Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (257 page)

“Not even cousins? Nieces or Nephews?”

“We’re still doing inquiries. The sister hasn’t lived in the province since 1982, so the trail is stone cold.” Magloire recited all this from memory, reminding Green again that beneath the easy cheer and big smile, the man was no fool. But so far there was no apparent connection to Meredith Kennedy or the Longstreets.

“Where did she work?” Green asked.

“Here and there. Semi-skilled, for the most part, like secretarial work, sales. We’re still checking background. The local PDQ—sorry, that’s Poste de Quartier, neighbourhood police station—did some inquiries when her neighbour reported her missing, but to be honest, it wasn’t a high priority for them.”

“Is her neighbourhood a high-crime area?”

“No, no. But with the snowstorm, and the Christmas preparations...” Magloire shrugged as if no further explanation were needed. “I grew up in Côte des Neiges. It’s mostly low-income, immigrants, students, families struggling to pay the bills. Lise Gravelle would be just one of thousands who live alone in a cheap apartment.”

“Well, maybe there will be some clues there to tell us where she worked, or why she went to Ottawa.” Or why she died, he was thinking, but then two enormous smoked meat sandwiches arrived, and their fragrant succulence drove all other thoughts from his mind.

Brandon sat in his car staring at the huge stone mansion on the hill. He’d never been inside. His mother, only connected to the Longstreets by marriage, didn’t merit an invitation, although to hear her talk about his Great Uncle Cyril, it was just as well. Cyril did not entertain, he summoned, and family members didn’t receive a summons unless they were being given instructions on how to run their life or a reprimand on how they had failed to.

Cyril was a bachelor, now well into his eighties, and he lived in the house on Summit Circle that he’d inherited from his parents. The very air smelled of money and privilege. Here, on the western summit of Mount Royal, the denizens of the graceful old limestone homes and modern, multi-million dollar mansions controlled the fate and pulse of the city below them.

Brandon recalled vague speculation from other relatives that Cyril had been normal enough until he’d spent three years in a German POW camp and the woman he’d planned to marry had eloped with his best friend. Brandon suspected there was more to the story, but among the Longstreet clan, communication through innuendo and understatement had been honed to a fine art. No one liked Uncle Cyril, and in fact those who’d felt the lashing of his tongue despised him, but no one dared reject him outright. Spending beyond their trust funds was another skill the younger generations of Longstreets had honed to a fine art. Uncle Cyril was sitting on millions, and some day he was going to die.

Brandon’s mother had never cared about the millions, and neither did Brandon. She had built her own legend, and he had his own dreams. He and Meredith.

It was the thought of Meredith that forced him out of the car. He would face anything, slay any monster, to find her again. He had not called ahead, preferring to catch the old man off guard and give him less chance to refuse. Or to sharpen his knives. He’d stayed Friday night with his aunt, his father’s sister, and when he’d told her his plans, she’d been appalled.

“You don’t sneak up on Cyril, Brandon. You don’t try to outfox him because you will lose. He aims for the jugular, and he’ll tell you things that will cut you to the bone. Believe me. He hates the fact that both his brothers avoided the war and had wives, children, and now grandchildren. He hates the fact that they both had the decency to die at the height of their powers. He hates being old and shrivelled and feeble. You don’t want to surprise him.”

Brandon had told her that he had no time for subtleties. He needed answers; Meredith’s life might depend on it. So far none of the younger Longstreets, including his aunt, had been able to supply them. Meredith had not contacted any of them on her mysterious trip to Montreal, nor had they known anything was amiss until they heard about the missing persons search.

“What makes you think it’s even about us?” Aunt Bea asked. “Maybe she was visiting her own side of the family.”

“And I will visit them too, but she doesn’t have much family left in Montreal. Most of her cousins have moved to Toronto, Ottawa, or Vancouver, part of the great Anglo-Quebec Diaspora.” He balled his fists in concentration. “I think she discovered something, or someone told her something, that freaked her out. Maybe that’s because I learned something awful too. My father hanged himself.” He gauged her reaction. “The trouble is there were absolutely no details as to why.”

Aunt Bea sucked in her breath, blinking rapidly. For a moment she said nothing, as if choosing a course. “That’s as much as I know, Brandon. I was away at Cambridge when my brother died, and I got this cryptic phone call from mother. Not hysterical. Longstreets don’t do hysterical. Your father was the golden boy of the family, the one to carry the Longstreet banner forward into the next generation. I know that sounds ridiculous in today’s world, but remember this was nearly half a century ago and the air up on the west mountain was pretty rarefied. Harvey was supposed to use law as a springboard to go into politics. There had been a Longstreet in the Senate and a few at the helm of Crown Corporations, but none of them had ever been an MP. There was talk of a cabinet position, Liberal, of course. Maybe even the successor to Pierre Elliott Trudeau. He had the same élan, the same silver tongue. But my brother wouldn’t play the game. Blew off the Liberal fundraisers in favour of student protest rallies and wrote scathing articles for the
Montreal Star
on the corruption of the elite. I loved him for it, but Uncle Cyril was not amused.”

Brandon digested the news with surprise. His father had been an activist. Maybe the two of them were not so different after all. Why had his mother never told him this? Aunt Bea sighed, her eyes shining at the memory. “But in the end, it was his tawdry side that caught up with him. Another Longstreet fine art—dalliances with common girls that have to be hushed up at all costs, while the Longstreet wives keep up the brave front.”

Brandon struggled to hide his surprise, but his aunt was too quick. She squinted at him. “Ah. You didn’t know. I’m sorry, I thought you did.”

“Another detail my mother failed to mention.”

“What does it matter, Brandon? It’s all a long time ago. He was a handsome, charismatic teacher surrounding by nubile, adoring co-eds. The oldest cliché in the book. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, or your mother, both of whom he adored. It doesn’t diminish his legacy as an idealist or a human rights lawyer, either.”

“Did my mother know about the affair?”

“Affairs.” She scrutinized him. “She did. Not the specifics of any one, probably, but the concept, yes. She’d been one of those nubile, adoring students herself. She knew his weakness.”

Brandon pushed the revelation around in his mind. His mother had known this seamy side but had continued to paint him as a saint in his son’s eyes. Well, what would he have done in her place, he wondered.
Son, your father was a great mind, but as
a man, he was a cheating little shit.

“Did the whole family know this?”

“I’m sure, and if they didn’t, the circumstances of his death would have given them a clue. Harvey always had way too much fun with life.”

Brandon studied her discomfort and finally the light dawned.

“You mean it wasn’t suicide at all.”

“Harvey was about as depressed and suicidal as a new winner of Lotto 649. But...” She broke off, looking embarrassed. Aunt Bea was his favourite aunt. Among the earnest Ladies Auxiliary types who peopled the older branches of his family tree, she was the one with the heart of a rebel. She used her money and influence to campaign for wildlife conservation and waved her Green Party membership card triumphantly at family functions. Brandon knew she was trying to spare him.

But he’d seen far more bizarre sexual experiments during his years in ER. “Extreme sexual sport was right up his alley?” he said gently.

She flushed. “Obviously it was never proven. But that’s the real reason the whole thing was hushed up. The official coroner’s verdict was suicide, but really neither he nor the police did a lick of investigation.” She leaned forward to grasp both his hands. “I’m sorry, Brandon. I promised my mother, and yours, that I would never, ever tell you. But honestly, if you’re going to see Uncle Cyril, you need to know.”

“Why?”

“Because, of all the Longstreet men, Cyril was the only one who disapproved. He was outraged by your father’s behaviour, I think deep down because he himself had been betrayed by infidelity. It made him very unforgiving, another reason why the circumstances of Harvey’s death were suppressed. A lot was riding on that lie. Harvey’s legacy as a professor and lawyer, his reputation as a father and husband, and of course, a family fortune.”

Brandon frowned. “My mother’s never cared about that, never taken a penny she didn’t earn.”

Bea’s hands tightened spasmodically around his, and for a moment she looked about to speak. Then she released his hands and shook her head as if to dispel the thought. “Of course not. But his reputation and his legacy, she guarded that. She was fiercely loyal.”

That she was, he thought now, as he steeled himself to meet the legendary patriarch who’d spurned her all these years. He was beyond caring whether his father’s name was attacked by a bitter, judgmental old man. If she had visited him, Brandon only wanted to know what the old man might have told the woman he loved. Meredith was a thoroughly modern woman who would have been unfazed by this ancient tale of infidelity and sexual misadventure. What else might she have learned?

Given Aunt Bea’s description, he expected Cyril’s doorbell to be answered by a butler who would usher him into a stifling hot parlour full of antiques and old books. He was surprised when instead, after an interminable wait, the heavy black door swung open to reveal a shrivelled old man. His face was oddly mask-like, and Brandon recognized the telltale rigidity of Parkinson’s. As if by force of will, he leaned on a polished wood cane and peered up at Brandon over gold framed glasses perched on his nose.

“You’re Brandon,” he said. “Come in, I’ve been expecting you.”

Brandon’s carefully rehearsed introduction flew out the window. First point to Cyril. Had Bea contacted him?

Cyril gave a cold, triumphant little smile. “Even if I didn’t have a copy of your graduation photo on my piano, you’re the image of your father.”

Brandon struggled to recover from this second surprise as he stepped into the foyer and bent to remove his boots. Who would have sent Cyril a photo? His mother, still trying to curry favour after all? Cyril had turned and headed across the hall without a backwards glance, leaving Brandon to hang up his own coat. The cavernous foyer was spotless, but its decor was yet another surprise. The honey oak floors shone with a simple, timeless elegance, but the walls were hung with vivid abstract expressionist art. Not a sombre ancestral portrait among the lot. Brandon recognized a Jean Paul Riopelle and a Jackson Pollock, both of which would likely command seven figures at Sotheby’s.

“Pick one,” Cyril said as he turned to see Brandon staring. “I’ll put it in my will for you. A wedding present...or a consolation prize.” He uttered a little snort at his own wit and shuffled through an archway into a sitting room, where the decor was more predictable. A large Victorian fireplace, wing chairs, ornate bookcases and a Persian carpet in jewel hues. The walls were hung with still lifes, with not a human figure among them. However, the baby grand piano sitting in the window bay was covered with family photographs, among them Brandon himself and several cousins.

Cyril was lowering himself carefully into a wing chair by the fire. He waved a gnarled, tremulous hand at the piano. “Might as well put it to some use now that I don’t play any more. No point in playing if you can’t do it well. Insult to the instrument. Sit. I’ll get Armand to bring us something. Sherry? Scotch?”

Brandon’s stomach lurched. He’d barely been able to get through Aunt Bea’s greasy plate of sausages and eggs an hour earlier. He wondered what response Cyril wanted from him—to accept a drink he didn’t want in order to avoid offence, or to stand up for himself.

“I’ll have a coffee instead, if it’s on offer,” he said.

Cyril’s blue eyes flickered. He sat back in his wing chair and clasped his hands together to control their shaking. “So your bride has flown the coop.”

“I don’t know, sir. Has she contacted you?”

“Why would she? Checking out the family moneybags, to see if the marriage is worth her while?”

Brandon held his gaze with an effort, hoping his anger didn’t show. “I think more likely to check out the family background.”

“Whatever for? Aren’t you enough for her? I hear you’re a doctor. Plenty of prestige and income potential in that.”

“I don’t believe it’s about me, sir. I think she may have learned something disturbing about my background.” He hesitated. Steeled himself. “About my father.”

“Afraid depression and suicide might run in the family?”

“I understand there’s some doubt it was suicide.”

“Any fool who puts a noose around his neck mustn’t hold his life in very high esteem, don’t you think?”

A whispering footfall on the Persian carpet startled Brandon. He turned to see a diminutive middle-aged man in a crisp white shirt and perfectly pressed trousers balancing a tray of coffee cups and shortbread biscuits in one hand. Cyril nodded his approval as Armand set the tray with catlike precision on the coffee table between them.

“People give me these biscuits every Christmas, and I never know what to do with the damn things.”

Brandon resisted the distraction. “Wasn’t the suicide theory just to protect the family?”

“Protect the family? You think it’s better to have a defeatist coward in your midst than a man who pushed the boundaries of sexual experience?”

“Well, to protect my mother, then. It would be a sufficient blow to have lost him—”