The Corpse with the Ruby Lips

by Cathy Ace

  “Irregular shape of the wound, dirt in the wound, but no plant matter or wood residue. One hit only—a seriously heavy whack on the side of her head. The theory at the time was that she might not have seen it coming; they weren’t able to determine whether or not she was facing her attacker when she was struck. Apparently a lot would have depended on whether the attacker was right- or left-handed, but they couldn’t be sure of which. No real directionality of the blow either. Couldn’t say if the assailant was shorter or taller than her.”

  “And they never found a rock or stone with blood on it?”

  “Nope. Maybe that’s because of something else Jack mentioned—the rain. Seems it was horrific at that time. Forensic guys couldn’t say if blood had been in certain spots and had simply washed away, because the path was almost a river in places.”

  It made sense; the rain across the whole of the Lower Mainland in BC just doesn’t know when to stop sometimes. “Time of death?”

  Bud consulted his notes. “Jack couldn’t remember exactly, but he seems to think it was the night she disappeared, not the morning she was found.”

  “It was October, during term time, and on the day of convocation, so you would think if her corpse had been on the bike path all night, someone would have seen it before it was found. I wonder when lectures started back then. We kick off at 8:30 AM nowadays, so cyclists would be on the path hours earlier. Had the body been moved?”

  “Yes. It was found just off to one side of the path, rather than lying across it, and Jack said he remembered they were told the body had been moved after death. He’s pretty certain lividity, and the time of death, suggested that fact, though after all these years he’s a bit vague, to be honest.”

  “And he couldn’t recall any firm suspects being in the frame?”

  “Every lead they had, they followed to a dead end, he said. It’s not much, is it?”

  I supported my chin with my hands as I leaned forward. “It’s more than nothing, but not a lot. Was Jack involved with interviewing possible suspects?”

  Bud cracked a smile. “Too junior. He was tasked with questioning potential witnesses—for days, apparently. Got nothing. In terms of background on the victim, he recalls how everyone said she was great fun, a good wife and mom. She helped and supported her husband, and was a perfect prof’s wife. No one had a bad word to say about her.”

  I sighed. “That takes some doing.”

  “What does?”

  “Living the university life and no one saying nasty things about you.”

  My face must have given me away because Bud leapt to my defense. “Hey, you’re good at what you do. It’s not your fault your department head expects you to play at politics.”

  “It’s not that—it’s . . . oh never mind. Let’s focus on this. Any view as to how we might progress?”

  Bud didn’t say anything for a moment, as he noisily rustled through the pages of his notebook. “Jack thinks all the files would likely still be with the Burnaby RCMP at their new HQ. He’s going to make a few calls. Said he’d let me know how he gets on as soon as he can.”

  “That’s good of him. Say thanks from me?”

  “Dare I ask if there’s any more news from UVan about your job?”

  I rolled my eyes as I replied, “Two emails, both of which mentioned my married status. I don’t know why. Gerry Brightwell got married last year, and I bet they aren’t citing that as a factor in his suitability for a continuing role there.”

  Bud sighed heavily. “If they’re going to make life difficult for you because you and I are married now, I feel responsible for that. What is it they said, exactly?”

  I felt bad for him. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to make it sound as though any of this is your fault. You know what? Until someone says something concrete, or does something specific I can react to, I’ll keep telling myself they can imply all they want—I’ll do the best I can with this paper and show them all just how good I can be. I think it’s almost done. I had a bit of a brainwave last night, and it seems to be working through all right.”

  “That’s the attitude, Cait. Stick it to them. Tell me about this brainwave? Was it tsunami-sized?”

  “Not exactly, but I don’t want to talk about that—I’m cogitating on it so I need to think about something else for now. I’d rather talk to you about the Seszták case. Jack will get back to you, you said, and you might be able to track down the files, good. Anything else?”

  “Good grief, you’re like Marty with a chew toy. Okay then, one interesting thing is that Jack wondered how it all would have affected the kids. Like I said, it surprised me he was so focused on them in his recollections of the case, but it’s certainly what he remembers most vividly. The son’s breakdown was pretty extreme, but he mentioned the daughter’s response was significantly different, and much more like that of her father. He said he only met the father—the dead woman’s husband—once, and he seemed like a pleasant enough guy, but a bit fatalistic about the whole thing. Neither he nor the daughter seemed broken by it; they were stoic in the face of the tragedy. Of course, higher ranks would have dealt with the main players on an ongoing basis, but Jack recalls not one of them thought the husband had done it—even if he had been able to sneak away from the kids that night.”

  “So both children were at home that evening, and asleep in bed that night? They all three agreed on that?” Bud nodded. “Anyone else in the home?”

  Bud shook his head. “Jack recalled something about the family having a lodger at some point prior to the killing, but there was no one else either resident at the home or visiting overnight at the time.”

  “So the father could have left his son and daughter asleep and ‘encountered’ his wife on the bike path later in the night—maybe as she was, what, returning after some sort of assignation? Any thoughts she might have been having an affair? You know—a lovers’ tryst gone wrong? Or something the husband found out about?”

  Bud sat forward. “Jack said no, no one thought so at the time, though he said there were a few ‘whispers’ about her because of her lipstick.”

  I sat forward too, to be “closer” to my husband. “Her what?”

  “I guess maybe back then people thought only a certain type of woman wore bright red lipstick. As I seem to recall—and you have to admit I was just a youngster in those days—the girls favored pastels in the mid-seventies. Mrs. Seszták was apparently well-known for only ever wearing red, which some took to mean she was a woman of a certain sort.”

  I narrowed my eyes in an attempt to look threatening. “What exactly were you up to back in 1976? You were nineteen, so what could you have possibly been doing that would mean you remember girls wearing pastel shades of lip color?”

  Bud blushed. “Nothing, sadly. I was your typical pimply youth, and, at nineteen, I had my nose in a book rather than anywhere else; studying for my RCMP entry exams was my sole consideration.”

  “When I get home I’ll let your mum pull out all those old photo albums she’s always threatening me with, and I can see just how spotty you really were. But, for now, let’s make the most of you having passed those exams. I have to say I don’t see how wearing red lipstick—now or then—is a sign of being any particular ‘type’ of woman, though I suspect it signifies a certain level of self-assurance, or maybe an effort at false bravado. Funnily enough, it’s one of the dead woman’s granddaughter’s trademarks too—red lipstick, dyed red hair to match. However, let’s put those rumors about Ilona Seszták to one side for now, unless there’s something to substantiate them. Tell, me, did Jack have anything else to add?”

  Thousands of miles away, Bud looked resigned as he shrugged and shook his head.

  I let my frustration show. “It’s all so long ago and, from here, so far away. Without access to the files I can’t see how we can progress, unless I can get together with the family at this end.”

  “Cait, stop it. You promised you wouldn’t get involved. You threw me this ‘case’ as some
thing I could look into to try to stop my brain from falling out of my head with boredom. There’s no need for you to do anything.”

  I smiled sweetly. “I wouldn’t be ‘getting involved.’ Maybe Zsófia could invite me to visit the family home for coffee, or something. I think it would be interesting to meet her mother—even if she doesn’t want to discuss the matter at hand, I’d welcome the chance to make an assessment of her. I’ll mention it to Zsófia when I see her next.”

  Bud raked his hand through his hair. “There’s nothing I can say to stop you, I know. So just be careful, Cait.”

  “‘Careful’ is my middle name,” I mugged.

  “No it’s not, and it never will be. Your middle name’s much more likely to be ‘catastrophe.’”

  When Walls Speak

  FOR SOME UNFATHOMABLE REASON I felt wide awake the moment my eyes opened on Sunday morning, which is a rarity for me. Pushing open the windows in my sitting room, I let out the stale air I’d created with my guiltily smoked cigarettes the night before, and allowed the chill of the November morning to further invigorate me. It was the second day of a new month, one when the temperature in Budapest was apparently due to take a turn toward the lower parts of the thermometer. The rain had stopped, and the sky finally had a hint of the palest blue about it—a pleasant relief from the constant gray of the past couple of weeks. The ancient city lay stretched out below me, the Danube a wide, glittering ribbon weaving through the urban landscape.

  I enjoyed my coffee, but knew my head wasn’t in the right place for me to be able to settle to work on my paper. I’m far from the world’s most active person, but I suspected a bit of a walk might do me good. I remembered what Zsófia had said about her weekend job. I checked my watch: it wasn’t even nine o’clock, so I had lots of time to get sorted, enjoy my coffee, and get down to the Hotel Gellért by 11:00 AM, which was when Zsófia had mentioned she’d be finishing her shift as a water-aerobics teacher at the spa pool there.

  As I left my apartment, I opted for my old but much-loved winter coat with the mock-fur collar and was glad I had. The bus journey was chilly, then it was even colder when I got off; the wind whipping across the Danube was bitter. As I walked beside the river, I seemed to be the only person feeling the cold; the locals were bareheaded, wearing short coats, and smiling at the blue sky peeping between the clouds. I felt like a bit of a wimp.

  Scuttling along, I headed for the imposing gray stone hotel, which takes up a whole city block beside the beautiful Liberty Bridge. Walking through the grand entrance I was greeted by a doorman who fulfilled his function without a smile. Inside, the warmth hit me immediately, and I released my grip on my collar. Marble columns soared two floors, supporting a balustraded balcony around the entire space. I spotted the rightly famed stained glass windows that backed the main staircase, and noticed the exquisite floors. I was surprised the tourists taking advantage of the lounge didn’t appear better heeled. I got my bearings and tried to work out how to get to the spa part of the hotel, but ended up having to ask at the front desk. I was told, quite abruptly, that I’d have to make my way to the spa by going outside the hotel, because the internal corridor leading there was only for the use of guests.

  To be fair, it didn’t take me more than a few minutes to find the public entrance to the baths, and I asked the burly woman at the entry desk if I could see Zsófia Takács. A few minutes of conversation resulted in me being directed to a staff room opposite the desk; the woman kept an eye on me as I knocked. Needless to say, my student was surprised to see me when she opened the door. She eagerly offered to show me around the place before we headed out, and I knew it was too good a chance to miss. She tucked my coat into her locker, and I even relinquished my scarf.

  As we walked, she whispered to me that she’d prefer not to talk about her grandmother while we were within earshot of members of the public. With Zsófia as my guide I enjoyed my tour of the fabulous spa and baths, created during the height of the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s love affair with ornate details. Dazzling blue tiles set with glittering mosaics ran between imposing marble columns; jewel-toned stained-glass windows filtered away the outside world; flamboyantly sculpted spouts sent the thermal waters cascading into the dazzling pool. However, I was glad to move away from the humidity and echoing noise and retire to the little staff room. I thought there we’d finally have a chance to talk properly about her grandmother’s tragic end, but Zsófia still seemed convinced we might be overheard. Thus, it wasn’t until we were outside that I managed to tell her what Bud had been up to.

  As we walked among the Sunday afternoon gaggles of tourists and locals, Zsófia pushed her arm through mine, so our heads were as close together as it’s possible for two full-hipped women’s heads to be. We stopped talking about the case when we took the metro across the city to the Opera, where we alighted and walked to Zsófia’s house. When we arrived, she briefed me.

  “Let me take the lead? I’ll tell Mama who you are, but not why you’re here. I don’t want her to think I’m digging this up. Mama never wants to talk about it, which I understand—even though it doesn’t help me. She knows I have a visiting professor from Canada, so let’s use that as the reason I have invited you. You might not get to meet Uncle Valentin. We’ll see how he’s doing.”

  As she spoke, I took in the exterior of the place we were about to enter. I reckoned her family had an apartment in the building, which was massive. As soon as she unlocked the front door I knew I was wrong—this was not an apartment building, it was a home. Someone in Zsófia Takács’s family had money—and lots of it.

  I made sure I shut my gaping mouth as I took in my surroundings. Marble floors, a curved staircase with gold-leafed ironwork, and a magnificent atrium greeted me—as did a small King Charles spaniel skidding on the tiles as it ran toward us, yapping excitedly.

  “Higadj le, Szemere! We have a guest.” The girl bent to scoop up the dog, which smothered her with frantic licks. I suddenly missed Marty’s “kisses” and couldn’t help but pet the little creature. His round eyes surveyed me with near-disdain. Depositing him onto the ground, Zsófia magically produced a tiny treat from her coat pocket. It seemed to be the sign he needed to start wriggling around her ankles as we tried to cross the cavernous entryway.

  “SzeSze gets overexcited,” explained Zsófia unnecessarily.

  “I understand entirely.” I told her about Marty as we moved toward a hall closet about half the size of the apartment in which I was staying. Finally rid of my outer layers, I gave in to my awe and said, “This is an impressive place.”

  Zsófia gestured to an opening that led to a spacious and tastefully appointed sitting room. “It’s my uncle’s house, and we live here with him. It was his choice. Mama and I are eternal guests. It’s been my home for much of my life, and I used to love it when I was younger. But now? Sometimes I feel it is like a gilded cage.”

  I judged the expression on her face to be one of resignation rather than anger, though I found it hard to reconcile her talking about having once been young when she was still barely twenty.

  “You’re fortunate to have a family member who’s able to own a house like this, and to have you live in it with him.”

  “I know, I’m lucky.” She made the word sound like a dreadful curse. With a sigh, she continued, “I expect you’re wondering how my uncle made his money.” I was. She walked to a bookcase set into the wall and pulled out a fat volume, which she passed to me. It was a signed, first print run, first edition of Warrior by VS Örsi. As I read the spines on the bookshelves I noted each volume bore the same author’s name, and the multilingual titles told me I was seeing dozens of editions of the same five works. A penny threatened to drop, but my theory didn’t make sense.

  “Your uncle collects, and trades in, first editions of the works of VS Örsi?”

  Zsófia smiled. “No, my uncle is VS Örsi.”

  I was surprised. “Your uncle Valentin? Valentin Seszták?”

  “VS is
for Valentin Seszták, and Örsi was my grandmother’s maiden name.”

  I digested the news. Zsófia’s uncle was the world-renowned, though reputedly hermit-like, author of what, in the past few years, had become a global phenomenon—the Bloodline Saga, a collection of five novels that had outstripped the popularity of Tolkien’s and JK Rowling’s works combined.

  “Do you know his books?” asked the proud niece.

  I weighed my response. Telling her I’d avoided them like the plague didn’t seem appropriate, but I was there to get to know her family, so I decided on a middle path. “I confess I haven’t read them, though I know a little about them, and about the reputation of the author. But maybe you could tell me more?”

  Zsófia joined me on the sofa and warmed to her topic. “After the first couple of books appeared—Warrior then Offspring—a teenager in Idaho developed an online game based on their characters and storylines. Did you hear about how he sold his game to an international company for millions of dollars?” I told her I had. “The books, originally produced in small print runs by a tiny publisher here in Budapest, became immediate bestsellers—almost helped by the fact the publisher couldn’t print them fast enough to meet demand, and they weren’t available as e-books. It became obvious that gamers might like to play online, but preferred to read hardback books, and the Bloodline Saga’s third volume, Territory, topped the global bestseller lists for months, the word spreading far beyond the gaming community.”