Like Hamlet and Gertrude sitting across a table from each other, plates piled high with funeral baked meats.
Now she had called first, so I called back from the reception area-away from Jenn's rolling eyes.
When she answered, I said, "Hey, Sarge."
"Hey, yourself, Geller. How are you?"
I liked her voice almost as much as her eyes. An alto with just a slight husk. "I'm good," I said. "How about you?"
"No complaints. Except people keep murdering each other."
"The mayor just put out a press release saying what a safe city we have."
"The mayor doesn't work my crime scenes. So," she said, "how's the new agency?"
"We're doing all right. Finished one case this morning. About to start another."
"Good," she said. "Okay. So… listen, Jonah. I have some news I thought would interest you."
"What's that?"
"I had a meeting with Gruber this morning." That would be Les Gruber, the new head of the Homicide Squad. "We're closing the Di Pietra cases. All of them."
"With what smoke and which mirror?"
"I wouldn't question it if I were you. As far as we're concerned, Ricky Messina and Stefano di Pietra were responsible for all six murders."
"They did keep busy."
"We also believe Ricky and Stefano both died as a result of injuries sustained during their fight in the river."
"Who came up with that? You or Gruber?"
"It does wonders for our clearance rate."
"Gruber, then."
"He's got his black marker out as we speak. And I'm not going to second-guess him on it. We have too many red cases as it is."
"So no more questions for me?"
"Just one. How late do you work?"
"I set my own hours."
"Yeah? 'Cause I was wondering if you maybe wanted to have dinner."
"Dinner?"
"Tonight, if you're free."
I said, "Tonight?" Smooth, Geller. Smooth as shrapnel.
"It opened up just now. I took it as a sign. If you don't want to…"
"No," I said. "I mean yes. I do."
"You sure?"
"Very sure."
"You like Italian?"
"Of course I do," I said. "Scratch a Jew, find an Italian. Except on Sunday evenings, when we all convert to Chinese."
"A friend of mine recommended a place that has real southern Italian cooking and decent prices."
"Won't leave us much to complain about." "It's Toronto," she said. "There's always weather and real estate." Call number two.
"So you're seeing Marilyn Cantor today?"
"Any minute, Ma."
"Such a tragedy," she said. "I went to the shiva and she was a broken woman."
"I didn't know you knew her that well."
"I don't really," my mother said. "She was on the board of volunteer services at Baycrest when I chaired it a few years ago." My mother makes her living-and a good one-as a real estate broker, but she's also one of those dynamos who manage to sit on half a dozen boards of arts, culture and community service organizations. How anyone in Toronto gets along without her is beyond me. "But a situation like this," she said, "you pay your respects. If you were more connected to the Jewish community, you'd understand."
And there it is, ladies and gentlemen. The first shot across my bow.
"I don't know that much about her situation, Ma."
"Daniel didn't tell you?"
"I didn't speak to him."
"But he referred her to you."
"Not directly. His assistant set it up."
"And you didn't call to thank him?"
Shot number two.
"I was going to, Ma. Right after I meet Marilyn."
"Jonah," she said. "Honey."
Oh, God. Not the "honey."
"You have one brother."
"So does he."
"Which means?"
"Which means he could have called me himself, instead of having Sandra do it."
"So take the high road. Call and thank him. It's not as if your business is booming."
"Ma-"
"Is it?"
"I wouldn't say booming but we're doing all right."
"Are you, dear? Really?"
"Yes, Ma." Stretching the definition of all right, perhaps, but this was my mother. Telling her how close to the bone we were would only send her to that place we've been too many times before: unwanted career advice, which ranked right up there with matchmaking.
"I wish I knew what it was with you two."
What it was-what it had always been-was that Daniel was more successful. A lawyer, and a highly esteemed one at that, senior partner in the firm of Geller, Winston, Lacroix. Married with two adorable boys. A shul-goer, on the board of Young Israel congregation, and a contributor to charity. All the things a mother hopes for or, in the case of a Jewish mother, demands. All the things I wasn't and felt I'd never be.
"I'll call him the minute Marilyn leaves," I said. "Before the door swings shut."
"Just be good to her," she said. "Do right by her. Her youngest child killing herself… she's had such a terrible time."
"Her husband hasn't?"
"Her ex-husband," my mother said. "And him, you never know what he's feeling. Half the time I was there, he was taking phone calls. During shiva!"
"Listen, Ma, I think that's her at the door," I said. And no lightning bolt struck me down.
"At least it's just a family matter," she said. "This business you're in, I worry so much about what could happen to you."
"I know, Ma."
"No, dear. If you knew-if you really knew-you'd get into something safer."
"That's definitely her at the door," I said.
"You'll call Daniel?"
"Yes."
"And you'll be careful?"
"Like you said, Ma, it's a family matter. How dangerous could it get?"
CHAPTER 3
Marilyn Cantor's knock, when it came, was barely audible. Two soft taps, a pause, then a third tap. I wouldn't have heard it had I not been in the front reception area.
I opened the door and saw a woman of about fifty, dressed casually, comfortably and expensively in jeans and a maroon suede jacket. Five-four, slim, with auburn hair and blue eyes. Deep indigo smudges under her eyes, as dark as if she had recently broken her nose. But I knew from what my mother had told me that she'd endured far worse.
I introduced myself and Jenn and got Marilyn seated in one of our guest chairs. She declined coffee but when Jenn offered to make tea, she gratefully accepted. "Something decaffeinated or herbal, if you've got it," she said. "I'm having trouble sleeping."
As if the dark pouches under her eyes hadn't told us that.
"I almost didn't make it," she said. "Here, I mean." She was having trouble making eye contact. Looking around the office, out the window, at the mismatched file cabinets and desks we'd bought at a school board auction. "I spent all morning wondering why I made the appointment. What I hope to accomplish by it. Whether there's anything to be gained."
"Is that why you called to confirm?" I asked. "Most people don't bother."
"Yes," she said. "I think you're right. I needed to push myself out the door. I needed someone to be expecting me."
The kettle came to a boil and Jenn placed a mug in front of her, a bag of decaf English breakfast bobbing on the surface.
"Tell us about your daughter," I said. "And what you think we can do to help."
It didn't take any more than that to make her eyes well up. I pushed a box of tissues toward her from my side of the desk. The tears she could wipe away; the dark pouches seemed there to stay.
"Her name was Maya," she began. "She was the youngest of two. Our baby. She would have been twenty-two next month. She was studying theatre arts at York-she'd wanted to be an actress since she was a little girl. And she was beautiful and sweet… our gift from God." Her arms went around her body, hugging herself, trying to provide comfort where none was to be had.
"Do either of you have children?" she asked.