Blood & Groom - sample #3

Continued from 2 previous posts...

If there was such a thing as a down-to-earth blueblood,

then Rebecca Blackmore was it. Think Noxzema girl meets

Dolce and Gabbana. Contrary to the outdoorsy, all-natural

glow, she was the cosmetics manager at Chadwick’s, an

über-snooty fashionista store where I couldn’t even afford

to window-shop. I felt completely inadequate in my

Birkenstocks and jean jacket, but the early spring warmth

had inspired me to ditch my full-length mink.

“Rebecca?”

The glass doll looked up from the counter. “Yes,

what may I do for you?” Although she was speaking at a

normal volume, her voice unrolled in a melodic whisper.

“I’m Sasha Jackson. Can I chat with you for a

moment?”

“Certainly. Are you interested in a makeover? I can

book you an appointment.”

Didn’t my cheeks already have a healthy glow?

“Actually, this might be best in private. It’s about your

cousin, Gordon. Do you have a break soon? Maybe we

can have a coffee?”

“It’s quiet right now. Amanda can keep an eye on

things. Let me get my purse and I’ll meet you at the coffee

shop in the food court.”

I had grabbed a seat at the quietest table I could find.

When Rebecca joined me, she gracefully crossed her legs

and sat so perfectly postured she looked like an entrant

in a dressage competition.

She spoke very slowly. “Yes, Gordon and I were very

close. We’re three months apart. What do you want to know

about him?” She sniffed and brushed the tip of her nose. I

offered to get her some tissue, but she said no thanks.

“My allergies seem to be acting up,” she said.

I launched into an impromptu spiel. “I’m a

psychology grad student at the University of Toronto.

I’m looking at the long-term effects of violent deaths on

the mourners.”

I had honed my ad-libbing skills during my rocker

chick band days. Nothing was more embarrassing than

forgetting the lyrics to someone else’s top-ten song.

There was also nothing less satisfying than playing other

people’s hits to rooms full of drunk guys who wanted to

hit on you because they thought you made eye contact

with them during that romantic/sexy song at last call.

When it came to bullshit, I had the market cornered.

Rebecca took a dainty sip of her latte, and I tried to

picture her hurling a drink in Christine’s face the night

before. It didn’t compute. This was a classy chick, and if

not exactly congenial, she was certainly cordial. Drink

tossing seemed beneath her.

“Well, it’s really hard when death is sudden like

that.”

Her soft voiced cracked a bit, but there was no

way this model of privileged decorum would have an

emotional meltdown in public. She took another tiny sip

and carried on.

“You never expect a murder to happen to someone

in your own family.” She paused for a moment as if

lost in a fuzzy old memory. “It’s supposed to be some

nameless face in the newspaper. But then suddenly your

world explodes and you have this never-ending hole. You

feel suspended. You never get to say goodbye.”

“I suddenly lost someone, too, and I understand

how hard it can be. Maybe that’s why this field of study

appeals to me. It’s a kind of closure in a way.”

God strike me down for telling that whopper. I felt

uneasy about telling such a creepy lie, and the superstitious

side of me felt paranoid now for having tempted fate. I

made a mental note to call Dad later today.

Rebecca continued. “I think my mom had given up

hope on having a second child. Mind you, she was only

thirty-three, but my brother, Darren, was already eight

years old, and they wanted to give him a little brother or

sister to grow up with.” She paused for another sip, and

I waited for her to continue.

“By that time, no one expected my Aunt Maureen —

she’s my mother’s older sister — well, no one expected

Aunt Maureen to have a child, either.” Rebecca sniffed

and brushed her nose again. “But then, surprise, both

sisters were pregnant at the same time. Aunt Maureen was

thirty-nine when she had Gordon, and my mom had me

three months later. Gordon and I were inseparable from

day one. We were in the same classes from kindergarten

right through high school. Darren is so much older than

I that I’ve always felt Gordon was more like my brother

than Darren.”

Rebecca’s cell phone twittered to life. She glanced

at the call display. “It’s the store. Just give me a moment

please.” She went off to one side of the food court and

then stepped out of view.

Okey-dokey. I had twenty seconds, max. I dug right

into her purse. Even though the topic of our discussion

was sad, Rebecca had shown no signs of tears. That

sniffling and twitchy nose had me and my suspicious

nature wondering about drugs. Cocaine was and always

had been the preferred recreational escape among people

with the money to indulge in it.

Keys, Percocet, condoms, breath mints, sunglasses,

OxyContin, tissues, Paxil, Percocet, nail file, lipstick,

lip balm, Vicodin, and wallet. I flipped open the wallet.

Forty dollars. Some business cards, miscellaneous

memberships, and the usual plastic. Well, the mood-altering

prescription narcotics certainly explained the

stoned Mona Lisa serenity.

Not willing to press my luck any further, I closed the

bag, but not before lifting her wallet and sticking it in my

pocket. I was the picture of innocence when she returned

to our table a moment later.

“Sorry about that. I’ll have to go in a minute. One of

our distributors is on her way, and she has samples of the

new summer colours. Anyway, where were we?”

“Gordon’s murder must have been hard to deal

with.” I had all the finesse of a jackhammer.

“It was twice as hard because Christine got away

with it.” Nose twitch and sniffle number five.

“Why do you think she was the killer? I understand

the police questioned her and checked her alibi. They

never charged her.”

Rebecca sprinkled a bit of cinnamon on her java, then

absently swirled the stir stick in the foamy beverage and

watched the powdery grains disappear. “She’s slippery.

Christine would never pull the trigger, but I believe she

pulled the strings. It would be darn hard to convince me

of anything else.”

“What would her motive be?”

“Revenge, because Gordon broke off their

engagement.” Another pause. “Thank goodness he

did. He was too good for her. I never liked her, and she

knows it.”

 “So you convinced him to end it?”

“Yes. Gordon and I had a heck of a fight about it. I’d

also fought with Christine about their relationship. She

treated him like dirt. I told her I’d stop the wedding one

way or another.”

“Then Christine knows he called it off because of

you?”

“Absolutely. She mailed me a sample of the invitation

a couple of days earlier. I know this was catty, and I

shouldn’t have done it, but after they broke up, I wrote ‘I

told you so, now go to hell’ on the invitation and mailed

it back to her.”

“Not to be crass, but that seems more like a motive

for her to kill you, not Gordon. What does your brother

think?”

“Darren and I haven’t really talked about it much.

My family’s very much the British-stiff-upper-lip kind.

We don’t discuss emotions or unseemly topics. It just

isn’t done.”

“I see.” Right, a murdered relative was so unseemly.

Whatever would people think? “Well, were Gordon and

Darren close?”

“Darren and Gordon were good friends once they

became adults. They skied together and went to the club

sometimes. They weren’t as close as Gordon and I were,

but they were solid. With eight years between them, it

took a long time for them to be on the same footing, if

you understand what I mean. They had little in common

as a ten-year-old and an eighteen-year-old. The difference

was less significant once they were in their twenties and

thirties, all grown up as they say. And, of course, they

worked together, too.”

“What kind of work did they do?”

“They played the stock market, financial planning

and investments, that kind of thing. Darren still handles

all the portfolios for their clients.”

“Would you mind if I talked with Darren?”

“Of course not.”

“What’s the best way to reach him?”

“If you give it half an hour, you can find him at

Pockets. It’s a billiard club at Spadina and Wellington.

He plays there every afternoon from about two till four

or five. He calls the place his second office.”

The broker with the pool cue in the billiard hall?

What next? Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with

the candlestick? If Darren went there every day, his

business had to either be doing exceptionally well or

exceptionally poorly.

“I guess I’m headed there next. Thank you. And

I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry for your

loss.”

“Thank you. Would you like to come to Chadwick’s

and see the new summer line? The distributor always

brings several testers and demo products.”

“Nah. I’ll finish my coffee and then head down to

Pockets.” But not till I’d emptied and filled my own

pockets.

On my mark, get set, go. 

I ran a block down the street to an

office supplies store and copied the contents of Rebecca’s

wallet. I placed all the business cards, receipts, dry-cleaning

slips — everything — face down on the photocopier. Then

I did the same with the credit cards and ID.

I might burn in hell some day, but I’d have an

interesting time on my journey there.

A few minutes later warm black-and-white copies

were stuffed in my pocket, and the wallet looked just as

it had when I’d pilfered it. I detoured by the shop and

told Rebecca she must have dropped it.

“Why, thank you. I never even noticed.”

That was the point.

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