The Glass Coffin (11 page)

As Tracy rushed towards the garage office that chilly day, she didn’t spare a glance for the half-dozen bird feeders placed with such care around the garden, nor did she notice the pains Dan had taken to ensure that each stone in the garden wall complemented its neighbours. She was a woman on a simple and well-defined mission. She wanted to get a prescription and she wanted to get the hell out. Venturing into this weird place was simply the price she had to pay.

We heard Dan before we saw him. He had been drumming, and when he opened the door of the converted garage, he was glistening with perspiration and life. It was twenty-five below zero, but he was wearing cut-offs and a sweatshirt. I made the introductions. He shook hands with Tracy and Claudia, and drew Tracy inside. “Come talk awhile,” he said. He looked at me. “Kitchen’s unlocked,” he said. “You know where the tea is.”

“All I want is to get out of the cold,” Claudia said. She was warmly dressed, but she was hugging herself and her teeth were chattering. “It’s bitter out here.”

We sat down at Dan’s kitchen table, slid off our coats, and stared silently at the snowy garden. Finally, I said, “So do we talk about the elephant in the living room or not?”

“I don’t want to talk about anything,” she said. “In the last twenty-four hours, my brother was murdered; a man I liked died under questionable circumstances; a man I don’t like humiliated me in public; and the child I cared for from the day she came home from the hospital told me to bite her.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I hadn’t added up all you’ve had to deal with.” I leaned forward. “Claudia, I never knew you’d taken care of Bryn.”

“Who else would have?” she said.

“I just assumed her parents …”

“They were building their careers. Focused. I was twenty-three years old with a shiny new diploma and no idea at all about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.”

“And you took over the care of an infant. That’s a pretty selfless decision for a twenty-three-year-old.”

“Not for a twenty-three-year-old who’d had the kind of parenting I’d had.”

“That bad?” I asked.

Claudia’s mouth curved in an ironic smile. “No point talking about it,” she said. “It was no worse than what happened to Evan – no worse than what happened to the other kids we knew. The unwanted children of the rich live in their own particular hell. It’s just so difficult to spot under their picture-perfect lives of private schools, ski holidays, and idyllic camps in the Muskokas.”

“Where were your parents?”

Claudia tented her fingertips and regarded them thoughtfully. “Well, my father had the good sense to be dead by that point. That left Caroline, and the only reason she had children was because contraception was an imperfect science, and my father had scruples about abortion.”

“Your mother told you that?”

“No, our housekeeper. Mrs. Carruthers made that particular contribution to our education. Caroline pressed her into service to care for Evan and me until we were old enough to be packed off to school. When Bryn was born, I saw that history was about to repeat itself, so I stepped in.”

“And Annie didn’t mind?”

“She never noticed. Annie and Tracy were living the high life. They’d ignore Bryn for days, then they’d wake her up in the middle of the night so Evan could film them playing with her. I don’t have a maternal bone in my body, but I knew that was wrong.”

“And you came to love Bryn,” I said.

Claudia shook her head. “She wasn’t an easy child to love, but I did come to feel responsible for her – for both of them. After Annie died, I was all Bryn and Tracy had.”

“Caroline was there,” I said.

“In body if not in spirit,” Claudia said. “And to give Caroline her due she has allowed us to share her beautiful home on Walmer Road for lo these many years. Our family may be dysfunctional, but we have nice digs.”

Tracy didn’t bother coming inside when she and Dan emerged from his office. She spotted us through the window, waved the prescription in her hand, and gestured for us to join her. Neither Claudia nor I had to be asked twice. When the two women headed for my car, I turned to thank Dan. He was a man with a ready smile, but in that moment he looked deeply troubled. “Keep an eye on her, Jo. I’m faxing her psychiatrist’s office. I know he’s out of the country, but someone must be covering for him. I’d rest easier if I knew someone familiar with her case was handling Tracy Lowell. Until then …” Dan waved his hands in apology. “I’ve said too much already.”

“Not too much,” I said. “Dan, I put you in a tight spot. I shouldn’t have presumed on our friendship.”

Dan shook his head. “You saw someone who needed help, and you got help. That’s not presuming on friendship; that’s being a responsible human being.”

“One more question, and this is hypothetical. Could an overdose of beta blockers be fatal?”

“Jo – an overdose of Aspirin can be fatal. But if I can read your subtext here, Tracy’s prescription is short term.”

“But if someone – not Tracy – we’re still talking hypothetical here – were to be given a larger dose?”

“It would depend on the dose and on the person. It always does. You know how beta blockers work. They slow the heart rate and reduce the force of heart muscle contractions. An overdose could cause hypotension and bradycardia.”

“In lay terms?”

“Severe low blood pressure. Severe low heart rate. Heart failure.”

“Death.”

“It could happen.”

Claudia insisted that she and Tracy take a cab back to the hotel. She said I had already done enough, and I didn’t argue the point. I
had
done enough. That didn’t change the fact that there was still more to do, and I welcomed the chance to be alone to ponder Dan’s information before I made the next stop on my rounds. Kevin Hynd’s Day-Glo painted patisserie, Further, was in the Cathedral Area, so-called because its citizens lived their lives beneath the shadows cast by the twin spires of Holy Rosary. As I drove past newly gentrified houses and specialty shops, the dark possibilities of pharmacological dirty work seemed a world away.

Kevin’s business on 13th Avenue was flanked by shops called The Little Red Meat Wagon and Pinky’s Nail Salon – steak, cake, and fake – one-stop shopping for the unreconstructed hedonist. If we can judge a human being by the kitchen he keeps, Kevin Hynd was stellar. The walls of his shop were painted the rosy gold of peach butter. Like me he had a pegboard wall, hung with pots, pans, sieves, and strainers. Unlike me, his kitchen had gleaming industrial-sized ovens, three Kitchen Aid mixers, a stainless-steel Sub-Zero refrigerator, and a wooden worktable smoothed by use and so beautiful that I would have traded my signed copy of
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
for it. Julia Child would have approved, and she would have approved of Kevin, a chef who might have been a dead ringer for Jerry Garcia but who was approaching the mound of pink-tinted marzipan in front of him with the reverence of the serious cook.

“Greetings,” he said. “Wash your hands, put on some gloves, and be bold. We’re all novices.”

“Okay,” I said, “but we need to talk first. The preliminary findings of the autopsy on Gabe Leventhal suggest he didn’t die of natural causes.”

“Whoa!” Kevin flopped the marzipan onto a marble pastry slab. “So what happened?”

“His blood sample was suspicious; he had bruises that didn’t come from the truck driving over him; and there were scrapings of tissue and blood under his fingernails.”

“Evidence that he was defending himself against somebody,” Kevin said.

“Right,” I said. “And my guess is the pathologist will discover that the mystery assailant was Evan MacLeish.”

“Is that just a gut feeling?”

“No, but everything I’m going on
is
circumstantial. Evan was wearing makeup the day of the wedding, but I could tell he’d been in a fight, and when Gabe disappeared, Evan moved in a little too quickly with his explanation that Gabe was a hypochondriac who refused to deal with any doctor except his own in New York.”

“Certainly an avenue worth exploring.” Kevin broke off a chunk of marzipan the size of a baby’s fist for each of us.

“So where do we start?” I asked.

“First you have to Think Pig.”

“To catch the tiger, you must imagine the tiger.”

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “Excellent. Now working with marzipan is like working with Plasticine. Pinch off what you think you’ll need, roll it between your hands into sausage shapes, and give each little sausage a nip, a bend, or a flatten until it looks the way you want it to look.” Kevin made two balls, stuck the smaller one onto the larger, and smoothed it effortlessly into a snout. He made indentations for the eyes and then made and flattened two balls into ears. I started working with my own marzipan, copying what Kevin had done. He watched until he seemed to decide I could continue on my own. Then he broke off a larger piece of marzipan and worked it into a body.

“So we have ourselves a puzzle,” Kevin said. “If Evan killed Gabe, who killed Evan?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Then it’s a time for caution,” he said. “At this point, we don’t know much about anything or anyone.” Kevin shaped a solid little leg with his thumbs. “I had a battle with myself this morning,” he said. “Jill is my client, and in calling you I’m going behind her back and probably against her wishes. But you don’t have to be Eddie Greenspan to know that Jill’s the star suspect in this case, and she refuses to help herself.”

“She didn’t open up to you?”

“Not a crack. You could drive a tour bus through the holes in that story of hers about what happened last night. You know it. I know it, and, most significantly, the cops know it. I tried to make her aware of the importance of full disclosure to her lawyer, but no dice.” He transformed a ball of marzipan into a jaunty little bowler hat, placed it on his pig’s head, and filled the tiny eye indentations with white royal icing. “Jill’s protecting somebody,” he said.

“Not just somebody,” I said. “Her stepdaughter, Bryn. At least that’s my guess. I think when she went outside the night Evan was killed, she was looking for Bryn, and I think when she ran back inside, she was still looking for her.”

“Maybe I should talk to Bryn,” he said. “If she’s as crazy about Jill as Jill is about her, she won’t want to leave her new stepmother out to dry.”

“You’d be wasting your time,” I said. “From what I’ve seen the only person Bryn is crazy about is Bryn.”

“My grandmother always said every cookie has two sides,” he said. “Maybe Jill sees a side of her you haven’t.”

“As a rule, I’m with your grandmother, but so far what I’ve seen of Bryn is not appealing. I’m certain that when you called today she was listening in on another phone. And last night when Angus and I were out shovelling snow, we looked up and she was at the window. She taunted us about how she’d been watching us all the time, and we didn’t know it.”

“She’s a voyeur?”

“If she is, the pathology is understandable. Kevin, Bryn has not had an easy life. Gabe Leventhal told me that her father has been filming her from the day she was born – the movie of Bryn’s life was going to cap his career.”

“My God, no wonder she hated him.” For a beat Kevin was silent, then he peered at me thoughtfully through his wire-rimmed glasses. “And Jill’s hedging about what really happened the night Evan died because she’s afraid Bryn hated her father enough to kill him.”

I nodded. “So where do we go from here?”

“For starters, let’s get our hands on that footage before the police do. That’ll at least buy us some time to come up with a strategy for defending Bryn if we need one. Were Jill and Evan living together before they were married?”

“Does it matter?”

“It would if Evan kept projects he was working on at home. If he and Jill were cohabiting, as they say, she could just send a friend in to scoop up what we need.”

“But even if they didn’t live together before, Jill and Evan
were
married when he died,” I said. “She must have some rights.”

“Sure, but the scope of those rights could be limited if there was a pre-nup.” Kevin gazed sadly at the half-formed lumps of marzipan in front of me. “You’re not exactly wailing there, are you?”

“No,” I said.

“Your vision is clouded by anxiety,” he said kindly. He dotted his pig’s eyes with chocolate, dipped the bowler and base into chocolate, and handed the dapper little porker to me. “Take this one home to contemplate,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “So when do you want to talk to Jill?”

“This time out, it’s better if you do the talking. Friends can suggest things lawyers can’t.”

“For example, a friend could – hypothetically – recommend that if there was anything damaging in the footage of Bryn, Jill might want to get it out of harm’s way,” I said.

“No flies on you,” Kevin said approvingly.

“Thanks,” I said, “for the compliment and for the marzipan lesson. I’ll do better next time.” I wrapped my pig carefully and dropped it in my purse. “Who wants all these pigs anyway?”

Kevin checked the order on the bulletin board over his counter. “Dumped Dames,” he read. “Seemingly, an organization of ladies who do not go gently.”

Jill was standing on the front steps smoking when I got home. “How was your morning?” I asked.

“Shitty,” she said. “And yours?”

“Instructive,” I said. “I learned that Felix has the hots for you; that Tracy Lowell shares a home with the MacLeish family; that beta blockers can kill; and that I have no talent for making marzipan pigs.”

Jill doused her cigarette in a snowbank. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Okay,” I said. “How about this? Your next move is to pick up the phone and arrange to get everything about the projects Evan was working on at the time of his death out here.”

“You think Evan’s work might point to who killed him?”

“His movies cut close to the bone, Jill. Evan might have captured something on film that someone didn’t want revealed.”

Jill pulled her cigarette pack out of her jacket pocket. On the front was a vivid photo of a diseased lung. She glanced at it briefly and removed a cigarette. “Do you think there’ll be footage of Bryn?” she asked.