the man who had been the love of her life.
She was gloriously happy.
After three hours in the beauty salon, her honey coloured hair was streaked with blonde. Her nails were painted a flirty pink. This was to please Garry. He had never gone in for the vamp look, she remembered.
“You look terrific,” said Yvette, the senior stylist, at the marble counter when Cathy was paying the bill.
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Tiffany, the young manicurist. “That’s a killer dress, by the way.”
“Have you lost weight?” said Yvette. She had micrometer eyes.
All the women in the salon watched each other’s weight as well as their own.
Cathy smiled.
“A little.” She let them think it was that.
But this part was true. She felt twenty years younger. It wasn’t just the new Adrienne Vittadini dress. It was love.
It could work this time. It will work this time. Cathy was determined.
Now, was different. Now, there was no wife for him to feel guilty about.
Louisa was dead.
No other woman stood in the way of what Cathy wanted.
It wasn’t money. No, she had enough money for both of them. What Cathy wanted was the man she had lost to prison, years ago. The man who, even before that time, she never totally had to herself.
Cathy left the salon, swinging her Kate Spade handbag, and headed down Cumberland.
All other things could be managed. Who cared about the law and a few old business acquaintances? Garry was obsessed with things that didn’t matter.
A Killer Necklace Page 12