Authors: Judith Jackson
Had he always been such a stickler for the rules? “Evan, sweetie, I didn’t want to involve you in any of this. I just meant to have a quick look to see that you were all right. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Of course I need to worry. The whole Toronto police force is looking for you and you’re wandering the streets dressed like a homeless person. How do I not worry? Jesus, even Dad’s worried about you.”
Worried that his Krazy murderous ex-wife might be a blight on the Kondo business. “Everything is under control. Julie and I are very close to finding the real killer. The police aren’t even looking for anyone else. I had to do this.”
“Is that where you’ve been? With Julie? Because she insisted you weren’t at her house. She was pretty convincing.”
“I’m not at Julie’s,” I told him. “I’m staying at another friend’s. Julie’s not involved with any of this.”
“You just said she was helping you to find the killer. Maybe you should get your story straight.”
“She has a peripheral involvement. Anyway, you’re not to worry. How are your exams going?”
“Fine. That’s not important right now.”
We had left the main street and were walking through a little park that consisted of a small patch of grass, a couple of benches and a garbage can overflowing with coffee cups and poop bags. Evan guided me over to a metal bench and we sat down.
“The police might be watching you Evan. I can’t stick around.”
Evan gazed around the park. “They’re not watching. Mom, will you please come home with me? We’ll call Mikel and arrange for you to surrender yourself to the police. Walter is working hard on your case. We’re going to figure this out, but you have to turn yourself in. You’re not safe.”
“Are you safe? What’s with the exterminator?”
Evan stared into space for a moment, trying to get his head around that. “Oh. Bedbugs. There’s a problem with bedbugs in the building.”
“Charming,” I said. “There weren’t any bedbugs at my place.”
“There were other issues.”
Other issues? I went out of my way to be an exemplary roommate when Evan stayed with me.
“What other issues?”
“Nothing about you. I had some stuff going on. It was better for me to live somewhere else.”
Well I knew it couldn’t have been me. “I didn’t kill him Evan but I have to find out who did. I have to save my own life.”
“Jesus Mom, you’re not Richard Kimble.”
Who? Oh right, Richard Kimble. The Fugitive. I wracked my brain trying to remember why the one-armed man killed Kimble’s wife. Something about money. I needed to follow the money trail. Follow the money. That had to be the answer. I got off the bench and leaned down and gave Evan a hug. “This is going to be over soon. Trust me. Everything is going to be fine.”
He just shook his head in disbelief. Evan was way past the point of believing his mother could remedy all ills. I gave him a quick kiss and walked away, a wave of nostalgia washing over me. My sweet boy, all alone, unless you count Mikel, trying to focus on his gingivitis exam and receding gums while worrying that his mother was going to be gunned down. It was almost too much for me to bear, but I did feel a fresh determination to make things right.
Step one; I had to head over to the reference library to meet Julie. Luckily it was close by, and with my head down and eyes averted I headed north.
The library was bustling, with a motley crew of students doing research, the unemployed leafing through newspapers and a few of what looked like the homeless taking shelter from the cold. With my forty-year-old wig and ratty fur coat I fit right in. All of the computers were being used. I plunked myself down in a chair beside a man who looked to be extremely down on his luck. One of his boots was held together with duct tape and the odor wafting off of him could not be described as delicate. He was quite absorbed in the
Martha Stewart Living
he was reading until he noticed that I was eyeing him over. “Who would devote that much time to making a gingerbread house?” he said to me, showing me a picture of an elaborate two storey structure. “This woman is cracked. Who has time for that these days?” It occurred to me that he himself might have a bit of time on his hands, but I only shook my head in mute agreement. “For example,” he continued, “she makes her own puff pastry. Why bother? You can get perfectly good frozen puff pastry and you’ve saved yourself all that time.” So true.
Where was Julie? She was late. The clock said 3:02. I excused myself to the Martha fan and walked around the main floor, keeping my eye on the door and trying to be unobtrusive.
Julie strolled into the library at 3:12, and without looking for me headed immediately for the stairs. I waited to see if anyone was tracking her, but the coast was clear, so after a minute or so I followed her. Julie was sitting at a table by herself, leafing through a book. She looked up when I got to the second floor, and casually stood up and strolled over to the closest stack. I stayed well back and watched as she took a cell phone out of her pocket and laid it down on top of a row of books. Julie left the row and I wandered over and grabbed the phone. Within seconds it rang.
“Hello,” I whispered.
“I’m being careful,” said Julie. “There was a cop watching the house. I’m pretty sure I lost him but we need to split up. I’ll meet you at Kennedy station by the LRT track in forty-five minutes. I’m going to make sure there’s no chance anyone could be following me.”
Julie hung up and I was left staring at the phone.
Forty minutes later I was sitting trackside at Kennedy station watching the pigeons as they scavenged for food. Julie came up the stairs, walked by me and sat down about a hundred feet away. I put my sunglasses back on and watched to see if anyone was following her, but the only person behind her was a teenager wearing pants that exposed most of his red boxer shorts, having a heated conversation into his phone.
The train pulled up and I glanced at Julie and then at the stairs. No one was following us. We were golden. I casually headed toward her and we got on to the same car and took a seat. The doors closed and we both relaxed a little. “I think we’re safe,” I said to her in a low voice.
“For now,” said Julie. “A cop car kept driving by the house but I went out the back door and through the ravine and grabbed a cab down on Queen. Then I got on the subway at the Eaton Center, walked through the mall, got lost in the crowd and back on the subway. I’m sure I lost him before I got to the library, but I’m being extremely cautious.” She looked at me for confirmation of her savvy evasion tactics.
“Good work,” I said. “I’m impressed. Where are we going?”
“The son lives with his mother in Scarborough,” said Julie. “A long way from daddy in Forest Hill.”
The train jolted to a stop and a tiny Chinese woman pushing a baby carriage crammed full of jugs of laundry detergent got on.
“Remind me to pick up some detergent,” said Julie. She was so easily distracted.
“I’m making progress,” I said. “I’m definitely going to find out about this David with the cat and I’m also planning to see Angie. The receptionist from work. I think she knows something. And Douglas. He’s definitely a suspect. And I’m getting more and more convinced that the,” — I lowered my voice so that it was almost indiscernible — “murder, was because of money.”
“Why?”
Why indeed? “Because,” I said.
“Oh,” said Julie, nodding her head and mulling over this insight.
“It’s love or money,” I told her, quoting Rose. “And let’s get serious. I don’t think we should devote a lot of time to the idea Mr. Potter was the victim of a crime of passion.”
“You never know,” said Julie.
“Passion?” I hissed. “No one could get within five feet of him without keeling over.”
“Don’t shut any doors,” said Julie. “You know how if you eat garlic you don’t notice it on other people’s breath?”
“Hmmm.”
“Well there you go.”
“Where? Where do I go with that comment?”
“Perhaps he found someone with a similar problem. It could happen.”
I thought about this for a moment. “So we’re looking for a foul-breathed woman with a key to my apartment.”
“Possibly,” said Julie. “This is our stop.”
We got off the train and headed out of the station into a decidedly downtrodden area of Scarborough. Julie looked at the map she had printed off and squinted at the street sign. “One block over,” she said. “Oh, wait. Behind here.” Julie grabbed my arm and pulled me toward an alleyway between two buildings.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” she said. “I popped into the Dollar Store and bought some badges. Stick one in your wallet just in case, but remember, these are not FBI badges. Impersonating the FBI is illegal. Extremely illegal. They’re just badges.”
“You want me to flash a Dollar Store badge and pretend not to be the FBI.”
“Right.”
“Canada doesn’t even have FBI. We have the RCMP. You know — moose, Mounties, red coats — you may have seen them.”
“Whatever,” replied Julie. “You never know.”
Well that’s true. You never do know.
I inspected the badge. It was a piece of plastic coated paper that said
FBI
Special Agent
and was graced with a small picture of a man in a hunting hat.
“Is that Elmer Fudd?” I asked sweetly.
”We probably won’t need them,” said Julie, ignoring me. “But just in case, if you flash it quickly it could work. Really — I’ll bet lots of people think the FBI operates in Canada.”
“Lots of British people maybe,” I said, but I took a badge and put it in my pocket. “I’m an elderly woman Julie. I think if I was FBI I would have retired with my nice federal pension by now.”
“You’re undercover,” said Julie. “Look, I haven’t got this all figured out.”
“No, no, this is good,” I said. “Very helpful. All doors should be open to us now.”
Julie eyed me suspiciously but said nothing, just marched with a determined stride toward our destination, which turned out to be a small, neatly kept yellow bungalow on a dead end street. There was a tidy yard in front with a wooden lawn ornament, a little girl bent over so you could see her bloomers. On the front steps was a cement figurine of a boy holding a fishing rod. We climbed the steps, looked around and I rang the doorbell. Julie pointed to the doormat which read,
Nice Underwear
.
“Amusing,” said Julie, looking distinctly unamused.
“Listen,” I said quickly. “Impersonating the FBI is a serious offense. If you have to, eat the badge. No one will be able to prove anything.”
The door opened and a tall woman of about sixty-five with a curly grey perm, wearing a green track suit and purple slippers answered the door.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m Stella Smith and this is my partner, Wendy — Wesson. We’re investigating the death of Mr. Harold Potter. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you have a minute.”
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” asked the woman. “I’ve already talked to the police. I don’t know anything.”
“We’re investigators, working with the Toronto police,” I said, quickly flashing my badge. “We’d just like to ask you a few more questions about your late ex-husband.”
We were soon comfortably ensconced in the first Mrs. Potter’s living room, sipping a cup of tea and eating shortbread. The traditional kind made from the recipe on the cornstarch box with a little dab of icing and half a maraschino cherry on top. They were very nice, although in my view just a smidgen too brown on the bottom.
“Well my soul,” said Mrs. Potter, in what sounded like an eastern accent. “I never thought I’d see the day the FBI was in my living room.”
I’ll bet she didn’t. Who would think that? Neither of us corrected her. Was it our fault she thought we were with the FBI?
“Can I get you girls something else? I’ve got some nice mincemeat tarts. My sister sent them to me from down home. Makes them every year. She uses lard in her crust. It makes all the difference.”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” I said, as Julie stared daggers at me. I hadn’t eaten anything all day other than part of a muffin and a small, over-cooked shortbread cookie. A mincemeat tart sounded like heaven.
“We’re fine Mrs. Potter,” said Julie. “We just have a few questions to ask you about your relationship with Harold Potter. The late Harold Potter.”
“Oh, I told you, call me Winnifred — Winnie,” said Mrs. Potter, in a cheerful voice. “Harry. Poor man. He was a piece of work, a right arsehole my sister always said, but still. Can’t help but feel bad for him.”
“You had a son with Mr. Potter, did you not?” I asked her.
“Sure, sure,” said Winnie. “Bryson.” She looked at me for a moment. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look a little old to still be in the FBI.”
Well of course I looked old. I’d been through a lot in the last few days. I hadn’t been moisturizing and the grey wig was very aging. “I started as an investigator quite late,” I said. “Hanging on to get my full pension.”
“Ahh,” said Winnie. “Me, I started with Hydro when I was twenty-two. My first job when I moved up here and I stayed with them for thirty-five years. Now I’m retired with a nice pension. Very nice. That’s what I tell Bryson. You gotta get going on something, otherwise you won’t never be able to retire.”
“What is it that Bryson does?” I asked her.
“For work? Oh nothing. He’s never really worked. Just mowing lawns when he was a kid, odd jobs, shoveling snow, that kind of thing.
“And he’s how old?” asked Julie.
“He’ll be thirty-seven this year,” said Winnie. “Hard to believe.”
“And he lives here with you?” I asked.
“He’s got a nice setup down in the basement,” said Winnie. “He mostly only comes up for meals.”
I was beginning to see why Mr. Potter didn’t have a picture of Bryson on his desk. Winnie was starting to eye us over with some trepidation. “Why am I getting a visit from the FBI? I haven’t had any contact with Harry for years.” She narrowed her eyes a little. “Why are you asking questions about Bryson?”
“We’re just trying to get a good picture of Mr. Potter’s life prior to the killing,” I told her. “We don’t want to leave any stones unturned.”
Winnie nodded her head. “Mind if I smoke? Bryson hates it when I smoke in the house, but I’m feeling a little tense.”