“What are you talking about? That shotgun didn’t belong to my client! You don’t know where I found it. I’m the one you want to question. Vanessa can wait. Hell, you let her skip off to California for the weekend. If she was going to do a bunk, do you think she’d be here now?” I’m glad Vanessa missed this welcoming committee. A jetlagged suspect, even one who has just outfoxed the network brass and saved her skin, is hardly better than no suspect at all.
Jack Sykes ran his fingers through his hair. Besides some red fuzz, there wasn’t much of it. He moved his hands to a fallback position with his fingers intertwined at the back of his head. “Our bet is that she had access to the shotgun, and she had the spent shells. Benny, Jim and I are thinking of driving north to check out that cottage of hers.”
“Wait a minute and think before you waste the taxpayers’ money on trips to Muskoka. Why would she bring the shells back here? I found the shotgun on Lake Muskoka. If she drove back with the gun, why didn’t she get rid of the used shells along the road, toss them into a lake or a ditch? Why did she plant these deadly mementoes in her own locker? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Benny-!”
“If she wanted to take credit for the murder, why didn’t she call the chief of police, or send a note to Whatshername, Barbara Turnbull at the Star? Why not give an exclusive interview to The Toronto Sun?”
“Benny-”
“And while she was at it, how did she pop back into town and head back up the highway to Muskoka without anyone noticing? Have you checked her gas receipts? Maybe she flew? Maybe she knows a road that hasn’t been discovered yet by people trying to beat the traffic on a Victoria Day weekend.”
“Benny, shut up for a second! We don’t like it any better than you do, but it’s the best we’ve got.”
“That’s not enough to run her in.”
“Who said anything about running her in? We want her to assist us in our inquiries. What’s the matter with that?” He looked into Jim Boyd’s blue eyes: the final arbiter of what was reasonable.
“You already talked both her ears off. Now you’re after blood.”
“We are just looking for things that we might have missed the first time around. We’ve got her statement, sure. We just want her to amplify it, that’s all.”
“That’s a load of garbage and you know it, Jack!” I wasn’t going to fall into the trap of thinking they weren’t already building a case against my client.
“What can you tell us that will make our trip north- when we make it-as short as possible? And I don’t mean tips on where we can buy worms and fishing licences.”
“It’s a clear conflict of interests, Jack. I’m working for Vanessa Moss. When she cuts me loose, I’ll tell you what I saw up there. In the meantime-Hell! I brought you the gun in the first place! What more do you want from me?”
“Okay, okay. Don’t rupture yourself. I hear you.”
“Jack, I had breakfast with Chuck Pepper this morning. Talk to him about the tie-in with Bob Foley. I think it’s important.”
“To you everything’s important except the answers to my questions.”
On their way out, I introduced Jack and Jim to Sally, who looked worried they were going to take me downtown with them. She disguised it by appearing decorative enough to make them run for the elevator in disorder. She was still wearing that expression when I came back from seeing them off.
“A call came for you while you were in there with those men. I didn’t think I should interrupt you.” She handed me a blue slip of paper, and I went over to my desk and dialled the ten-digit number. The phone was answered by a bright-sounding youngster named Hugh. He was Vanessa’s nephew. The things I learn in this business! He told me that he was home from school because he’d injured his knee long-jumping at the school field day.
I asked to speak with his mother, Franny, Vanessa’s sister. When she came on the line, she said, “I’ll be happy to talk to you. But call my sister ‘Stella.’ That’s her name. I don’t know where she picked up ‘Vanessa,’ probably from her arty friends in Toronto.”
We went on from there to have a pleasant chat. In the course of it I discovered that Franny’s ten-year-old son, Hugh, had been notoriously neglected by his auntie Stella for all ten of his years. Hugh and his mother were in Calgary on the day that Renata was killed. I thought that with the kid along, it would have been harder to concoct an alibi than it was for Barry Bosco. I dropped that line of inquiry. Franny, it turned out, was the head psychiatric nurse in a Calgary hospital. She had not been in Toronto for three years and didn’t expect a Christmas invitation to visit her sister this year or the next. I got off the line as soon as I could, feeling vaguely guilty. I neglect people too. I thought of a few of them as I wandered into the outer office where Sally sat nibbling on the corner of a sandwich.
“I hope you aren’t in some kind of trouble, Benny.”
“Naw. It’s just that the cops want me to do all their work for them, that’s all.”
TWENTY-TWO
The big event of the day to all the regulars of NTC was the press conference and reception at the Royal York Hotel that introduced the joint creation of Dermot Keogh Hall by the network and the Keogh estate. The hall was to be located deep in downtown Toronto, on a site between Jarvis and Church Streets, north of Carlton.
Instead of describing what was said, I should just attach some of the many PR releases that were available all over the Library Room on the mezzanine floor, but maybe you’ll take my word for it. In a few words, the Dermot Keogh Hall would change the centre of gravity of the music scene in the Ontario capital. It would, according to the speeches, surpass in acoustics, comfort and intimacy all the older halls in the country. Ted Thornhill made a fine speech, so did Raymond Devlin. One called it “the event of the decade,” the other “the first great architectural marvel of the century.” They introduced the architect, whose firm had been engaged to carry out the plans designed by I.M. Pei and to do all the work involved. They answered questions from the press before everybody was released from being on their best behaviour and allowed to resume their eating and drinking at the bar and buffet provided. Vanessa was there, but she kept her public comments to a minimum. Ken Trebitsch was there, pressing flesh for a news angle. His rival, Philip Rankin, spoke briefly, but only to introduce Raymond Devlin to the hundred and fifty journalists and guests crowded into the attractive room.
I stayed close to Vanessa through most of this. Press cameras reminded me of assassinations in old Hitchcock movies. One reporter tried to quiz my boss about the ongoing murder investigation but didn’t make many yards with her. She was magnificently turned out for the occasion in a suit by Donna Karan. I had read the label when the jacket was hanging in her office earlier. She didn’t have much to say to anyone and, when asked a question, gave short answers or forwarded the question to either Thornhill or Devlin. The overhead light shining on Rankin’s head did nothing for the illusion his hairpiece was attempting to create. He was talking to a tall Japanese reporter. His expression was stuck in a pout, which was supposed to look like rapt attention, I guess. “Why, yes,” I heard him say, “NTC can only become more and more involved in developing its own label of high-quality recordings. I needn’t remind you,” he went on-and I guessed at what he was going to say-“NTC has a duty to bring out and make available the works that Dermot Keogh himself had recorded before his untimely death last year.”
As the crowd began to thin out, I grabbed some smoked salmon on a dry biscuit. There was quiche for quiche aficionados and, to the evident delight of Ray Devlin and Ted Thornhill, no trays of orange and yellow cheddar lumps on toothpicks. The booze included wine, rye, gin, vodka and Scotch. There was even a bottle of Campari. The Perrier ran like water.