Woman Chased by Crows (41 page)

In Orwell's world, the taking of whiskey had a ceremonial character; there was form to be observed, a level of appreciation that went beyond the mere enjoyment of triple-distilled Irish spirits. It was (for the most part) reserved for those occasions worthy of a toast — a victory, a momentous development, the resolution of a complex problem — and since he considered the lifting of a glass an intimacy not to be wasted on people with whom he had no connection, most of the time he savoured such moments alone in his little cubbyhole office under the stairs. Tonight was different. He had company. A beautiful woman was touching her glass to his, looking deep into his eyes as she raised it to her lips, smiling broadly as she swallowed.

“I wish I'd been there,” said Orwell. He knew that he too was grinning.

“I started talking, and something took over,” said Diana.

“You were in the zone.”

“Even Georgie was impressed.”

“I'll bet that was the most fun he's had in a while.” Orwell lifted his glass again. “Proud of you,” he said.

“Thanks, Dad.” She knocked back the rest of her whiskey. “How's your fishlet?”

“Keeping a low profile, just as you suggested.” Orwell poured them each a second tot, added a like amount of water to his, contemplated for a moment the light from his desk lamp dancing in the amber. “Must be hard going back,” he said. “Tax law won't feel nearly as exciting.”

“I won't be going back.”

That turned his head. “This is news.”

“Well, I'll be going back for a while. Work out the separation agreement, as it were. Probably cost me a few bucks.” She had a sip, cocked her head to match her father's quizzical expression. “This feels right,” she said.

“What feels right?”

“Georgie says Rhem, Treganza and Swain need some fresh blood in the firm.”

“Since both Treganza and Swain are long gone to their rewards, it's probably time,” said Patty. Orwell's eldest filled the doorway. There wasn't room enough for three bodies inside the room. Nor was there a third chair.

“Hey, sweetie,” Orwell said. “Just in time. May I pour you a dram?”

“Would, but can't. Driving to Uxbridge later. Gary and I are looking at a new stud just arrived in the neighbourhood. Great bloodlines. Might be a good mix with Foxy. If the stud fee isn't too steep.”

He raised his glass again. “So, what do we drink to this time? New horizons?”

“How about the Dockerty Police Department's arrest of the
real
shooter?” Diana had a cheeky smirk on her face.

“Forgot to say ‘alleged' shooter,” said Leda. Patty had to turn sideways to let Leda squeeze into the doorway beside her.

For one perfect moment Orwell felt complete. His three daughters in front of him, all healthy and happy and fully engaged in their lives, a productive day behind him and, judging by the rich scents coming from the kitchen, a fine supper ahead of him. He lifted his glass a few inches higher. “I believe I'll thank a benign universe for this day, this moment, these three beautiful faces before me,” he said. He drained his glass.

“Amen,” Diana said.

“Very nice, Oldad,” said Leda. “I bring an invitation from the kitchen. Either come now or be banished to the outer darkness where there will be much weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

Wednesday, March 23

“There you are,” Anya said. “I thought you had moved on to greener pastures.” The cat was sitting on the fire escape, facing away from her, watching the pigeons on the roof of the Irish House. “Will you come in, or are you thinking about your breakfast?” One ear twitched. “Well, if you want to come in, knock like a gentleman.” And, on cue, there was a knock, but not on the window. “I am closed for the week,” she called out. “Until next Monday. Or maybe forever.”

“Anya. It's Dr. Ruth. It's Lorna.”

“I am all healed now. I do not need a doctor.”

“May I come in?”

Anya took her time opening the door. When she saw her visitor's face she stepped back. “Should you be out of the hospital?” Lorna was pulling off dark glasses and a headscarf revealing a bruise on the left side of her face and a bandage over her right ear.

“I apologize for just dropping by.”

Anya stepped back. “Please. Welcome to my studio. As you can see, I have no students.”

“That makes two of us. I've cancelled all my patients. May I sit? Please?”

“Yes, of course. I can make some tea.”

“No, I'm fine, maybe later.” She slumped onto the straight-backed chair and took a deep breath. “The stairs,” she said.

Anya sat on the couch opposite her. “That one looks fresh.”

Lorna touched her left cheek with a fingertip. “Yes. It is. After my husband, after they let him go . . . He didn't kill that detective. He had nothing to do with it. They locked him up for three days and he had nothing. . . . When he came back from the courthouse he . . . had a few things to say about what happened. About what I did. What trouble I got him into, what I did to us, to our marriage. Then he hit me.”

“Did you report it? No, of course you did not, you thought he was justified.”

“Something like that.”

“And now you cannot go home.”

“Later today. I stayed in my office last night. He's packing. Packing his things. Someone's coming with a truck. A friend. He's going to stay with a friend for a while, until he finds someplace. . . .” She pulled a wad of tissues out of her coat pocket. “I didn't know where to wait.”

“I am going to make some tea. And I am going to have a cigarette. Here I smoke when I feel like it. You take off your coat. Sit on the couch, it is marginally more comfortable. And I will not spill hot water on you if you are over there.”

She began to bustle efficiently around the studio, finding some relief in the movement, the small chores. She opened the window to admit the cat, turned on the
CD
player —
Ancient Airs and Dances
— took the kettle and the teapot down the hall to the washroom, filled the kettle with cold water, warmed the teapot from the hot water tap. When she returned she saw her guest huddled in the corner of the couch. The orange cat was sitting in her lap and she was gingerly stroking his head.

“What's his name?”

“I have no idea.” She plugged in the kettle. “Is he making you nervous?”

“A little. His ears are very chewed up.”

“Yes, it is the life of a back alley tomcat.”

“Scars on his head.”

“Just like the rest of us. They heal.” She put three Irish Breakfast tea bags in the pot.

They sat without speaking while the tea brewed and the music played and under it Anya distinctly heard the rasping purr of the big orange cat. She lit a cigarette. “I have never heard him purr before this.”

“That man, the tall detective, I keep thinking I got him killed.”

“When you have regained your equilibrium, you will of course realize that is nonsense. He was in this town to see me. So
I
got him killed. He was chasing a bad man, so perhaps that got him killed. There were two other nasty creatures from my past in town, so perhaps they killed him. And in all probability, once you deconstruct the elements of his life, probably he got himself killed. You know that as well as I do. It is hardly ever one thing, is it?”

“I didn't need much coaxing, to run off with him.”

“He was a charmer. Blue eyes, laugh lines and just the right number of freckles to be attractive, but not so many that it looked like an affliction.”

Lorna laughed. Not a big laugh, but a small note of amusement nonetheless. “Yes. Charmed the . . . socks off me in a hurry. Furthest thing from my mind when he walked in.”

The cat jumped to the floor and Lorna emitted a small sad sigh. “Aaw.”

“He never stays very long. He heard you laugh so he knows you'll be all right. But you may have some cat hair on your scarf.”

“Oh. Oh well, I don't mind. I felt . . . honoured by his attention.”

“Yes, cats have that power, do they not?” Anya reached over to touch the material, a cashmere/silk blend in autumn tones, rust and orange and deep red. “Hermés,” she said. “Very lovely. Is it new?”

“No. It isn't mine. I . . . I think my assistant left it in the office. I'll return it to her. I needed something to hide my head. I have this awful feeling that anyone who looks at me knows everything about me. All my sins, all my failings.”

“All the more reason to hold your head up and look them in the eye.”

“Interesting example of role reversal, don't you think? You helping me confront things? I suppose I'd better get used to dealing with it all.”

Anya opened the window for the cat. The sun was above the Irish House now. In the distance she heard a crow cawing like a maniac. “I have declared war on all crows!” she called out. “Be advised, I am sending my personal assassin after you. All of you. It is time to pay up.”

“Dockerty Police Arrest Murder Suspect.”

Sam Abrams had given them as laudatory a review as possible without losing all objectivity. Stacy's name was prominent. Adele (as per her request) wasn't identified. Further down the page, mention was made of the dismissal of charges related to Harold Ruth. Orwell was somewhat amused to note that Sam had mentioned Diana by name and even added an adjective, something his writing style rarely allowed: “capable”; not overly effusive, but telling nonetheless. Orwell's daughter had a fan. And for once, Gregg Lyman wasn't quoted.

“Chief? Mayor Bricknell on one.”

“Thank you, Dorrie. Madam Mayor, good morning.”

“Chief Brennan. You're sure you got the right one this time?”

“I might remind you that
we
didn't arrest Mr. Ruth. Something the newspaper article makes quite clear.”

“But this Kewell did it?”

“That will be for the court to decide, of course. However, we have the motive, the murder weapon and a signed statement from the accused, so I think we're on solid ground.”

“I'm pleased to hear it. Now, about your daughter defending criminals . . .”

“Once again, Mr. Ruth is decidedly
not
a criminal, nor is he under any suspicion. My daughter and Mr. Rhem saved the Crown a lot of time and embarrassment by getting the charges withdrawn.”

“Still, if she plans on doing any more of this, it could get sticky, don't you think?”

“Madam Mayor, my family is composed of staunch individualists who do pretty much what they feel like when it suits them. They won't stifle themselves because I have a public function, nor would I want them to.”

“There is that other matter,” she said. “Georgia Emery is threatening to file a civil suit against one of your constables.”

Orwell's bark scattered a few crumbs across Sam's byline. “Oho! I sincerely doubt the woman is that daft no matter how early in the day she starts imbibing, but I hope she does. I really do. Constable Maitland will be only too happy to give detailed testimony of his encounter with Mrs. Emery on her front porch at 3 a.m., responding to a call from Doris Whiffen, the Emerys' next door neighbour, who was awakened by loud voices and the smashing of glass and furniture. We will also need the testimony of Mr. and Mrs. Darley Conrad, her neighbours on the other side, who, and I have the reports before me . . .” He had no such reports. He brushed a few crumbs off his newspaper for sound effects. “. . . have complained on no fewer than five separate occasions about what they were sure was a homicide in progress.”

“That probably won't be necessary, Chief Brennan.”

“I'm sure it won't, Mayor Bricknell. I mention it only so you will have ammunition the next time one of the Anointed ruins your morning. You might also remind those folks that Constable Maitland was one of the officers who apprehended the young man who stole Mrs. Avery Douglas's pearl necklace last year. The fact that the thief's name was also Douglas was treated with great discretion at the time, you may recall, which I'm sure Mrs. Douglas appreciated, although it might come out at any hearing I'm forced to convene regarding the conduct of one of my constables.”

“Why do you think Lyman is coming after you?”

“Your administration doesn't have many weak spots. You run a tight ship and the people in town know it. But if he can smear the
DPD
, some of it's bound to get on you. Do yourself a favour. Don't stand beside me when you have your picture taken.”

“Don't you think we're letting him get the upper hand?”

“I don't have to run for reelection, Mayor. I just get hired and fired.”

“
I
hired you.”

“I wasn't your first choice.”

“Nevertheless.”

“You could fire me. Show the town you're the woman in charge.”

“I
am
the woman in charge. And despite our differences, Orwell, despite the fact that you can be insufferably smug and rude, on the whole I think you have been an asset to Dockerty.”

“Thank you, Donna Lee. And while we're being so civil and supportive, may I say that you are a fine mayor.”

“Might I suggest then, that until the election is over, and without overdoing it, we present a somewhat . . .
united
front?”

Anya was locking her studio door when she saw the two detectives coming down the hall. They looked fierce.

“I was just about to go home,” she said.

“We won't keep you more than a minute. Detective Moen has something she'd like you to look at.”

“Of course.” She unlocked the door and swung it open. “I suppose you had better come inside.”

“Have you ever seen this man before?” Adele handed her the picture.

She had a quick look, handed it back. “You know I have.”

Adele forced her to take it again. “Not him, the
other
man.”

Anya studied the photograph. A sad little smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “He gave Ludi's sapphire to his wife? How sweet.”

“The man,” Adele reminded her.

“A dangerous man, yes?”

“What makes you think that?”

Anya shook her head. “Because my dears, you are being so very careful. You tippy-toe like sugar-plum fairies. You are both police, and this man too is police, but you do not want to ask him to his face.”

“He
was
a policeman. Now he's a politician.”

“Now he is a politician. How fitting.” She crossed the room and turned to face them, looking from one to the other. “And you are
still
being circumspect.” She sat without taking off her coat. “Sit, if you like.”

“We're fine.”

“All right.” She rummaged in her pocket for cigarettes and her lighter. “Remember when I said there was someone else?”

“You didn't say who,” said Stacy.

She lit a smoke and took a deep drag. “Once, many years ago,” she began, “an uncle of mine complained to the chief of police in our town, that one of his men was abusing his position, helping himself to food, extracting protection money, forcing his attentions on certain women. My uncle Boris went to the police station to make his complaint and we did not see him again for five years. It is a lengthy process, I think, accusing someone with power.”