Bone Dance (11 page)

I finally got to talk to Jordan Whiteside due to sheer persistence. I literally camped in front of his house until he put in an appearance, going out the front door, Monday around noon. He recognized me, of course, and agreed to a short talk when he realized I wouldn't pull my foot out of the open front door.

“Of course, I was shocked about Garry Boyce. I feel badly because we were friends and also, I have to be candid, because our opera will never be finished.”

“I thought you'd been reluctant to do the opera.”

“Had been is correct, Terri. I had my own career track
planned and an opera, especially a country one, wasn't on it. But Garry convinced me it would be a good move for both of us. And as you probably remember, he could be very persuasive when he wanted something.”

I tried to put thoughts of Garry and his persuasive ways, especially within the confines of the front seat of his MGB, out of my mind.

“May I ask why you wouldn't talk to me before?” Not that it had anything to do with the murder, but I wanted to know.

“I'm a busy person, Terri. I just felt an interview wasn't worth the time to me. Sorry, no offence intended.”

“None taken.” Like hell. “Would you tell me what it was made you decide to do this opera with Garry?”

“Sure. Money. It wouldn't have hurt my reputation either, if it became a big hit. But Garry, always the practical one, made me see there was the potential for a lot of money in this.”

I looked around me. From where I sat—on a teal leather sofa in a family room that put my entire place to shame—I couldn't imagine Jordan being in need of money. But he hadn't said that. I suppose no one's immune to making money, even if you have plenty. Mind you, he could be mortgaged and line-of-credited to the hilt. And then there was the beautiful Amanda Whiteside, always the latest in glam whenever I'd seen her. It would take big bucks to keep her in the latest styles.

I was just leaving, poised to step out onto the porch, when I asked my final question. “Do you know if Garry had a girlfriend on the side?”

Jordan bristled. “How the hell would I know that?”

The interview was ended. This time I moved my entire body out of the doorway quickly.

Back in my car, I pulled out my cellphone and punched in the
CBC
number, asking the receptionist for the one person I knew lived and breathed opera, the local host of the Saturday afternoon opera program. She'd be the best bet to answer my question. In fact, she confirmed my suspicion that there wouldn't be a windfall of cash coming from this opera unless it took off, like the crossover rock opera
Tommy
of a few years before. And neither of us could make the stretch to a country opera with music coming from Whiteside. And, even if they could manage to produce such a piece, we both had serious doubts about how successful it would be. So, what was the real reason he'd capitulated? And did it have anything to do with the murder?

I decided to give Harley another try and hope for some additional answers this time. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to produce a copy of the script for the opera.

“The police cleared out Garry's desk,” he said, “and Crystal said they'd done the same at the house. Why the fuck's it so important anyway?”

“I don't know if it is. I just thought I'd read it over and see if they sounded like million dollar lyrics.”

“Well . . .”

“You did read them?”

“Well, no. But you know, we always make three copies of our songs. One stays here, one goes home, and the other is mailed to a post office box. In case of fire or theft. I'll just bet good ol' Garry did the same thing this time.”

“Do the cops know about this?”

“They didn't ask.”

I smiled. “Could we go check it out?”

He smiled. “Be my fuckin' pleasure, ma'am.”

It took about three minutes to walk the two blocks to Desjardins Pharmacy, boasting one of the few postal outlets in
the Market. Harley cleared the box, tossing out the usual flyers and junk mail, and was left with two envelopes; one stuffed with folded papers, the other a thin version of the first.

“That there's Garry's writing. This must be it. Not sure what this one is though, it's his writing, too.” He waved the thinner one in my face

“Hmm, it's sealed, and opening it might be considered tampering with evidence, even if it proved to be nothing.”

I looked at Harley. He looked at me, and a slow smile inched across both our faces.

“Well, I could say I just opened it along with the other mail, not looking to see who it was meant for.”

I nodded. “Just what I was thinking. Let's head over to the Second Cup, my treat.”

We each ordered a cappuccino. I paid, then searched out a table while Harley waited for our cups. The place was about half full, but I by-passed the spots with a view for the single booth with the padded bench towards the back. Harley had tucked the envelopes in his jacket pocket, so while I waited, I tried to dredge up some obscure fact that I'd buried in the back of my mind which was now teasing me to be let out.

Jordan's reaction to my final question had sparked it. Garry and his girlfriends. I knew nothing about his current love life, except that he had an active one. What I did know was his past, starting in reverse order with Crystal, then me, and who had I replaced? He'd talked about her a few times, which had steamed me, as I recalled.

Come to think of it, I'd been ticked off at him quite often, which would account for my not being too fazed when he paired off with Crystal. There was one double date with Jordan, though, which had led to a doozy of a fight on my doorstep. Mainly because Garry had gone all surly and
uncooperative when Jordan turned up with his new date, Amanda Brown, who was now Amanda Whiteside . . . who had been Garry's squeeze before me. That was it.

Now what it meant, I had no idea, unless Garry and Amanda had taken up where they'd left off. It would have been pretty dumb of Garry to jeopardize the new partnership he'd wanted so badly. Interesting thought, though.

Harley arrived with our drinks, then ripped open the thick envelope first. He glanced through it, then passed it over to me. “Well, it's the opera, all right. Call's it
Brian's Song
. He'll have to come up with something catchier than that though. Fuck, guess he won't have to.” He gave a short, embarrassed laugh.

I started reading but turned to skimming until
page 5
. “He's changed the font for a few pages.” I thumbed through four of them until it went back to Times New Roman.

Harley took more care opening the second envelope. He pulled out a yellowed newspaper article and started reading. I went back to my task.

I'd finished one page when Harley filled me in. “It talks about a car accident back in the mid-eighties. Some music student at Carleton U drove his wheels into that cement abutment coming down Bank Street at Billings Bridge. He died on the way to the hospital. Wonder what that's all about.”

I reached for the clipping. Brian Swenson had been 23 the night he died. Same age as the Brian in the story I held in my hands. Brian Swenson, as I recalled, had been Garry's roommate at the time of the accident, the year before we became an item. I went back to reading the libretto.

I needed another cappuccino to steady my trembling hands. Harley joined me in drinking, but didn't say a word as he watched me over the rim of his cup.

I took a final sip then said, “I think I know who did it.”

“Well, are you gonna to tell me?”

“Not until I'm certain.”

I arrived at the Whiteside residence as Amanda was leaving. Her face was a dead give-away that things were not right in her world. She pasted on a weak smile and ushered me through the door, then left. I should have suggested she don some dark glasses until the puffy eyelids and redness disappeared.

I heard movement in a room towards the far end of the dazzling foyer. I called out Jordan's name as I reached the door. Then knocked. The door swung open and Jordan glared down at me.

“
Now
what is it?” he asked. This wasn't going to be easy.

“I'm trying to get my show pieced together, and I just wanted to ask you a couple more questions. Did Garry show you what he'd written?”

“I'd seen some lyrics. I've written four numbers so far, but he'd only finished one. I think he was concentrating on the libretto.”

I'll say. “And had he shown you any of that?”

“No.”

“Told you what was in it?”

He moved over to the massive walnut desk that commanded the entire half wall between a fireplace and the doorway, and leaned against it. “Some. Why do you ask?”

“I was just reading over what he'd done so far, and it's a bit odd. He has two versions on the go, almost like he can't make up his mind.”

Jordan picked up a pewter letter opener and started turning it over, top to tip, between his hands. “He did say something
about not knowing which way to take it. How much had he written?”

“Enough for me to know why you'd agreed to go in on the project.”

“Is that so? Why don't you tell me all about it, Terri.”

I stood up, partly to show some assertiveness but mainly to get into position to make a break for it if need be. Since he stood between the hall and me, it would have to be the patio. “It's called
Brian's Song
 . . . did you know that?”

“No. That's just his working title. We hadn't gotten around to discussing it.”

“It's a good choice, since the story seems to be about a young music student named Brian who died in a car accident. However, the interesting part is that Brian had written a composition that he was about to enter in the CBC Young Composer's Contest. And the twist is that the song was entered, but under someone else's name. And it won first prize. That person, named Jody, goes on to become a big success in the music world or at least, that's where I think Garry was taking it.”

Jordan strolled towards me. “I had no idea Garry could plot intrigue. It might have been a success after all.”

“Except that it's based on a true story, isn't it, Jordan? I remember Garry talking about his former roommate Brian Swenson. In fact, I've been remembering a lot from those days, like how Garry and Amanda were once an item.”

He flinched but kept walking. I'd begun to inch over towards the French doors behind me. I'd spotted what looked like a heavy-duty statue of an Irish Setter on a small table along my flight path.

“I've no time for reminiscing, Terri.”

“No, I guess you've got to get busy covering your tracks. It
won't take the police long to reach the same conclusions once they see the libretto plus the newspaper clipping Garry had saved. What did you do, rig Brian's car to crash for good measure?”

Jordan's mouth stretched to a tight line. “Garry had it coming. He was blackmailing me to do the opera with him, and the bastard was screwing my wife on the side. And now, it's your turn . . . you always were too nosy, Terri.”

He lunged at me with the letter opener. I grabbed the statue and knocked the knife out of his hand, then gave him a swift kick between the legs, right where it counts. He lurched forward and smashed through the glass doors just as Detective Czenko and his boys rushed into the house.

“You okay, Terri?” Czenko watched as one officer, gun in hand, checked the bloodied body of Jordan Whiteside.

“He's alive.” The other officer radioed for the paramedics.

Czenko hadn't waited for my answer. He knelt next to Jordan, made sure he was coherent and then read him his rights.

I stood there and thought about Garry and Jordan, Garry and Amanda, Garry and me while I tried unhooking the wire the police technician had taped under my sweater.

Linda Wiken
is owner of Prime Crime Mystery Books in Ottawa. Her short stories have appeared in the four previous Ladies' Killing Circle anthologies (she was co-editor of
Cottage Country Killers)
as well as other mysterious publications. She has not aspired to singing opera, although she is a member of the Ottawa Police Chorus
.