Once Upon a Time

Once

Upon a
Time

Barbara Fradkin

Once

Upon a
Time

An Inspector Green Mystery

Barbara Fradkin

Text © 2002 Barbara Fradkin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of
the publisher.

We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts
for our publishing program.

Napoleon Publishing/RendezVous Press
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
www.rendezvouspress.com

Printed in Canada

06 05 04 03 02      5 4 3 2 1

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Fradkin, Barbara Fraser, date—
    Once upon a time / Barbara Fradkin

“An Inspector Green Mystery”
ISBN 0-929141-84-9

I. Title.

PS8561.R233O52 2002             C813'.6             C2002-902965-1
PR9199.3.F64O52 2002

Contents

Acknowledgements

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Acknowledgements

I am grateful for the contribution of many people in helping to bring
Once Upon a Time
to life. First, to my late husband Arnie, whose work as a War Crimes prosecutor provided the inspiration for this story and whose critical reading of the earliest draft helped me stay true. Secondly to the many experts who answered my questions; Renfrew historian Carol McCuaig, Sergeant Don Sweet of the Forensics Identification Unit of the Ottawa Police, Constable Brian Patterson of the Renfrew O.P.P. Detachment and Doug Davie of Davie's Antiques in Harriston. Thirdly, to Constable Mark Cartwright of the Ottawa Police for his ongoing advice and expertise in police matters, and to Jane Ann Tun, Madona Skaff and Robin Harlick for their feedback and support. Fourthly, to my editor Allister Thompson and my publisher Sylvia McConnell for their continued belief in my work.

And most of all to my children Leslie, Dana and Jeremy, for being there when I emerged from the dark places to which I had to go.

This is a work of fiction, and although all the locales in the Ottawa and the Ottawa Valley exist, the people and events are the invention of the author and any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental. The events concerning Occupied Europe, however, are all based on truth.

One

September 2nd, 1939

I hear her footsteps on the mossy riverbank
See the sun-flamed red of her hair
As it swoops in rhythm to her run.
She tilts her head, shields her eyes.
But still I hide, drunk with hope and disbelief.
She has come to me, my rebel princess.
Slipped the sentinel gaze of the village,
huddled in its uneasy rest.
Run across the cornfields behind the mill
And out to meet her poet.
Nothing to offer her but words spun into shimmering webs,
to catch her lofty dreams.
She spots me then and smiles,
And I open up my arms.

After fifteen minutes
of waiting, the old man pulled the sweaty tuque off his head and scowled at the snow through the window. His long plaid scarf pricked his neck, adding to his annoyance. He could see little through the pale wintery light in the room, but he could hear his wife thumping around in his bedroom upstairs. Drawers opened and closed.

What the hell was the woman doing up there! He felt a surge of alarm as he remembered the letter. How stupid of him to leave it in his desk drawer. He should have burned it as soon as he got it. When they got back home tonight, he would. Once today's ordeal was over.

He looked around the room at the refuge he had sought to create. A modest parlour with a crumbling brick fireplace, a scratched piano and shelves haphazardly stacked with books. All he had ever wanted was this little cottage in the country, his pipe, his whiskey and an armchair by the fire. A retirement cottage, he had told his wife. Far from cruel strangers and prying eyes, from a past that still lurked in his head.

Yet in the end he had not escaped. He leaned back in the armchair and willed away the sudden tears that filled his eyes. She would see them—nothing escaped her—and she would fuss. Not overtly, for she knew better, but quietly, fluttering around the kitchen to make him tea, watching him with silent, questioning eyes. And now, because of that monstrous letter, how long before she knew?

A final thud roused him, and he looked up to see her descend the stairs, pulling a pair of thick woollen gloves over her gnarled hands. She frowned at him as she came across the room, picked up his tuque from the window ledge and pulled it firmly back down on his head.

“I'll get the car and pick you up out front,” she said.

He heard the thump of her cane as she shuffled through the kitchen and pushed open the screen door against the thick snow on the porch. He glanced at his watch impatiently. Of all days for snow! She'll take forever crossing the yard, so scared she'll fall and break something again. And then she won't be able to start the car.

He heard the shriek of the shed door, the thud of the car door, and finally the screech of the ignition. He cursed her aloud. Too heavy handed, no feel for an engine. But then he heard a hoarse, reluctant cough as the old Dodge came to life, and he hauled himself to his feet.

Outside, he squinted against the stinging snow as he watched her inch the car across the yard. She will think it's too cold for me to stay in the car. She'll want me to go into the clinic with her and wait in a room full of creaky old women. More complications.

He surveyed the white fields in silence as they drove down the long lane to the highway. They were going to be late, perhaps too late. But once they were on the highway, the driving was good. The roads were salted a glistening black, and the trip to Ottawa took only two hours, even at her cautious seventy kilometres an hour. The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm against the snow, and he stared out the window at the passing farms, his thoughts lost in winters long ago. Wondering, worrying…

“If I'm through in time,” she said, “we'll drop by Margaret's for early tea.”

Her intrusion into his thoughts startled him. “We just saw her on the weekend.”

“But they're on our way home, and she's expecting us.”

“I want to get back,” he replied peevishly. He felt her eyes upon him with their questions, but thankfully she said nothing.

It was eleven-thirty when she pulled into the parking lot at the hospital, and the wind whipped the snow about. He made no move, and when she turned to him questioningly, he said, “I'll wait here.”

“But it's cold outside today. And I'm not sure how long I'll be.”

“Leave me the keys. I'll start the car if I have to.”

She seemed about to argue, so he closed his eyes and feigned fatigue. A moment later the door opened, and he felt a frigid blast of air. Halfway out, she paused, hunched against the swirling snow, and turned to him.

“Get out, woman!”

Pressing her lips shut, she pulled herself out and slammed the door. He watched her battle the drifts with her cane as she crept across the road to the clinic door, then he reached inside his duffel coat for his small flask. With a grunt of pleasure he brought the flask to his lips and took a long swallow. Maybe that will keep trouble away, he thought, and glanced at his watch. 11:37. He peered out through the frosted front windshield. Nothing moved. Not a car, not a solitary soul. He'd never put much stake in hope, but he allowed a faint stirring of it as he settled down to wait.

*    *    *

When the call came in to Major Crimes, Ottawa Police, Inspector Michael Green had been in his office battling paperwork for over four hours, and his mind was mush. The time was 1:43 p.m. He heard the phone ring on Sergeant Brian Sullivan's desk, heard a brief exchange of words, and then Sullivan's brisk trademark: “On my way.”

Green waited three minutes to allow Sullivan to check in with the Staff Sergeant—no point in treading on too many toes—then headed out of his office, hoping for a casual interception. But the squad room was empty. Sullivan's desk was locked, and his duffel coat was gone from its peg. Damn.

Restlessly, Green wandered down the hall to the coffee machine and returned with his fifth cup of pallid fluid. He left the door to his little alcove office ajar, inviting someone to interrupt him as he returned to his monthly report.

Some time later, his phone rang, and he pounced on it, hoping it was Sullivan asking for his help. Or Superintendent Jules, head of Criminal Investigations, saying a call had just come in on a multiple homicide in Rockcliffe Park. Not even that. He'd settle for a wino who had rolled into the Rideau Canal.

But it was his wife Sharon, who had a day off from the hospital. She sounded cheerful, and in the background he could hear his infant son babbling excitedly.

“I just wanted to warn you the roads are really slippery, honey. And the driveway has six inches of fresh, fluffy snow on it. Pristine and untouched. To celebrate our first snowfall in our new house, I bought you a shovel at Canadian Tire.”

Ah, the joys of home ownership, he thought. My very own stretch of asphalt from the street to the Dreaded Vinyl Cube in the cow pastures of Barrhaven. He could almost see the twinkle in her eye, but at this point even shovelling would be a welcome relief. “Don't worry, I'm coming home early tonight. Maybe even five o'clock.”

There was silence on her end of the line, followed by a chuckle. “Five o'clock? Inspector Green is coming home at five o'clock?”

“We're having a temporary lull in murders in this town. It's too damn cold even for the crooks. I'm doing nothing but supervision and paperwork.”

“Paperwork!” He could hear her astonishment. “Boy, you must really be desperate. Next thing I know, you'll be inventing a murder!”

He was still laughing when he hung up, but the smile faded quickly at the sight before him. Piles and piles of jumbled phone messages, computer print-outs and unread articles. He had not joined the force to push paper, but in the past couple of years, he'd felt himself being edged farther and farther from the streets and into committee rooms. He was drowning in paperwork and its electronic cousin, e-mail. At the click of a mouse, minutes of meetings and drafts of endless policies could be sent whizzing off to every middle manager on the force, whether they wanted to read them or needed to know them. All to prove how important and busy the sender was.

The Chief of Detectives, Adam Jules, knew better than to expect Green to respond in kind, but Green's job as administrator required some minimal output of paper. Annual reports were nearing, and the new Police Chief liked neat arrays of statistics to take to City Hall. He liked stats such as types of crimes reported, solvency rates, crimes by district, etc. To Green, homicide investigation was the cream of police work, as well as the only work he was good at, but to Chief Shea it was a mere footnote in his vast law enforcement vision. Fortunately, the press and the public loved homicides, which was why Jules forgave Green his abysmal administrative skills. Seeing his potential fifteen years ago, Jules had yanked Green off the streets, where he'd been mediocre at best, and into criminal investigations, where his tenacious drive and intuitive intelligence had given him one of the highest solution rates on the force.