Tampered (19 page)

“Crocodilae lacrimae,”
Phyllis Wedderspoon pronounced loudly from her seat in the pew beside Zol. She pointed her finger at Gloria Oliveira two rows in front of them. Zol hunched forward, desperate to crawl through a hole in the floor. The preacher stiffened, clamped his Bible with both hands, and finished the benediction that signalled the end of Raimunda Ferreira's funeral service. Phyllis's voice, echoing into every corner of Craig & Lafferty's chapel, reverberated off the brick walls and stained glass. Stuck between Art Greenwood in his wheelchair and Phyllis Wedderspoon on the pew, Zol had no escape.

Gloria Oliveira flinched visibly at the outburst, then rose to follow the casket and the preacher down the centre aisle toward the back of the chapel. Flanked by her husband and her nephew, and followed by two look-alikes in polyester dresses who could only be her sisters from Portugal, Gloria looked a sorry sight. The car crash had made a mess of her face. Steri-Strips criss-crossed her jaw, her right eyelid was almost swollen shut, and her cheeks bloomed as purple as eggplants. She crushed a Kleenex in her fist and stepped behind her mother's casket, which was being wheeled in full retreat.

The service had been plain and brief, reflecting the family's abandonment — according to Phyllis — of both the Catholics and the Jehovah's Witnesses. After an opening hymn and two Bible readings, the preacher had said a few words, but kept apologizing that he didn't know the deceased very well. After stumbling over her name a few times, he'd given up and referred to her as
The Deceased
.

Zol felt the collateral sting of venom when the procession reached his row and Gloria pierced Phyllis with a killing stare. As always, Gus's face was a blank canvas reflecting the mood of the others around him. Zol wondered whether an original idea had ever entered Gus's mind, or was he one of those people who went through life doing as he was told without giving any thought to the consequences. His nephew Joe looked like a black-eyed boxer. A dark crust slashed his forehead where dried blood and stitches covered the gash that had pumped like a fire hose three days before.

Ahead of the sombre trio, two black-suited funeral directors, trained to turn bland eyes on every sort of funeral-service outburst, guided their cargo toward the front door without missing a step.

Only slightly cowed by the look on Gloria's face, Phyllis leaned into Zol's ear. “Those were crocodile tears,” she said, her voice echoing again, but perhaps not quite so loudly. “They didn't get along, you know.”

Art tapped his lips with his index finger and glared at Phyllis. Then his eyes softened as he caught Zol's eye, and the corners of his mouth hinted at a smile, which he covered with his hand.

Zol wished he could ignore Phyllis, pretend she wasn't there, but he knew if he didn't provide some sort of response, she'd come out with another, louder bombshell. The next time it might not be in Latin.

“I see,” he whispered. “Let's talk later. In private.”

He took her by the arm and steered her into the procession, well behind the family. Colleen, sitting by herself at the back of the chapel where she'd been observing the service in her professional capacity, caught Zol's eye and grinned. She'd heard Phyllis's benediction, that was clear. Colleen could smirk all she liked from the safety of the rear pew. He was still ready to drop through the floor.

The guests filed out of the chapel and into an adjacent parlour where solid women, bursting out of their black dresses, poured coffee and juice behind tables draped in white linen. Phyllis dashed off, either to the ladies' or in search of a cup of tea. With the change of venue, solemnity gave way to cocktail party chit-chat. Zol got a few looks sympathizing with his embarrassment at Phyllis's eruption, but no comments.

He approached one of the tables and lifted a dainty sandwich from a plate and examined it — cream cheese and olive on bread that seemed past its prime. He sniffed and wondered whether the family had saved on funeral expenses by dipping into Gus's Waste Not dividends. Surely an outfit like Craig & Lafferty wouldn't allow outside food. What did Colleen think? Did she recognize any of the sandwiches from Gus's rounds? He looked for her but couldn't see her. Her short stature gave her a cloak of near invisibility that made it difficult to pick her out in a crowded room. Lucky her.

“Very nice service,” Art said, wheeling toward Zol with a plate of sandwiches balanced on his lap. “But this is turning into too much of a habit — dear Melvin's funeral yesterday, Raimunda's today, and poor Earl teetering on the brink.” He paused and looked around to be sure they were out of earshot. “I should have bought shares in Craig & Lafferty. Too late now, I suppose.” He scanned the room. “Have you seen Dr. Wakefield? Did he slip in at the back?”

“Hamish has still got his hands full at the Lodge,” Zol said.

“I wanted to thank him. Betty's a bit better today. Turning the corner, I'd say.”

Zol smiled, sharing Art's relief, then pointed to the sandwich in Art's hand. “Should you be eating that?”

“Why not? I love Italian salami.” His eyes twinkled as he touched the side of his nose. “Sometimes Gus sneaks it into the Lodge for us.”

“I don't recall you including any deli meats in your food questionnaire, Art.”

Art put down the sandwich as a guilty look came over his face. Zol couldn't tell whether the old guy felt embarrassed about his fading memory or guilty about an intentional deception. “I should have told you about tea time in the upstairs library. I'm sorry. I guess I forgot about the snacks.”

Zol studied Art's benign face, the permanent sparkle in his clear grey eyes, and chose to believe that the reading-room salami had slipped the dear fellow's mind.

Zol pulled out his cellphone, suddenly blaring in his pocket. The screen said
Trinnock, Peter
. He backed away. The boss was calling from home. On Saturday afternoon. He pressed Talk and braced himself.

“Szabo? What the hell are you up to? I just got another call from the PMO.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh.'”

Zol let Trinnock's sarcasm hang between them. That usually stopped it from escalating.

“What can I tell them?” Trinnock continued, his tone not quite so harsh.

“We may have found the pathogen responsible for the outbreak.”

“Damn it, man. Why didn't you call me? Let me know immediately?”

“We're still in the process of unravelling the story. And the Feds are so touchy about listeria these days that —”

“Listeria? These old people are dying of listeria? Just like the fiasco last year in that meat-packing plant? For God's sake, Szabo, you better have your facts iron-clad before you —”

“Don't worry, sir. I'm being very careful.”

“Is it time to call in the Food Inspection Agency? Let them take over from here?”

The last thing Zol needed was the CFIA descending upon Camelot and Viktor Horvat. Those federal boys and girls would drive Vik and his counterfeit operation into hiding immediately, and no one would ever get to the bottom of his drug scheme. More and more, it seemed the listeria and the phony meds were intimately connected.

“We don't need the CFIA just yet, sir. Camelot meets all federal and provincial food-handling guidelines.” Well, except for the recycled salami sandwiches, but he wasn't going to go into the details. He'd sort things out with Gus this afternoon. “We've put a stop to further C diff cases, and . . . and we think we've found a possible source of the listeria.”

“You
think
you found a
possible source
? That sort of language doesn't fill me with confidence, my boy.”

“I've got our own experts on the case.” Colleen was tailing Horvat, and Hamish would soon be using bacterial genetics to prove that the listeria came from the sandwiches misappropriated from Waste Not.

“I want a full report on Monday. Ten a.m. My office. I can't stall the PMO any longer than that.”

Suddenly, there was commotion to the right. Two men in grey business suits, taller than Zol, huge mandibles, fresh buzz cuts — one dark, one blond — were plowing their way through the crowd. They locked Zol with their eyes and two seconds later were crowding either side of him, practically standing on his toes. Their breaths were hot with peppermint, but the gum didn't disguise the musky odour of taco sauce and testosterone. Zol closed his phone and dropped it into his pocket.

“We need to talk to you,” said the one with dark, deep-set eyes and a white scar above his lip.

“Who are you?”

“Just come with us.”

Zol's heartbeat shot up twenty points. Had Hamish caved and called someone, reported Horvat prematurely? Had Horvat fingered Zol to his cronies? Horvat had never seen Zol face to face, but it would be easy to dig up a photo of Dr. Zol Szabo, public-health crusader. Half a minute with Google would do it. Health-unit docs were cited throughout the Internet. That's what the job was about — making waves. He'd been criticized, even vilified, by irate mothers and paranoid politicians. But never threatened by hired guns.

His tongue was so thick he could hardly speak. His eyes swept the room for safety in numbers. “No. I'm staying right here.”

They whipped out their badges and business cards. Shoved them in his face.

RCMP.

Oh, no. The PMO was muscling in, just like he'd feared. Their timing was terrible. They were going to ruin everything.

The cards flashed so fast that Zol didn't notice the officers' ranks, though he didn't miss their names. The blond one was Gretzky, the dark one with the scar through his lip was Crosby. They must be aliases; those names would never appear side by side in real life except in a hockey lineup. Were they allowed to use fake ID when questioning a public official? Or was this some sort of covert action, masquerading as RCMP but masterminded by CSIS, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service? Yes, the Prime Minister's Office was behind this.

“In the next room,” said Crosby.

“But . . .”

“Let me put it this way, you don't want to make this difficult.”

“Okay, okay. But I'm not leaving the building.”

The two men guided Zol into the adjacent parlour, marching him between them shoulder to shoulder. The room was deserted. It seemed they'd commandeered it already. Gretzky shut the door and dragged an armchair in front of it.

The room began to spin. Zol could barely keep upright. The back of his shirt felt cold and wet. He steadied himself against a stand holding a spray of flowers. He breathed in the revolting pungency of the lilies — as jarring as smelling salts — but it did nothing to clear his head.

If this wasn't the PMO in action, it must be Francine. Had she sicced the RCMP on him in a bid to steal custody of Max? That was it — she was accusing Zol of fraud or neglect or something worse. Pedophilia? She must be back on the continent. In one of those ashrams in British Columbia, the Kootenays or Vancouver Island. She'd lived in a string of communes in Asia for the past eight years, ever since the day she'd stormed out, leaving ten-month-old Max alone in the house. She hadn't called in months, not since she'd threatened to take Max to Toronto for an unsupervised visit, court order or not.

Gretzky pointed to the sofa and said, “Have a seat.”

“We got a few questions,” Crosby added, pulling a notepad from his jacket pocket.

“Who's the short babe with the camera and the long ponytail?” said Gretzky.

Yes, Francine was behind this. She'd found out Colleen was staying over. Not that it needed to be a secret. The divorce had come through years ago. The witch must be claiming that Colleen, a private eye, was a toxic influence. No, it couldn't be. For the RCMP to be involved, the allegations must be horrendous. Francine had always had a morbid fear of the devil. Was she accusing Zol and Colleen of Satanism?

Hell, was he
never
going to be rid of her?

“She's . . . she's a private investigator,” Zol said.

Gretzky was asking the questions. “And her name?”

“Um . . . Woolton. Colleen Woolton.”

“What's your relationship?”

“She . . . works for me.”

Gretzky raised an eyebrow.

“Consultant,” Zol added. His tongue was so dry that he could barely spit out one syllable at a time.

The men each pulled up a chair and positioned themselves directly in front of Zol. They were enjoying watching him squirm.

“Look,” Zol said, “does this have anything to do with my personal life? With my ex-wife?”

Gretzky smirked. “You tell us.”

“I haven't seen my ex in eight years. The last I heard she was living in India. She's got nothing to do with . . . with Camelot Lodge.”

Crosby shrugged and shot a knowing smile, then looked at Gretzky. They both had exes in their pasts. “Works for us.”

“What do you know about Augusto Oliveira?” Gretzky asked.

“Who?”

“Calls himself Gus.”

Gus? Oh, of course. “Um . . . He's the son-in-law of the deceased.”

“A friend of yours?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing at his mother-in-law's funeral?”

“He's the handyman at Camelot Lodge, a retirement residence. My grandfather lives there.”

“Camelot,” Gretzky said. “That's the place. Looks like a castle. Fancy neighbourhood at the bottom of the Mountain.”

Only Hamiltonians called the Niagara Escarpment “the Mountain.” Gretzky was from the local detachment.

“Handyman, eh?” Crosby said. “Lots of construction projects? Major renovations?”

“Not that I know of.”

Crosby's scarred lip curled into a sneer. “Come off it. Where's he stashing the building supplies?”

Zol balled the Kleenex in his suit-coat pocket between his sweaty fingers. He could barely stop from pulling out the tissue and ripping it to shreds. But there was no point in showing Gretzky and Crosby how nervous he was. Hell, they could probably smell it off him anyway. “No idea.”