Barrington Street Blues (42 page)

†

On Friday morning I intended to check out Primrose House, the group home or shelter Mrs. Pottie had described to me as a beneficiary of Matilda Lonergan's generosity. Just before my departure, I got a call from Constable Phil Riley.

“You may be interested in this, Monty. Remember the spanker, Sybil Kraus?”

I did indeed. Sybil Kraus, also known as Sarah MacLeod, the gingerbread lady of Lunenburg County.

“Yes, I remember.”

“She's going to be arraigned this morning on fraud charges.”

“No!”

“Yeah. She wrote a couple of bad cheques — for food! Couple of massive grocery orders. I guess times are tough.”

“What's the story?”

“I don't know. One of the other guys is handling the case, and he's left for the courthouse.”

“Thanks, Phil. I'll check it out.”

I sprinted to Spring Garden Road and took a seat upstairs in the courtroom, where I watched the usual sad parade of the misguided, the misanthropic, and the misbegotten. What was the story on Sybil Kraus? First the spanking charges, now this. After an hour of other cases, Sybil's name was called. A lawyer popped up and went to the door, returning with a plump, round-faced woman with curly grey hair. The gingerbread lady did not look like a child beater to me, or a fraud artist, but I had learned long ago not to bet the farm on a sweet face. Her lawyer conferred with the Crown prosecutor, who then asked the judge for an adjournment. He made a reference to Community Services involvement, and he was not even in his seat again before the judge moved on to the next matter.

I got up and made sure I was out the door before Sybil Kraus. She emerged alone; her counsel must have had another client on the docket.

“Excuse me, Ms. Kraus.”

“No comment,” she said, brushing past me to go down the stairs.

“I'm not a reporter.”

“I have nothing to say no matter who you are. Excuse me.”

What was I going to do? Grab her and have her charge me with assault? And what would I say to her anyway?
Your friend, the Reverend Warren Tulk, raided a party at the Colosseum; the host of the party was later dispatched to hell. You were charged with spanking a child, and Tulk booted the case. You and Tulk were seen cruising for young people in the Tex-Park garage. You have a reinforced compound out in the country. And I'm making this my business.
I could not make it my business
without a clear connection to my case. I stood and watched her walk out of the courthouse. She crossed Spring Garden and walked up Grafton Street. Was she headed to Tulk's shop? I debated following her but, just as I was about to leave, I was hailed by a former Legal Aid colleague who was now a judge; he wanted to speak to me about the scheduling of one of my cases. By the time I got away, Sybil Kraus was nowhere in sight. But I went over to Blowers Street and peered in the window of the His Word bookshop. There was no sign of Sybil, or of Tulk. A young girl stood beside the cash register, talking animatedly into the phone. The shop had a sale on, advertised by a poster done in elaborate calligraphy: “Ask and it shall be given!” If only it were that simple. I walked down the street to my office.

I had two clients waiting so I dealt with them, then got in my car and headed for Dartmouth via the old bridge. I knew at least one person who refused to drive on this, the Macdonald, bridge because of “the curse” supposedly placed on it by a young Micmac in the early years of the city. Legend has it the dispute arose when two men fell in love with the same woman. Some things never change.

Three times o'er these waves a bridge shall rise,

Built by the pale face, so strong and wise,

Three times shall fall like a dying breath,

In storm, in silence, and last in death.

The first two predictions came true in the late 1800s. They didn't take any chances when they built the bridge for the third time; they had the Grand Chief of the Micmac on hand to lift the curse during the opening ceremonies in 1955. But, take note: half a dozen men died building it.

I got over safely for the thousandth time, and found my way to Primrose Street. The streetscape was composed of small apartment buildings and mean-looking bungalows. I saw nothing that had been recently built, or even repaired, to offer a home to troubled kids. Perhaps the youth shelter had relocated. Or maybe I had the wrong address. I turned at the end of the street and drove out again. Only then did I see a two-storey house with a small sign on the door. I parked and got out to look. Primrose House, sure enough. The house
was done up in beige plastic siding; its large picture window was covered with Plexiglas, which had been scratched and spray-painted with graffiti. A brave little window box was crammed with purple and yellow pansies. I rang the bell.

“Yes?” A small, tired-looking woman in her sixties peered up at me.

I offered her a cover story about Corey Leaman and a possible connection with the shelter, and she invited me in. She introduced herself as Connie. The place was clean but worn. I could hear rock music coming from the upper floor, and voices murmuring in the back of the house.

“Thanks for seeing me, Connie. I'm trying to track down any information I can find about Corey Leaman's life. He may have come to Primrose House but I'm not sure. The reason I think he may have been here is that Mrs. Lonergan seems to have helped him out at times. I understand she was a volunteer.”

“Dear, sweet Mrs. Lonergan! Matilda. Yes, she spent several days a week here with us. I'll just go back into the office and see if I can find Corey's name.”

“Thank you.”

She left the room and stood aside in the hall as a heavy, and heavily tattooed, young girl passed by with a baby over her shoulder.

“How's Chelsea? Has her rash cleared up?”

“All gone,” the girl replied. “You were right. All it took was water! They were telling me I had to get this really expensive medicine but they were just trying to rip me off.”

“Oh, yes, sometimes all a baby's skin needs is cool, soothing water. I'm glad she's better. Will you be in for dinner tonight?”

“Yup. I'll put Chelsea down and help you peel the potatoes.”

“Thank you, Megan. Take your time.”

A young guy with buzzed hair and a Maltese cross dangling from his ear came into the room and stared at me without speaking. His head rocked in time to the music upstairs. Connie came back and smiled at him; he mumbled a “hi” and backed out of the room.

“I can't find any record of Corey's having been here. I'm sorry. But I remember Matilda speaking of him, and of her hopes that he would get himself straightened out. I recognized his name from the news stories.”

Looking around me, I wondered what had become of the building plans mentioned by Mrs. Pottie. Of course, that may have been an inference she had drawn herself. I readied myself for a bit of tactful probing.

“I suppose it's difficult to keep a place like this running. Maintenance costs, heat, food for the residents, and all that.”

“Oh, we're on a shoestring budget, no question. But that's the way of the world when you're a not-for-profit organization. We get by. We have our supporters, and we're most grateful to them. And some of the young people sell their artwork.”

“I had been under the impression that perhaps Mrs. Lonergan might have —”

“Oh, she did! Matilda was forever helping us cover expenses, and buying little extras for the place, or for a young person in trouble.”

“When she died, did she perhaps leave anything for Primrose House in her will? Somebody mentioned that, but I could be mistaken.”

A slight blush crept up Connie's cheeks. “Well, that had always been our understanding. Matilda had indicated to me that when the time came . . . Such a generous lady! I suspect that, when she became ill, perhaps family members came to her assistance, and she found them to be in need. I didn't know she had family — the death notice mentions only very distant relatives — but however Matilda settled her affairs in the end, you can be sure she did it in a way that would do the most good. And we're getting along just fine here.”

“Was it fairly close to the time of her death that she intimated to you that she hoped to leave a bequest?”

The blush again. The poor woman must have thought it unseemly to have been hoping to inherit under the will. “It wasn't long before. Certainly in the year before her death. But, as I say, things change and people respond in the best way they can.”

“When was it that she died?”

“It was May, 1981.”

“You didn't contest the will, I take it.”

“Of course not! Good heavens! We're not family members, and we certainly didn't think it was any of our business to question Tilly's intentions.”

“No, no, I understand. You said something about the death notice; you don't happen to have a copy, do you? I mean, do you keep files relating to your volunteers?”

“Oh, yes, we keep records of their hours, little mementoes, honours they've received for their work, that sort of thing. We still have Tilly's. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. Would you like to see it?”

“Can't hurt.”

She disappeared into the office again and I heard the sound of papers, followed by the whirr of a photocopier. “There you go, Monty. Though I can't imagine how it will help you with Corey's case.”

“You're probably right,” I said, folding it carefully and slipping it into my jacket pocket. “I won't take up any more of your time, Connie. Thanks.”

So. The will that went missing from Dice Campbell's files had been changed in the year before Matilda's death in May 1981. Who got the money?

I could not say who got the money, but my files told me that the first zoning applications relating to the Bromley Point project were filed within three months of Mrs. Lonergan's death. And if Dice got the money, and put it into the project, it was worth a lot more now that it had been when he got his hands on it. Of course, it was the widow Mavis who would reap what Dice had sown when he went to work on poor old Tilly Lonergan. He could not, of course, have done anything so obvious, and open to challenge, as have the woman bequeath money to him directly. He could not have witnessed the will if he was a beneficiary. But I had little doubt that with a bit of digging I would discover someone or something — a corporate entity perhaps — with an obscure connection to Dice Campbell, and a sudden influx of cash in 1981.

†

“Is Ed still in?” I had scooted over to Johnson's office on Hollis Street late that afternoon.

The receptionist stole a glance at one of the secretaries who was standing nearby. “Well, he's in, but —”

“But what?” The look again.

“He's not feeling well.”

“So I'll take him up to the Grafton Street Clinic; I think he needs plenty of fluids.” I walked ahead to Johnson's office and knocked on his door.

“Get lost!”

I opened the door and went in. “Going to knock off soon? I thought we could have a steak at the Midtown or — Jesus! Are you all right?”

“No. Yes. I had a hard night. And morning. I crashed here at six a.m. or something. Fuck.” He was pale and shaky, head propped up on one hand while the other arm dangled down the side of his desk.

“You coming for a steak or not?”

“No, no! Maybe. It might be just what I need. A hair of the dog, you know how it goes.”

When we were seated in the tavern I asked him again if he was all right. “Have you been hitting the bottle harder than usual? Is there anything wrong?”

“Everything I touch turns to shit.”

“Like what?”

He waved a hand and picked up his beer with the other. “The Bar Society complaint. Clients pissing me off. Shit like that. I should just hang it up. Find something else to do with my life. Drink all day and sponge off Donna.”

“Listen. I want to ask you about Dice Campbell.”

“Why do you keep asking me about Campbell? You seem to think I was a Siamese twin with the guy, or something. I only saw him at a few —”

“You knew him. I didn't.”

“What about him?”

“Do you know if he ever set up any kind of corporation?”

“Why?”

“Never mind why. Just, did he?”

“No idea. How does this tie in with Leaman?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, what the hell —”

“I think there was a connection between the two of them, and
anything I can find out about Campbell may help me find the link.”

“My advice to you is: stop rooting around in all this old crap. Stick to the point, which is that Leaman killed himself and Scott, and you're going for the payoff. Forget Campbell.”

I shrugged. Johnson eventually returned to the subject of the client who had filed a complaint against him; he muttered darkly about that, and the other aggravations of running a legal practice, for the rest of the night.

It was drizzling when we left the Midtown; I slipped on the rain-slicked pavement and grabbed Johnson for support. We looked like a pair of Vaudeville drunks. My companion thundered at a passing cab, and it pulled over. Ed passed out beside me, and I had to shake him when we got to his condo. Staging had been set up along one wall of his building, and I wondered idly what it would be like to be part of a condominium when costly repairs were required Well, at least this building was being maintained, unlike the crumbling condos that my clients had slapped together. Who had sent me a warning about that? No, nobody. Drunken reasoning. I was losing brain cells at a rapid rate. That was the Colosseum postcard I was thinking about. I had thought somebody was making a point about ruins, but really it was a tip-off about Campbell and the Colosseum. “Ask,” the person had written. Well, I had done a lot of asking since then . . . Wait a minute! “Ask and it shall be given!” The same writing, done with a calligraphy pen. Warren Tulk's bookshop. It was Tulk who had sent the postcard. I realized Ed was mumbling something as he struggled from the car; he was telling me to pay the fare. I paid when I got home; the cabbie had to shake me awake when we pulled up to the house.