Blue Moon (40 page)

Staff Sergeant Jim Willis said Mrs. McLean's daughter in Deep River, Ontario, has emphatically denied the claims that her mother is the notorious murderer.

Hamilton Spectator, March 20, 1987

BINBROOK—Ethela McLean spent the last part of her life in the ghost of Evelyn Dick, the only woman ever sentenced to hang in Wentworth County.

Mrs. McLean, 73, died this week of apparent asphyxiation with her live-in companion Lino (Leo) Bartollotti, 75, in a small, run-down house on Hall Road, finally escaping the long-held suspicion she was Mrs. Dick.

“She never had the opportunity to deny it [the rumour]. No one ever came up and said, 'You're Evelyn Dick,' said Evelyn McCormack, a neighbour who lived across the street when the couple moved into the shack in 1964. “It never bothered me because I never believed it,” she said. In the three times she met Mrs. McLean, Mrs. McCormack said the woman was always nice
but was self-conscious because of her live-in relationship with Mr. Bartollotti. If she seemed to others to be hiding some dark secret, it was probably her discomfort that she wasn't married to the man she lived with, said Mrs. Me Cor mack.

“A lot of people wanted to believe it was her, but it wasn't. There was never any reason to really suspect she was,” said Margaret Garden, another neighbour.

The silence, coupled with certain similarities between the two women, kept the rumours alive. Although Evelyn Dick was slightly shorter than Mrs. McLean who was 5' 6”, the two women were relatively small, attractive and looked about the same age, although Mrs. McLean was six years older.

Mrs. McLean appeared in the remote area of Binbrook two years after Evelyn Dick was released on parole. Patricia Carver, Mrs. McLean's only child from a broken marriage, who has lived in Deep River near Ottawa with her husband since 1965, cannot understand why anyone would mistake her mother for Mrs. Dick.

Hamilton Spectator, March 28, 1987

Evelyn Dick has spent the last 35 years trying to convince people that she isn't Evelyn Dick. Not that Evelyn Dick, at least.

Ever since she arrived in Hamilton from Scotland in 1952, the mention of her name has evoked a mixture of shock, surprise and embarrassment.

Her first experience came when she walked into the unemployment office in Hamilton to look for a job.

Born in 1934, she was only 18 at the time, spoke with a noticeable brogue and hadn't even heard of the other Evelyn Dick who had caused such a fuss in the Steel City six years earlier.

But it didn't take long for the word to spread, and soon workers were sliding up towards the front desk to get a look at her.

It didn't seem to matter that the real Evelyn Dick was securely locked away at the Women's Prison in Kingston at the time.

Her latest encounter with the other Evelyn Dick came 10 days
ago after the
Spectator
carried a story about an elderly woman who died in a house fire in Binbrook

A few days later, the Mrs. Dick who lives in Hamilton and has her name listed in the phone book, was centred out again—when she went for a drink at the local Legion hall. The master of ceremonies pointed to her table and happily announced that rumours of her death had been greatly exaggerated.

Mrs. Dick, who is single and has three grown children, has learned to take all this frivolity in good humour and wouldn't think of changing her name. “Most people don't mean any harm and if they only thought about it for a minute, they'd realize it couldn't be me. The real Evelyn Dick wouldn't be using her own name and she probably would steer clear of the city,” she said.

According to former prison warden, Janet White, Mrs. Dick had no connection with her family or anybody from Hamilton during her 11 years in prison.

Even if she returned to Hamilton tomorrow, she probably wouldn't look anything like she did when she was so prominently in the spotlight 40 years ago. But all this won't prevent stories about the real Mrs. Dick from popping up again, from time to time, as they have done for the last 30 years.

According to unconfirmed reports she has worked as a clerk at Eastgate Mall, was a waitress at Gulliver's Restaurant a few years ago, sold perfume at Eaton's and even underwent a period of shock therapy at Hamilton General Hospital. Last year, a local cabby told a
Spectator
reporter he knew Mrs. Dick well and drove her to Bingo games every Wednesday night.

Even if she appeared in person, Evelyn Dick might have trouble living up to her stories, so deeply etched is she in the psyche of this city.

Hamilton Spectator, October 5, 1991

The latest addition to the Evelyn Dick story centres around one Howard Gower, now 66. This episode begins late in 1948 at a watering hole called Basil's onYonge Street in Toronto.

Gower is a man of property now. But back then he was an apprentice electrician. On that night, he was enjoying the beer and the company of a couple of pals.

They were undercover cops and they knew some inside stuff on the Dick case. Evelyn was in jail, but there was supposed to be a stash of money on the outside.

Maybe $ 100,000—a fortune then. Those guys in the bar figured they knew exactly where it was.

Beer in their bellies, they set off for Harriston, straight south of Owen Sound. On a private little lake there, Evelyn Dick had a cottage.

The boys arrived about 5 a.m. They had sobered up by then and found no treasure. But they did discover a For Sale sign—Evelyn wasn't making any mortgage payments from Kingston.

Gower loved the looks of the place, especially the lake. The Indians called it Spirit Lake. White settlers called it Ghost Lake. It's nearly a half-mile long.

Gower had money, because his father had died. He bought Evelyn's lake and cottage for $2,500.

Not long after, some thugs paid him a visit. They told him to get lost, because they wanted to look around for a while. Gower had a shotgun handy. He waved it at them and they left.

They did return one day when he was out—he doesn't think they found anything.

One fine day around 1965 or so, a blonde arrived at Gower's door. Red shorts, halter top, hair right down her back. She had arrived in a black Olds, but the driver stayed in the car.

She told Gower he had a beautiful spot and asked if she could take a little wander. Sure thing, he said.

Then he realized that under all that blond hair, Evelyn Dick had returned. “I shadowed her all over the place. I don't think she knew I was watching/' In the intervening years since she had vacationed there, Gower had built a house on top of the hill. “I'd bulldozed all over the place. It probably drove her nuts.”

The clipping about Gower is of no consequence. Perhaps some
strange peroxide blonde did show up at his cottage and, from that, he spun his far-fetched yarn. The Evelyn Dick from Scotland seems to have weathered the confusion of names exceedingly well—seems a rather plucky sort of person.

I wish I could detach myself as easily from what happened to poor Ethela McLean. I can well imagine the many cruelties to which she was subjected—the funny looks, the whispers just as she turned her back. She suffered because of me (because she supposedly looked like me and because her name was similar to my maiden one), and now she is dead. I can do nothing to compensate her for the slings and arrows hurled at her.

I've been back in Ontario for almost ten years and have yet to visit Hamilton. No real pull to do so. And yet I've become increasingly fascinated by the prospect of seeing myself on stage.
How Could You, Mrs. Dick?
was first staged in my home town in 1989. The reviews of that version and the revival in the
Globe
and
Star
indicate I am treated fairly by Douglas Rodger, that the play implies not only that there may be many extenuating circumstances but also that I may be completely innocent of both homicides. I take comfort in that, but I'm also wondering what it would be like to see an actress playing me? Would I learn anything new about myself? I've been trying to banish this temptation but realize I am on the verge of giving in.

Part of me must be attracted to the danger. But what if Elizabeth Delamere is recognized and someone then figures out the relationship between her and Evelyn Dick? Or what if someone from my past sees and knows me? The risk may be negligible, but it is real. For two days, I can think of little else, am unable to write. Finally, I decide on an experiment. I shall go to Creed's and purchase black slacks and a cream blouse to accompany them. Elizabeth Delamere avoids trousers and has certainly never been photographed in them. Then, I'll buy one of those rinses, one that is easily washed away, at the pharmacy downstairs in my building. If I put a medium blond through my hair and pull it up, I'll be able to alter my public persona. With that adjustment, unusual costuming and perhaps a new lipstick colour—a florid orange that
Elizabeth Delamere would shun I'll look like a new woman. Not like the well-known novelist. Whatever I do, I must be careful to blend in.

As a young woman, I “imitated” various sirens Hayworth, Lamour, Grable; in middle age, I assumed a Katharine Hepburn no-nonsense guise; as an older woman, I do not much care what I look like. I must strive to resemble the role fate has assigned me.

When I telephone the Tivoli, they tell me I need not reserve a ticket. Just come along. I'm driving in from Toronto I inform the polite young man, and I don't wish to be turned away. No problem. Attendance has been brisk, but there are always at least fifty empty seats for each performance.

So I steel myself for this venture. I'll take a taxi down to the Elizabeth Street station, catch the GO bus, and then walk the two blocks from the station to the theatre. When I arrive, the city will be cloaked in early evening dusk. There will be little more than a hour before the performance begins, and, at its conclusion, I'll retreat quickly under the cover of darkness back to the station. Should be back home just before midnight.

The bus is more crowded than I anticipated. I realize I am travelling at the tail end of the rush hour. A dozen or so harried executives. A handful of McMaster students. Some professor-looking types. A huge assortment of the working poor, most of the males wearing baseball caps.

The entire highway is bordered by industrial parks. The journey through this nondescript semi-industrial landscape is mildly ugly, monumentally boring. Just as we reach the outer confines of Hamilton, the bay, accompanied by majestic woods and trees, comes into view. According to some, the most beautiful entry into any city in Canada. But first impressions are deceptive. On the other side of the bay, the steel mills pour their pollution into the water, huge tongues of flame lick the night sky.

The journey takes less than an hour. I've been so near and yet have kept myself so far away. As I alight from the bus, I realize it's been almost forty-five years since I've been here. How different will things look? Will I know my way around?

The bus station has not changed that much, neither have the once familiar buildings. Never in wonderful condition, they simply have been allowed to grow old gracelessly.

In my mind's eye, Hamilton is rendered in a medley of blacks and greys. Tonight, in the darkness, fantasy and reality are identical. Of course, if I had chosen to return in daylight, things might be different. Yet darkness gives an almost romantic glow to the ugliness of the inner core.

Despite the comfort of darkness, I am reminded all over again of the vast gulf between Hamilton and Toronto, of how the city has never really matured because of the looming, nearby presence of the metropolis. When I lived in Hamilton, there were two readily visible contrasting classes: the rich and the immigrant poor. The wealthy mined the city, in the process caring little about it. Toronto and its shops, galleries and theatres were a short drive away. Instantly, I feel not much has changed in this regard.

The Tivoli survives shabbily. The marquee needs repairing, and the ancient three-storied building into which the theatre was inserted in the thirties is lopsided. The Tivoli now exists as an old lady who, having gone on a binge, has ended up topsy-turvy. Once a movie palace, the Tivoli has been converted into a venue for live performances, an attempt by Sam Sniderman, the new owner, to inject energy into the city's blocked cultural arteries. The next-door Sam the Record Man store is, like its Toronto cousin, tawdry but welcoming. The nearby buildings on the street—a vast pawnbroking shop, a hair salon, a travel agency—have seen much better days.

Thankfully, I don't have too much time to wander about. I think of taking the ten-minute walk up James to the Henson Apartments but decide against doing so. I wander into the shopping centre, Jackson Square, a collection of mid-priced franchises, and then into Eaton's, which is adjacent. The last time I was in Hamilton, the city hall stood in this very space. In contrast to Toronto, the shoppers are badly dressed, have no flair or individuality in how they present themselves to the world.

At quarter to eight, I arrive back at the Tivoli. Only then do I remember that the old Opera House once occupied the space next to the Tivoli; the space has been taken over by a shabby little strip mall. Strange I didn't recall that at first. I enter the theatre and make my way to my seat. The proscenium is completely exposed with only a door at the back to allow the actors to enter and exit. I behold again the inverted spider-like chandeliers, the statues of Caesar Augustus and Minerva
flanking the stage, the wall medallions of Mozart, Liszt, Beethoven, and Tchaikovsky. I remember what has vanished: the private boxes, wooden pillars, brass railings, sumptuous lobby with stained glass, and the long, mirrored hallway that took one from the box office into the theatre itself. The auditorium begins to fill up rapidly and, as I look around, I see young people, perhaps high school students, who have come to learn about the life history of their city's most nefarious criminal.