“I have ice cubes for toes,” said Sergeant Scobie.
They dropped Gagnon in Hull and Scobie back at the Ottawa Police Station before heading to the British High Commission on Sussex Drive. Mrs. Bower-Bins was pleasantly British in a plump dumpling kind of way. She looked distressed as she ushered Frances and Inspector Hollingsworth to seats in her small office. “A terrible tragedy,” she said.
“You organize social events for the diplomatic community?” asked Inspector Hollingsworth.
“Yes. My husband, Tony, is the British trade commissioner. I volunteer on the executive of the Foreign Diplomats Association — the FDA — organizing cultural events, fundraisers for the troops overseas, as well as outings like the moonlight ski. Last year it was a hit, so I set one up again for Tuesday night.” She looked crestfallen. “A terrible tragedy,” she repeated.
“How many signed up?” asked the inspector.
“Fourteen. Here’s a list of participants,” she said, handing over a typed list to the inspector. “The two crossed out cancelled at the last minute.”
“These events are open to the entire diplomatic community?” asked Frances.
“Yes, and any foreign nationals in Ottawa.”
“You don’t need to be a member of the FDA to attend?”
“No. Members get first dibs, but if there’s extra room, friends or family are welcome.”
“How do you get word out about these activities?”
“I mail out a monthly events calendar to all embassies and consulates.”
“Did you know Señor Orinoco well?”
“Not really. He’s relatively new in Ottawa.”
“How would you describe him?”
Mrs. Bower-Bins paused before replying and Frances interjected, “Was he a good skier?”
“Well, he’s from the tropics. I don’t think he grew up skiing, but he was lithe. Picked up sports quickly. Enjoyed outdoor events like hiking and horseback riding.”
“How would you describe his personality?” asked Frances.
She paused again. “Well . . . he was kind of a funny duck. Sometimes he was the life of the party. Gregarious and outgoing. And sometimes he was quite reserved, almost a wallflower.”
“A split personality?”
Mrs. Bower-Bins reflected. “I suppose you could describe him that way. I don’t mean to sound critical.”
“And which personality went skiing last Thursday?”
“The outgoing one. Very jolly. Mind you, a good deal of wine warmed the cockles.”
“Once you arrived at Keogan Lodge, did you all settle in for the evening, or did people come and go?”
“There were a couple of trips out to the shed for more cordwood. And the loos were well visited.”
“Did anyone else use the lodge while your group was there?”
“Just two fellows. Late in the evening two French Canadians in red toques and coureurs des bois sashes dropped in to warm up. They were funny fellows — Claude and Pierre — laden with wineskins. Entertained us with a drinking contest. Pierre won and pulled out a silver dollar to wager no one could keep a continuous stream flowing from wineskin to mouth longer than he could.”
“Any takers?”
“Dave Stanbridge from the American embassy rose to the challenge and lost a dollar. Then — actually, yes — then Señor Orinoco took the fellow on. We were out of wine but Pierre held several wineskins out to Señor Orinoco. ‘Choose your poison!’ He laughed. There’s a trick to keeping a steady stream coming from a skin and remembering to swallow at the same time. Señor Orinoco managed it as Pierre started to laugh and lost his concentration. He tossed over the silver dollar, gave us all a deep bow and they went on their way. We wrapped things up shortly afterwards.”
“Did you all leave the lodge together?”
“No. People had come up in a number of cars and drifted out again in twos and threes. Tony and I were the last to go. Filled the wood box and tidied up a bit to leave the place shipshape. Keep the ranger happy.”
“Did Señor Orinoco drive up alone?”
“As far as I know.”
“And was his car still in the parking lot when you left?”
“I know Señor Orinoco drove a British car, a stylish four-seater Triumph sedan. There were cars in the lot. I don’t remember if his was one of them. Other skiers were using the trails. We saw flashlights in the distance and heard singing but didn’t see anyone except for the French Canadians.”
“If there’s nothing else, Mrs. Bower-Bins . . . ,” said the inspector, standing up.
Again, the dramatic pause. “Well,” she said with some hesitation, “there is one other thing. I don’t know if this is relevant, and I don’t know if it’s true, but there were rumours . . . ”
“About?”
“Señor Orinoco was young and exceedingly handsome. I’ve heard that he had . . . attracted the eye of more than one diplomat’s wife.”
“Did he . . . pursue these attractions?”
“I have no idea. I would not have called him flirtatious, but he was dashing and so ‘old-school’ polite that his courtesies . . . might have been . . . misconstrued,” she said. “A diplomat’s wife can lead a lonely vigil in a foreign environment, far from family and friends. Husbands are often overwhelmed with work during the day and a round of social engagements can keep them out five nights a week. That results in many dinners for one at home . . . which can create an appetite for . . . distractions.”
“Was anyone in particular associated with Señor Orinoco?”
“Any one?” she laughed. “Not any one. Any many!”
“Names?” asked Inspector Hollingsworth, pulling out his notepad.
“Oh! I couldn’t name names!” She chuckled. “It’d be most undiplomatic to spread gossip based on rumours.”
“What do you think?” asked Inspector Hollingsworth as they returned to his car. “A drunken Orinoco attempting a tryst in the woods? Loses her balance in a frenzied passion and falls over the cliff?”
“You should write romance novels, Inspector,” replied Frances. “Such an act would have required quite the gymnast. On skis? Fully robed in winter clothes?”
“We should check in with Dr. Thompson for an autopsy update,” he said. “Then I’ll drop you at the Cuban consulate for your follow-up with Señorita Gonzalez.”
There was a United Cigar Store next to the General Hospital, and the inspector popped in for pipe tobacco. Frances picked up a copy of the morning Ottawa Citizen to see that handsome picture of Señor Orinoco under a banner headline on the front page: Cuban Diplomat Dies in Tragic Accident. The press release followed verbatim.
Dr. Thompson’s secretary directed them down the hall to the morgue. “Train accident,” she shuddered. “Very messy. Man decapitated.”
Doctors Thompson and Cornell were bent over a metal gurney when Frances and Inspector Hollingsworth opened the door. Dr. Thompson quickly pulled a sheet over the body.
“Busy place,” said Inspector Hollingsworth. “You need reservations to get in?”
Doctor Thompson laughed. “Not usually. Cornell here is delighted with the extra activity.”
“Usually a little sedentary in the morgue, Dr. Cornell?”
She smiled. “It’s certainly quieter than in my obstetrics rotation and much less nerve-wracking than the emergency ward.”
“There can’t be many women in medical school,” said the inspector.”
“No. Just Eileen Bender and I.”
“And will she be following you into the morgue when your rotation ends?”
“No. Eileen is planning to go to China as a medical missionary when she finishes her internship. She asked for a placement in infectious diseases and a second rotation in surgery.”
“Most young doctors romanticize that the practice of medicine is concerned with saving lives and easing pain,” said Dr. Thompson. “Morgue work is . . . well . . . kind of after the fact.”
“The best thing about working her
e,” said Dr. Cornell, “is that Dr. Thompson is respectful of my reserving judgement on diagnosis. This body reeked of alcohol, so maybe he fell down drunk on the train tracks. Most of the head was severed by a train wheel, so immediately you think of death by massive head trauma, but a heart attack or cerebral hemorrhage could also have caused the fellow to collapse. We’ll give it the full treatment to nail things down for sure.”
“This poor chap can wait,” said Dr. Thompson. “You’re probably here about Señor Orinoco. Or should I say, the body carrying his identification. Any idea yet who it might be?”
“He apparently had a twin sister, Carlota,” said the inspector. “Could be her. We’re checking it out. Who won the coffee and doughnut bet?”
“We were both wrong. Broken neck yes, but not terminal. And no hypothermia.”
The doctors exchanged smiles.
“Well then?” prodded the inspector.
“Death was caused by poison. Hemlock. Enough to kill an ox.”
-13-
Señorita Gonzalez
“So, we now have a homicide case,” said Inspector Hollingsworth as they drove to the Cuban consulate. “Major Philpott will not like an added complication.”
“Just how does one go about solving a murder, Inspector? We didn’t cover this in secretarial school. I’m not much help here beyond that old dime store novel chestnut ‘Cherchez la femme.”’
The inspector chuckled. “You think life imitates art? Orinoco the victim of a thwarted lover or a jealous husband? Seeking a motive is always a good place to start, but I’d put greed, envy and fear higher on the motivational hierarchy than love.”
“Yeah. Orinoco might have been in darker territory than love-gone-wrong. The little bird who told me about his second apartment said Carlos ran a small smuggling operation to flesh out his diplomat’s stipend.”
“Smuggling what?”
“Used his diplomatic passport to courier drugs and jewels across the American border.”
“Uh-oh. You can make some serious enemies fast in that trade if merchandise goes missing or you rile the competition.”
“Apparently he also sold passports on the black market. An abuse of privilege, but that wouldn’t likely get him murdered.”
“If he created those fake letters, he may have been peddling similar counterfeits to God knows who. The deceived are never pleased to learn they’ve been duped. A plethora of possible motives,” concluded the inspector.
“Can we even assume that Carlos was the intended victim?”
“Good point. We know nothing about Carlota. What sort of shenanigans was she up to? Did the killer even know who he, or she, was poisoning?”
“You think the killer could be a woman?”
“If I have learned anything from you, Miss McFadden, it’s that you share Doctor Cornell’s mistrust of the hastily drawn conclusion.”
“Did the poisoner break Carlota’s neck and throw her over the cliff for insurance? Or, suddenly destabilized by the hemlock, did she stumble and fall?”
“Is it possible,” pondered the inspector, “that one person poisoned her and another person broke her neck or shoved her over, not knowing she was already dying?”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” concluded Frances. “I have to thank you, inspector, for drawing me into this intrigue. One rarely sees a murder in a day’s work at the Bank of Canada.”
“I’ll leave you to chat up Señorita Gonzalez. I’ve got to let Scobie know that we now have a murder investigation on our hands and find out who handles homicide for the Ottawa police. I should call Commander Evans with an update and see what I can learn about the rest of the ski party. We could meet for lunch and share progress, but I can’t afford the Chateau Laurier every day.”
“The Chateau Grill is also a little too public. Don’t want Major Philpott to discover us colluding. Let’s try the Bluebird Café on Dalhousie Street. Tasty food and the back booth is very discreet.”
Frances opened the door of the Cuban consulate to find a small neat woman with grey hair in a bun typing industriously.
“Good morning,” said Frances. “Is Señorita Gonzalez in?”
“No, dear. The vice-consul’s death has left her somewhat distraught. She’s taking a few days off.”
“Do you have her address? I might just pop around and see how she’s doing.”
“How thoughtful!” said the grey bun. She checked a staff contact list under the glass cover of her desk. “She’s just around the corner at 316 Stewart Street, apartment four.”
It was an old limestone mansion converted into apartments. Number four was at the front on the second-floor landing. Frances could hear faint music when she knocked. The music stopped, then nothing. A second knock went unanswered. Frances returned to where the front walk snaked between snowbanks and looked up at the frosted window of apartment four. A finger parted the lace curtain and a shadowy figure stared down at her. Frances looked left and right down the icy, empty street and held her arms out wide in interrogative supplication. She went back in, remounted the stairs and knocked on the door again.
Two locks were unfastened, and the door cracked open three inches to frightened eyes in a hostile face. “Go away!” Señorita Gonzalez uttered in a rum-misted breath.
“Señorita, I’d like to talk to you about Carlos and Carlota Orinoco.”
The gaunt face paused. “Are you from the police?”
“No. I work for the Bank of Canada.”
Confusion wrinkled her brow. “Then why were you nosing around the consulate with that Mounted Police inspector?”
“It’s complicated. May I come in for a few minutes?”
“Please go away,” the desperate face repeated.
Inserting her toe in the narrowing space of the closing door, Frances leaned in and whispered, “Señorita Gonzalez, there is something very fishy going on here. Do you want me to yammer about it out in the hall for all to hear?”
Reflection, then reluctantly the door opened. A shaky hand topped up a tumbler of rum as Frances sat down.
“Señorita, you knew that dead body was Carlota’s.”
A stiffening. “Why do you say that?”
“You told Inspector Hollingsworth that he was mistaken about the corpse found on the Fortune Lake Road. To be so sure, you must have been in recent contact with Señor Orinoco.”
Señorita Gonzalez managed to light a cigarette which glowed like a firefly in the dim room. She inhaled deeply. “Señor Orinoco had an appointment scheduled at the consulate yesterday morning. He phoned from Montreal to say he was delayed and asked me to cancel his meeting. I’d just hung up when Inspector Hollingsworth called. So yes, I was surprised.”
“Did Señor Orinoco explain why he was delayed?”
“No.”
“Did you know that Carlota had gone to the ski party in his place?”
“No. Señor Orinoco must have called her about his changed plans. Carlota and Carlos are my cousins. I have known them since they were born. They have always been very close.”
“Would he have asked her to attend the ski party dressed as him?”
The answer was weighed carefully. “Perhaps, but Carlota had an independent streak. She would have welcomed such a charade on her own initiative.”
“Because . . . ?”
“Carlota was childlike in many ways. Nothing gave her greater pleasure than tricking people with disguises.”
“Why would Señor Orinoco have wanted her pretending to be him?”
Another long pause. “Occasionally he wished to establish his whereabouts for such-and-such a time.”
“Because . . . ?”
She gulped down the rum as if it were water. “I have said enough. This is not my story to tell.” Then she added, “Only Carlota had access to her brother’s identification. It was a game she often played. They are as identical as fraternal twins could be. They amused themselves with such misrepresentations. This . . . habit . . . fed a secret joy between them — deceivi
ng the world with many disguises.” She shook her head. “It was immoral. Hoaxing others for private amusement. It started innocently enough, but I always feared it would come to grief.”
“Did you contact Señor Orinoco about the death of his sister?”
Señorita Gonzalez nodded. “It was the cruellest thing I’ve ever had to do. Carlos and Carlota emerged from their mother’s womb as near to one as two could be. There was nothing Carlos wouldn’t do for her. He defended her always in spite of everything. She returned the same fierce love to him — a unity against an oppressive world. Telling Carlos that Carlota was dead was like . . . crucifying him.”
“How did he take the news?”
“With tears and self-recrimination. ‘I was to be at that ski party,’ he sobbed. ‘Had I only come home as planned . . . I killed her!’ I tried to calm him. He has an emotional side. I was afraid of what he might do.”
“Harm himself?”
Señorita Gonzalez looked bleak and breakable. Her glass was nearly empty.
“I don’t wish to add to your suffering,” said Frances, “but I may be able to help you if you help me understand what’s going on.”
“Why should I trust you?” she said with a slight slur.
“Why should you not? I am no threat to a woman of your experience. I may be just a bank clerk, but I can feel your fear.”
The señorita shook her head. “The history of the Orinoco family is long and twisted and mostly unhappy. You could never understand the situation without knowing their story.”
“I have time. I’m on holiday.” Frances thought back to the confessions of Claire. “I’m a good listener.”
Señorita Gonzalez drained her tumbler of rum and sank down into an armchair. She paused and blinked several times as if bringing her mind to focus, then relaxed into narrative.
“If you knew what they meant to each other, or the joy they took in each other, or the pain they shared, you would have been afraid as well. He was out of his mind with grief, but he did have Jesuit schooling. I told him to find a church and pray for direction. I made him promise to call me back later. They were kindred spirits, drawn tight by distant parents and their jealous older brother, Manuel. Their mother, Señora Orinoco, had been ravaged body and spirit by three miscarriages after Manuel — then to deliver twins! She barely survived their birth and retreated into religion, abandoning Carlos and Carlota to the care of English nannies. Her limited contact with them was pious and remote. Fortunately, Carlota and Carlos had each other to love.
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