Death in the Garden City

by Jeanne M. Dams

  The image in the mirror only increased my panic. ‘I’m a fake! I look like … oh, I don’t know what I look like, but not a person who could ever expect to cope with anything. Alan, I can’t do this! Hartford will be there – he’s a major patron of the symphony. Why didn’t we think of that before? I can’t do it!’

  He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me around to face him. ‘Dorothy, listen to me. You are the same person you were a week ago. No, let me have my say. You look different, but inside you’re the same. Intelligent, capable, generous, compassionate. You’ve assumed a disguise for one evening, and a very becoming disguise it is. Paul Hartford has seen you exactly once and may not even recognize you in your Cinderella-at-the-ball mode. So enjoy the compliments you’re going to receive, and keep your mind on your job. I’m proud of you!’

  He gave me a careful kiss, so as not to disturb my carefully applied make-up, and asked me to tie his tie.

  That restored a tiny bit of my self-confidence. I’ve always been rather good at tying those pesky men’s dress bow ties, a skill learned years ago when my first husband and I had to go to formal affairs on occasion. I was pleased that I hadn’t forgotten.

  But I was glad to cling to Alan’s arm when we went down to meet our taxi. ‘I’m scared to death,’ I whispered to him.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he whispered back. ‘I won’t allow it!’

  ‘Ohmigosh, I forgot to bring the invitation, and it says—’

  ‘I have it here,’ he said, patting his dinner jacket.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘I put some ginger tablets in that silly little excuse for a bag you’re carrying. Take one.’

  ‘I don’t have any water.’

  ‘They’re tiny. Anyway, we’re here. Buck up, darling. Best foot forward. As one of your favourite fictional characters was wont to say, “Up ze head! Up ze bosom!” Excelsior! And other assorted battle cries.’

  ‘Once more into the breach,’ I muttered, and took his arm, doing my best to look rich and confident.

  We did not, of course, know a soul in the room. Trying to look as if we did this sort of thing all the time, we presented our invitation to the young woman at the door, were handed programs, and then set out to mingle. Not an easy thing to do, when one is surrounded by strangers clumped in little groups.

  The room, essentially just a large empty rectangle with a platform at one end, was laid out for the occasion like a recital hall, with those little gilt chairs that seem required for this kind of do. They are wretchedly uncomfortable and not suited to the weight of some of the attendees. ‘Fat cats’ do in fact tend to be somewhat overweight. The men, that is. The women are often skeletally thin. ‘Do you suppose,’ I murmured to Alan, ‘that seats are assigned? Or reserved, or whatever?’

  ‘I doubt it. I see some shawls and whatnot marking places up front. Do we have anything we can use to stake our claim?’

  ‘Not really, unless you were to take off your jacket. I didn’t bring a wrap.’

  ‘Well, it’s very warm in here, but removing one’s dinner jacket in this crowd would be equivalent to performing a striptease. Better just hover near the back, and when everyone sits down, we can slip in.’

  At that point a grey-haired woman sailed up to us. She wore a ‘little black dress’ that probably came straight from Paris, and understated diamonds whose value I estimated at approximately our total net worth.

  ‘You must be Amy Hartford’s friends,’ said the woman in a pleasant voice, extending a hand. ‘I’m Patricia Underwood. She asked me to look after you. And you, my dear, are looking absolutely splendid!’

  There was a small note of surprise in her voice. I smiled as I shook hands. ‘I suppose Amy told you to look for the poor relation.’

  ‘She told me nothing of the kind! She did say that you had almost certainly not brought formal wear with you and would have to find something off the peg. Don’t say another word. You must be the world’s canniest shopper! I knew you because I know everyone else, not for the way you were dressed, which is perfect. Now, there are some people I’d like you to meet.’

  Not Paul Hartford, I prayed, but as she led us around introducing us, I scanned the growing crowd and didn’t see him. He’ll probably come in late in a blaze of glory, I thought unkindly.

  And then I found myself face to face with Alexis.

  ‘Alex, my dear, I’d like you to meet Dorothy Martin and Alan Nesbitt, visitors from England. Dorothy, Alan, this is Alexis Ivanov, chairman of this event and patron of the Symphony.’

  I hope my jaw didn’t drop. I’ve met some very attractive women in my time, but this woman was more like her picture than seemed possible. I’d assumed Photoshop manipulation, but I was wrong. She was a perfect Hollywood glamour picture, back in the days when Hollywood oozed glamour.

  She said something. Alan and I said something. Then she floated away to talk to someone important, and Ms Underwood led us to seats next to hers in the second row, not in the inconspicuous nether regions where we would have preferred to be.

  ‘I gather from your smacked-in-the-head look that you’d heard about Alex, but never seen her in person,’ said Ms Underwood in an undertone.

  ‘I … yes. I’ve seen a picture. It doesn’t do her justice.’

  ‘Her name would imply a Russian background,’ said Alan, his tone making it a question.

  ‘It isn’t her own name. That is, not her birth name. I don’t know who she is or where she comes from. She simply appeared on the social scene in Victoria and knocked everyone flat. All the men, that is. The women—’

  The murmur in the hall was dying down. Alexis had stepped onto the platform and was gesturing for silence.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll all be relieved to hear that I’m not going to make a speech. Paul is usually the speech-maker, but tonight he is in Ottawa. I imagine you can guess what he might be doing there.’ Laughter, not entirely kind in tone. ‘So I simply welcome you all to this splendid occasion. I won’t go on and on about our new concertmaster either; her stellar biography is in your program. Please welcome her to her new musical home, Miss Kwan Mei!’

  The violinist was a diminutive young woman who walked on stage with the confidence of one who was sure of her ability. She took a bow, nodded to her accompanist, and launched into a fiery piece played in a demanding tempo. It could have been an exercise just in technical skill, but in the hands of this talented young woman it was music – bold and exciting and at the same time reassuring. We applauded until my hands hurt, and Alan had to remind me that there was more to come.

  There certainly was. Miss Kwan had chosen a beautifully varied program, including the familiar and not so familiar, from the Renaissance through to the contemporary. When she was finished and had taken bow after bow, she stepped forward to speak.

  ‘First, I want to thank you for trusting me to lead your wonderful orchestra, and for your reception here tonight. I hope we will have many happy years to love music together.’ Applause. ‘Second, I want to introduce to you my accompanist, Arthur Grant.’ Applause. ‘I think you will agree that he is an extremely accomplished musician. He is also an extremely pleasant man, and just before the concert tonight, he asked me to marry him – and I said yes.’ More applause as Arthur joined Mei and they embraced – a bit awkwardly because of the violin.

  After that, anything Alexis could add was anti-climax. She finished her remarks, a model of the obvious, and invited us to enjoy the ensuing buffet. Waiters, right on cue, began circulating.

  ‘Now’s my only chance to talk to her,’ I muttered to Alan. ‘Run interference for me, will you?’ For Alexis was surrounded the moment she stepped down from the platform, mostly (of course) by men.

  ‘I’ll do my best, love. But my riot-control skills have got a bit rusty.’ He moved forward, and then checked. ‘What on earth?’

  Alexis had separated herself from the crowd and was making her way rapidly to a rear door, accompanied by a young man.
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  ‘Who’s he? Where’s she going?’ I turned to Ms Underwood. ‘I thought she’d stay to schmooze. Oh, I’m sorry, that’s rude.’

  ‘But accurate. Yes, normally she would stay to woo the high-fliers. That’s what these affairs are for, as of course you know. And to give her her due, she’s very good at squeezing a bit more out of them. I can’t imagine what she’s up to.’

  ‘And the man with her?’

  ‘I don’t know. One of her staff, I suppose.’

  I frowned. ‘Staff?’

  Ms Underwood smiled gently. ‘Alex is a philanthropist, and that profession, on her scale, requires a considerable workforce. Quite apart from the management of her portfolio, which is a full-time occupation in itself, there are records to be kept, applications for aid to be processed and reviewed – oh, yes, she employs a staff.’

  I felt about two years old. ‘Yes. Well. Never having had what any of this crowd would consider wealth, I didn’t know.’ I looked at Alan, who hovered, ready to step in if I needed support.

  I pulled my head erect. ‘On the other hand, I have a husband who loves me dearly, and I him. I have a wonderful old house to live in, sufficient money for our needs and a bit extra, beloved friends, and a lifetime of happy memories. I am in fact wealthy in any sense that counts.’

  Alan kissed my cheek, and Ms Underwood pressed my hand warmly. ‘My dear, I believe you are far richer than most of the people in this room. Now you must excuse me. In the absence of our hostess and schmoozer-in-chief, I need to talk to some people who have only money, and see if I can’t extract a bit of it. Do enjoy the champagne; it’s sure to be excellent. They don’t serve plonk to people who know the difference.’

  We circulated with the others, smiling at people we didn’t know, trying to get to the buffet tables without being overtly impolite, but it wasn’t easy. It was just about dinner time, and everyone had the same idea.

  A man came up to us. We didn’t know him, but of course we didn’t know anybody. ‘Hello. I understand you’re visitors to Victoria. Pat Underwood told me you might be feeling a bit lonely. I’m the current conductor of the Victoria Symphony. Well, interim conductor. I hope you enjoyed the concert.’

  ‘How could we not? That young woman is spectacular, and so is her accompanist.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said a soft voice at my elbow. I looked to see the violinist and her fiancé. ‘Oh, and here they are! My dear, you’re wonderful! I’m delighted to be able to tell you so in person. I didn’t recognize that first piece the two of you played, but it was amazing!’

  ‘It was commissioned for the occasion,’ said the conductor. ‘One of our wonderful benefactors, Paul Hartford—’

  The scream interrupted him. It reverberated through the room, seeming to come from all directions at once, to go on and on.

  A crowd is sometimes slow to react. When at last the terrifying sound ceased, there was silence for a moment, and then a rising clamour and finally a surge toward the doors.

  ‘One moment.’ The man who had been at our side a moment before was on the platform. He had found a microphone from somewhere, and his voice commanded, ‘I’m told there has been a terrible accident. Two police officers are with us tonight, and they asked me to say that you may all leave – in an orderly fashion, please. We know who is here, since you all had invitations. If anyone is no longer at the address Ms Ivanov has for you, please inform one of the door attendants before you go. I’m so sorry this splendid evening had to end this way. Good night, and please drive safely on your way home.’

  ‘But what happened?’ My urgent whisper to Alan was echoed all over the room. No one seemed to know.

  ‘From the way this is being handled, I would say a death. Very possibly a murder. Will you be all right for a moment? I need to speak to one of those police officers.’

  Alan is a tall man, and his long career as a senior policeman has given him an air of authority. He made his way through the crowd with ease, and spoke to the man on the platform, who looked startled and then pointed to a man who was speaking on his mobile phone, while barring the door to a side room. He looked irritated when Alan tapped him on the shoulder, but then his expression changed.

  Alan returned to me. ‘My dear, I must stay here for a bit. Do you mind taking a taxi home? I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘So it is a murder.’

  ‘Yes. Paul Hartford has been stabbed to death.’

  SEVENTEEN

  I sat down on one of the hard little gold chairs. It offered little comfort, but I needed a breathing spell. My mind refused to process the news. I had cast Paul Hartford as the villain of the piece, a murderer or at least an agent provocateur. Now he himself had been murdered. Presently I could begin to think again. Just now my thinking apparatus was clearly marked Not Open for Business.

  I didn’t want to go home. For one thing, it wasn’t home. None of the familiar comforts were there. No nice squishy chairs. No animals to cuddle. Most important, no Alan. I couldn’t toss ideas back and forth with him, compare notes, argue, hash out a solution. At least not until the Victoria police decided he had done all he could to help. Or maybe it was the RCMP, or whoever. The principle was the same. I was alone for a while.

  But I didn’t have to be. I picked up my cell phone. ‘Amy? Oh, I’m so glad you’re home! May I come over in a few minutes? Or could you come to us? Oh, good. It’s important; I’ll explain when I see you.’

  I didn’t want to tell her over the phone that her ex-husband was dead. She had despised him, but he was the father of her daughter, and some ties are never really broken.

  I asked one of the departing guests how to get a taxi, sounding as English as I could. ‘Oh, my dear, you’ll have a terrible time getting one, with most of this crowd trying to do the same. We brought our car. Can we give you a lift somewhere?’

  My eyes teared up. The kindness of strangers can do that to me, especially when I’m under stress anyway. ‘Oh, if you could, that would be wonderful! I’m in one of those condos just over the bridge – staying with a friend.’

  Of course the woman and her husband wanted to talk about what had happened, and I had to pretend I knew nothing. Fortunately it was a short drive.

  Then I remembered that Alan had the keys. I had begun to panic when Amy drove up. I went to her car. ‘I’ve stupidly locked myself out. Do you have a spare key?’

  ‘Of course. But where’s Alan?’

  ‘I’ll explain inside. These shoes are killing me.’

  Well, they weren’t, but it’s an excuse any woman can use at any time. I kicked them off the minute we got inside, and gestured to the liquor cabinet. ‘I’m going to get out of these clothes. Help yourself to whatever you want. Back in a jiffy.’

  I didn’t take the time for a full change, just pulled off my gorgeous dress, hung it up, and put on a robe and slippers.

  Amy was sitting on the couch with an empty glass in front of her. She pointed to another. ‘I waited for you. You looked as if you could do with something yourself. Bourbon, right?’

  ‘Right.’ I sat down gratefully, took a swig, and took a deep breath. ‘Amy, you haven’t seen the news, have you?’

  ‘No. It doesn’t come on till ten, you know.’

  ‘I thought there might have been a special bulletin. I don’t know any way to say this except to say it. Paul Hartford was killed tonight.’

  She had picked up her glass. She set it down again, very carefully. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Will you say that again?’

  ‘After the gala, Paul’s body was found backstage somewhere. He had been murdered.’

  ‘I … see.’ She sounded politely interested.

  Uh-oh. Not a normal reaction. ‘I’m going to make us some tea. Sit still.’ I switched on the fire as I passed it. The room wasn’t cold, but if she was suffering from shock she needed to be kept warm.

  I switched on the kettle and went to our bedroom, where I thought I remem
bered seeing an afghan draped over a chair. I brought it back and wrapped it around Amy’s shoulders. Her hands were icy, though the room was growing uncomfortably warm.

  The kettle whistled. I stuck tea bags in two mugs and poured in boiling water. Not the way I prefer to make tea, but this was a time when speed trumped tradition. Nor could I find a tray anywhere. Milk, sugar and the two mugs went into a shallow glass baking dish I found in a cupboard.

  I put quite a lot of sugar in Amy’s cup, stirred it, and handed it to her. ‘I think it’s too weak yet to add milk.’

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t care for sugar.’

  ‘Drink it. You need it.’

  ‘But won’t you tell me—’

  ‘Not another word until you’ve got that inside you.’

  She sipped and made a face but obediently drank, slowly until it cooled. When it was gone, I handed her my cup, which by that time was very strong indeed. ‘Milk this time. And sugar.’

  She managed about half of that one before setting down the cup and shuddering. ‘Dorothy Martin, you make a terrible cup of tea.’

  ‘I know. The caffeine and sugar were medicinal. You’re in shock, Amy. Or you were. I think you’re beginning to be better.’

  ‘I’m warm, anyway. Too warm. Would you mind turning off the fire? And then tell me everything you know about all this.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know how I feel. You’d think I’d be … I don’t know, relieved, I guess. He was a truly dreadful person. And yet …’

  ‘He was your husband, and the father of your child, and you can’t help remembering the good times.’

  She made a face. ‘There weren’t many of them, except just at first, when I was blown away with his charm. Before I discovered it was all fake. Is there by any chance any Scotch?’

  I looked her over. Her face was no longer dead white. Her breathing was regular. She had shrugged off the afghan. ‘Well. My medical degree is a little out of date. And it was from the University of Google, anyway. But I don’t think you’re in clinical shock anymore, so a little alcohol probably won’t hurt you.’ I poured Amy a small tot of Alan’s Glenfiddich. ‘I’m only giving you a little till we see how you react. Besides, Alan would have something to say if I let you use this superb stuff like medicine.’