“Detective Sergeant Young,” he said, flashing his badge. “Metro Toronto Homicide. Are you Myrtle Sweet?”
“Yes, I am. What do you want?”
“My partner, Detective Lynn Wheeler, was out here Sunday, and you answered some questions for her.”
“I was happy to be of assistance. Delbert’s death has been a terrible blow to all of us, but especially to Mr. Rogers.”
“I was hoping I might be able to speak to Mr. Rogers.”
“I’m sorry, he’s in very delicate health, as I explained to Detective Wheeler, and I simply can’t allow it.”
Young nodded. “You sent along a videotape of the meeting—”
“Mr. Rogers instructed me to do so, yes, sir.”
“—that was very interesting to watch, but I’m not sure what—”
A banging sound started up, a sound familiar to Young—trowel on metal. Myrtle seemed unaware of it and continued to look at Young.
Young said, “I think your boss wants you.”
The polite smile on Myrtle’s face froze into a hard line. “Wait here,” she said.
Young studied the hallway while he waited. Several pairs of men’s sneakers on the shoe tray. He stuck his head into the living room. Gloomy portraits of old people. Knick-knacks on the mantelpiece.
Myrtle returned. Her face was a mask of courtesy. “Mr. Rogers would like to speak to you. Follow me.”
Morley Rogers was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit on a saucer in front of him. “Look at the size of you,” he said, as Young entered the room. “You’re big as a house.”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Rogers.”
“Nonsense,” the old man said. “Creates a diversion in an otherwise uneventful life.” He coughed into his hand. “There’s not a whole lot I’m still capable of doing”—he glanced at Myrtle, who was standing in the doorway—“but I can still talk. Now what can I do you for?”
Myrtle said, “Sir, I really wish you wouldn’t—”
“Go away, my beauty,” Morley Rogers said, waving a limp hand in her direction. “I’m fine, and anyway what difference does it make if I die here or in my bed, today or a year from today? What difference, God bless? Now go away and leave the men to talk.”
When they were alone, Morley said, “She says your name’s Young. That right?”
“That’s right.”
“You get that movie I sent you?”
“I did, yes. I watched it yesterday with my partner.”
“What did you think?”
Young shrugged. “There seems to be a lot of interest in your property. And seeing Shorty like that only two weeks before he died—”
“Before he was murdered, you mean.”
Young nodded. “I knew Shorty. We weren’t close, but I considered him a friend. My daughter worked for him for five years.”
“Delbert was a not bad sort at one time, a sweet boy, really, but mischievous. Then, as young man, he got himself in with the wrong crowd.” The old man shook his head. “I blame him for the heart attack that killed my brother.”
“Why did you want us to watch the videotape?”
Morley Rogers looked up at Young. “Isn’t it obvious? Whoever killed Delbert’s coming after me next.”
Young frowned. “To be honest with you, Mr. Rogers, the only person on the tape who seemed hostile towards Shorty was you.”
The old man grunted. “I can imagine how it must have appeared, but what you need to understand is that Delbert was my only living relative. With him dead there’s no one to inherit my property when I die. Or so the general public believes. Eventually it would be sold at auction to the highest bidder. My decision not to sell the land might have prompted one of the people at the meeting to kill my nephew. I think Delbert’s killer is on the film, and I think I’m next to go.”
Young considered, then said, “I was told this meeting of yours was top secret and by invitation only. If that’s the case, why was Shorty there? From what I could tell watching the video, you had no use for him, and all he wanted to do was squeeze you for money. So how did he get invited?”
Morley Rogers said, “He wasn’t invited, he just showed up. I was as shocked to see him as anyone. He must have heard about the meeting from one of those other vultures, Khan or that Buckley fool.”
“Do you have a will, Mr. Rogers?”
The old man narrowed his eyes. “How does that concern you?”
“Would it be possible for me to see it?”
Myrtle Sweet bustled into the kitchen, saying, “I think that’s enough talk for now, don’t you, sir?”
Morley Rogers began to cough. Myrtle helped him to his feet, clucking at him. “I asked you not to overdo it, sir.”
Young stood up, too. “I just have a couple more questions.”
“Another time, perhaps,” said Myrtle.
As she and the old man shuffled off down the hall, Young said, “Thank you for talking to me, sir.”
The old man waved feebly. “Mustn’t keep a lady waiting.”
Young listened to their slow ascension of the stairs. He scanned the kitchen. He opened the fridge door and looked in. Milk, juice, eggs. A brick of cheese. A package of bologna. Ketchup. Mustard. A jar of pickles.
A six-pack of Red Stripe.
Young was standing in the front hall when Myrtle came back down the stairs. He had a flashback to the Raquel Welch cavewoman poster he’d had on the wall of his college dorm. “I’m sorry to cut short your conversation, Detective,” Myrtle said, “but you saw for yourself he’s in delicate health.”
“You weren’t listening in, were you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your timing was interesting, that’s all.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m going to have to talk to him again, you know.”
“If you’ll leave your number, I’ll call you when he’s stronger.”
“This is a murder investigation. It’s important we move quickly.”
“I said I’ll let you know.”
Young opened the screen door and stepped onto the verandah. Myrtle began to close the inside door behind him.
Young turned to her. “Our business is just starting,” he said quietly.
Her eyes widened. “What did you say?”
“You’re in his will, aren’t you?”
She closed the door. Young started down the steps towards his minivan. He heard the door open again. He turned and looked at her. She had pushed open the screen door as well, and was framed by the doorway. “Be careful what you say to me,” she said.
Young smiled. “It’s okay,” he said. “I know what kind of woman you are.”
She pointed a shaking finger at him. “I’m warning you. Nobody talks to me like that.”
At 4:00 p.m., Young sat down on a bar stool at