by Anne Emery
He hardly knew where to begin. “Em, that’s not the situation here, sweetheart.” This isn’t Belfast where you’d be in fear of losing your kneecap. Or worse. “Nobody would ever think of you as a tout, Normie. If there’s something wrong, you can tell me.” She merely shook her head, then looked fearfully at the door. Brennan decided against keeping her in any longer, lest someone out there think she was indeed telling tales. He opened the door and said, in a voice surplus to requirements, “Thank you, Normie. I’ll get that book back to you this week.”
He had a free hour then, so he took himself off to the auditorium where he could sit at the piano and pick out a few chords for a piece he was composing. But the music that came to him was much too dark for a hymn of praise; it was more in the line of De profundis clamavi ad Te, Domine. Out of the depths I have cried to Thee, O Lord. So, he gave it up for the time being.
He was passing by the study room at the back of the choir school when he looked in and saw the least likely person to be found studying. And in fact he wasn’t studying at all. Richard Robertson, his class’s designated comedian, was standing by the window, looking out. It was a warm day, and the window was open. Richard turned and gave a little jolt when he saw Father Burke in the doorway.
“You’re studying for your air currents exam, Richard? Bird calls maybe?”
Normally, Richard would have come back with a quip to top Brennan’s lame remarks. But he put his finger to his mouth for silence. He stayed at the window, and Brennan had the impression that Richard was inviting him to look, without saying so. Brennan walked in and joined him. The window looked out over the back of the school, where only three students were gathered.
“I’m going to beat the shit out of that fucker,” Richard said, then, realizing what he had just said and to whom, he said, “Shit! Sorry about the language, but . . .”
It was Brennan’s turn to signal for silence. When he had taken in what was going on, he said sotto voce, “You won’t have to, Richard. I’ll deal with him.”
What he had heard was Chad Soames needling Kim and Normie. “Why did you put that stuff in your hair, Kimmie? You were turning into a real hot blond. Now you’re trying to look like this little dweeb.” He pointed at Normie, then put his fingers around his eyes to mimic eyeglasses, and said, “She probably can’t even see your hair, so you fucked up your hair for nothing. Go back to blond, trust me. And by this time next year —” Now he was making a “shapely female” shape with his hands “— your phone will be ringing off the wall with guys wanting to you-know-what you. And,” he said to Normie, “she won’t even bother taking any more calls from you. You’re gonna be left behind in her dust.”
“Shut up, Chad-dick!” Kim responded. “You’re such an idiot!”
Normie loyally echoed, “Yeah!”
Soames turned to Normie and said, “You won’t have to worry about anybody phoning you, Not-Normal, unless it’s some dork who’s only after you for your science notes.”
And there it was, presumably. Normie was at the top of the class in science and math, and everything else when he thought of it, with the exception of the visual arts. And Chadwick, to put it charitably — and Brennan was in no state to be charitable — was far down in the standings. But, somehow, Soames thought he had other charms that could compensate for that and win the heart of Kim Kennedy. The little bastard was so deluded that he thought humiliating Kim’s friend, driving a wedge between the two girls, would get him time alone with Kim. And perhaps would blunt any critical opinions Normie might be sharing with Kim on the subject of Chadwick L. Soames.
The kid was still out there, playing his part to perfection. He leaned into Normie’s face and said, “You’re gonna end up being the skinny old maid like they have in the movies, in your house all alone, eating cans of cat food!”
“Leave her alone, you moron! She is my best friend, and she’s the best person in this whole school!” said Kim. “And if I ever find out you rooted through my gym bag again, I’m going to get my father after you. You perv!”
What was this? What had the little creep been doing? Brennan turned to Richard. “How long has this been going on?”
Young Richard looked wretched standing there. He said, “I don’t want to be a rat.”
“You’re not a rat. Unless that little scene out there was the first such episode, which apparently it isn’t, you didn’t tell. And even if you had, I would look upon you as a fella sticking up for his friends, Normie and Kim.”
The poor kid then said, “I should have said something about it! He’s got the hots for Kim and he always makes fun of Normie, to break them up. To break up their friendship. I don’t know why. Just because he’s a jerk.”
Brennan didn’t want to ask but had no choice. “What’s this about the gym bag?”
Richard looked away and said, in a voice Brennan could hardly hear, “He went through Kim’s stuff and stole one of her . . . a bit of her underwear.”
“What?!”
“I know, I know. He’s a little perv. Kim didn’t tell me this. One of the other girls did. She wanted me to beat the shit out of him. And I have to tell you I’ve been thinking of doing exactly that.” He glanced at Brennan and looked away again. “But now I’ve just —”
“This conversation never happened, as they say in the fillums. And that little gouger,” he said, indicating Soames, “is out of here. He is about to become a nonperson at this institution.”
“What? Can you do that? His old man is rolling in money. He donates thousands to the school!”
“I don’t care if his old man is Donald Trump.”
“Who’s Donald Trump?”
“He’s an arsehole in New York with all kinds of money. And absolutely no taste. Doesn’t know how to act.”
“Oh. Never heard of him.”
“You probably never will.”
“So, you’re going to expel Chad Soames?!”
“Just watch me.”
Brennan had no doubt whatsoever about Richard Robertson’s credibility, but he would prefer to bolster his case against Chadwick Soames with something more than the word of one of the other students, no matter how credible. If Soames had taken something from Kim, Brennan reasoned that the kid might not have run the risk of bringing the item home, where it might be discovered by his parents. Or by the maid cleaning his room. Nor was he likely to take the chance of the other kids finding something in his homeroom desk. So, what Brennan wanted now was access to Soames’s locker. It would be unseemly for a priest and choirmaster to go at the locker with an axe, so he would haul the kid in and have him open it in Brennan’s presence.
Decision made, he turned and stalked from the room, down the corridor, out the door, and into the backyard.
The three students turned at the sound of his approach. Normie’s eyes were wide with consternation, as were Kim’s. Soames tried for insolence, but the fear was there.
“You! Come with me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m a bigger bully than you are. Now move.”
“What are you going to do, give me the strap?”
“Get into the school.”
“But —”
“Move.”
Chadwick sighed and rolled his eyes at the tedium of it all, but again Brennan could see the fear. Could practically smell it on him.
When they entered the building, the kid crossed his arms and looked up at Brennan, as if to say Now what?
Brennan gave him the now what in two words: “Your locker.”
And if Soames had looked fearful before, he was petrified now. “There’s nothing in my locker!”
“Good. That will speed things up. Get moving.”
“No, I —”
“Now.”
Brennan could see the kid’s hands shaking as he walked. When they got to the locker, Brennan sa
id, “Open it.”
“No! I can’t. I . . . forget the combination.”
“You’ve remembered it several times a day, every day, and you’re going to remember it now.”
“I . . . some other guys got in it!”
“Sure, they did. Now open the locker. I can have the fella come up from the maintenance room and take it apart with a crowbar. Either way, I’m going to see what’s in it.”
Soames finally realized he had no choice. With trembling hands, he worked the combination and removed the lock. Brennan looked in and saw the usual jumble of gym clothes — not washed any time recently, he noted with disgust — and notebooks, papers, sports gear. Brennan began pulling the items out, and Soames again said, “Some other guys got in it!”
Brennan didn’t bother to inquire what the other guys had done; he would know soon enough. And he did. There in a plastic grocery bag were the underthings, top and bottom, of a young girl. He turned and gave Soames a look that pinned him to the opposite wall and hinted at the imminent arrival of a firing squad.
“Those guys put that stuff in there!”
Brennan ignored that, turned to the locker, and placed the grocery bag — the evidence — on the top shelf. Then, “Pack your bag. You and your grubby belongings are out of here.”
“What do you mean?” The kid’s voice was little more than a squeak.
“I mean I’m giving you the boot.”
“What is this? I’m being suspended for a little joke?”
“You’re not being suspended; you’re being expelled. And your behaviour here was not a joke.”
“You’re kicking me out? You can’t do that! My old man’ll kill —”
“Kill who? Me? Or you?”
Brennan moved closer to him, loomed over him, stood there till the bag was packed.
“To my office. Now.”
The Soames heir tried again for a pose of indifference, tried to saunter along as if none of this bothered him in the least.
When they got to the door of Brennan’s office, the outcast turned and said, “This is crazy! My old man’s the chairman of the board of this place; that means he’s the boss! He gives a lot of money to this school! And to your church! Do you think he’s going to keep the donations rolling in if his son gets kicked out of here? You’ll be begging him to bring me back here!”
“You don’t know me very well, do you, Soames?”
Brennan propelled his former student into the office, where Brennan looked up the Soames’s phone number and called to let the mother know that Chad was about to leave the building. As it turned out, the mother wasn’t home, and the family’s maid took the call. Right, Brennan remembered then, Vivian and Langston Soames had gone away to Florida. Would Father Burke like to leave a message? Oh, he was sure that, directly or indirectly, the parents would get the message. He merely told the maid that Chadwick was on his way home.
The little fucker was pretty humble by the time Brennan had loaded him into his car and pulled up in front of the garish suburban home of the family Soames. The attention-craving vulgarity of this place nearly did Brennan’s head in, with its pastiche of architectural styles and its entrance nearly obscured by the triple garage thrust out towards the street. Brennan didn’t waste any words on the final parting. Chadwick got out, slammed the car door, and was gone. Everyone at the school knew that his parents thought their brat was a gifted student who, if he applied himself, would outshine all the others in the class, and that the advanced, demanding curriculum at Saint Bernadette’s would put him in a good position when it came time to compete for admission to Harvard or Yale. They were in for what Brennan guessed was probably not their first — and would not be their last — disappointment in relation to their offspring.
* * *
When Brennan got back to the parish house, he went up to his room and turned on one of his most beloved CDs, Kiri Te Kanawa singing Mozart. She had just reached the “Veritas Domini” when the phone rang.
“Brennan! It is Fried Habler calling. I am in Toronto.”
“Ah, Fried. Guten Tag.”
“Guten Tag, Brennan. I did not know whether it is you I should be calling or the police. But I do not like to involve myself in police business. Must be a hangover — a holdover? — from growing up in the East German state. You can pass this information along to the authorities, if you think that is best.”
“What is it, Fried?”
“When Edelgard told me about her enthusiasm for seeing Don Giovanni at the Vienna State Opera, I made arrangements for her to have a very good seat, in the second row on the aisle. I told my colleague, Johannes Distel, that she would be there two nights in a row. When I spoke to Edelgard — Meika — here in Nova Scotia, she told me she likes to see a performance twice, once for the overall excitement of it and then again to concentrate more on the details of the music. So, I got that seat for her. But she did not use it. She was not there. I know this because Distel called me about another matter, in fact about his hopes to succeed me at U of T and Dal when my term is up. We talked about that, about Tristan in Toronto, and about Don Giovanni, and that is when he mentioned to me that nobody turned up for that seat. On either night. The reason I think there is something not quite right about this is that I was one of the speakers at a Dalhousie University alumni event a couple of days after she returned from Europe. I had not seen her since she came back — in fact, I never saw her again at all — but I noticed her husband there. He is a graduate of Dalhousie. So, I approached him and asked him how his wife enjoyed the opera in Vienna, and he told me she enjoyed it very much. He thanked me for arranging the tickets. But, well, as I say . . .”
“She told him she enjoyed it, but in fact she wasn’t there at all.”
“Correct. Her plan was to go from Vienna to Milan for Traviata at La Scala. Unfortunately, I have no way of finding out whether she went to Milan or not.”
“I appreciate your letting me know, Fried.”
“I realize that you may feel compelled to inform the police about this. If so, do not hesitate to give them my name.”
“Thank you. One way or the other, I’ll have to pass this along. Who knows what they’ll do about it, now that they have Lieutenant-Colonel MacNair charged with the killing.”
Brennan wasn’t sure what to do with the news. Go to the police? Or go to the lawyer who was representing the local man charged with the murder? Of course, as he had acknowledged to himself all along, with a sense of shame, he hoped MacNair was in fact guilty of the crime. But if there was some kind of intrigue surrounding Meika’s trip to Europe, some motive on her part for being in one place and pretending to be someplace else, this led some credence to the notion that there was a European angle to the whole affair. A German angle, most likely, in light of the strange postcard she received shortly before the hurried transatlantic flight. Where should he go with the new information? The police had their man and would not be impressed with the mere fact that she had not been in her seat in the opera house. Monty, on the other hand, would be keen to hear anything that might suggest an alternative to his client as the guilty party.
Monty
As much as Monty considered Brennan’s notion of a German angle to the killing of Meika Keller a bit too fanciful — and downright strange, coming from a man who was anything but fanciful himself — Monty could not help but be interested in the fact that Meika Keller had lied about her time in Europe. The decision to take the trip was abrupt. When she returned, she was preoccupied about something and told her husband it was that her pictures had not turned out, when in fact she may not have taken any pictures at all. Now, in a brief but most welcome phone call from Brennan, Monty had heard that she had not shown up to take her reserved seat at the Mozart opera in Vienna. She had lied about that, too.
Monty gave some thought again to the postcard. The sender of the card wrote a seemingly innocuous message saying “go
od for you” and expressing envy of Meika’s talents. The photo on the card was far from innocuous: the former headquarters of the much-feared secret police, the Stasi. How to account for the difference in mood between the message and the image? The fact that she took off to Europe — to Germany? — soon after receiving the card was surely significant. What, Monty wondered, if the card was not meant to be creepy or threatening at all? What if it was from an old friend, or lover, in the spirit of “Remember what we had to put up with? That’s over now.” Did Meika take it as an invitation? Or even if it was not an invitation, did it prompt in her the desire to see someone there again? Whatever was going on, it presented Monty with a good handful of dust to throw in the eyes of the judge and jury to raise a reasonable doubt about the guilt of Alban MacNair.
Now, as a matter of strategy, where should he go from here? He was not under any duty to disclose the details of his defence to the Crown. The Crown was obligated to disclose its evidence to the defence but there was no equal, reciprocal obligation. This was an example of the law acknowledging the overwhelming power of the state, and the presumption of innocence for the individual facing that power as a defendant. If Monty did disclose the new information, he ran the risk of finding out, and having the Crown find out, that there was a perfectly good explanation, that there was nothing in Europe that had a bearing on the death of Meika Keller, and his reasonable doubt arguments would thus be destroyed. But if there was something to it, and an investigation turned up somebody from Europe as a plausible suspect, this could mean the charges against MacNair would be dismissed. So, in the end, he decided to hand the information over to the Crown, to Bill MacEwen, and let him provide it to the police.
MacEwen did not sound overly impressed, or overly concerned, about the vacant opera seats. “Except, as a good Scotsman, I deplorrre the idea of expensive seats going unoccupied!” But he assured Monty he would look into it. “Her passport will show which countries she visited on the trip.”