Wheeler said, “May I?”
Summer Caldwell passed her the photographs. “Thirty years ago,” she said, her voice deeper and raspier now, a smoker’s voice, “Thomas made it clear as a condition of our marriage that there would be no children, but he does allow me to sponsor.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Wheeler passed the photos back, and Summer Caldwell replaced them in her purse. “It was a terrible shock when we heard about Delbert.”
“You knew him as Delbert?”
“Well, yes. Of course, I knew that everyone else called him Shorty, but it just seemed so common.” Summer Caldwell touched her hair. Her fingernails were long and lacquered. “We both grew up out here. We attended the same elementary school. Then when my parents sent me off to private school in Toronto, I lost track of him until I heard he was training racehorses.”
“Do you and your husband own racehorses, Mrs. Caldwell?”
She laughed. “No, my dear. Thomas wouldn’t dream of doing anything so ... I don’t know, so ... frivolous. He’s a financial advisor, don’t forget. And an accountant!”
“So far as you know, did Delbert have any enemies?”
Summer Caldwell paused. She studied the platter of little sandwiches. “I know he drank,” she said, “and I suspect he gambled. If the two took place simultaneously, it’s possible that he ended up owing someone a lot of money.”
“Are you just speculating, or do you know something definite?”
“Pure speculation, my dear.” She selected a sandwich and held it with her fingertips, as a child might hold an insect.
Wheeler consulted her notes. “Mrs. Caldwell, what can you tell me about Myrtle Sweet?”
For a moment, Summer Caldwell continued to study the sandwich. Then she turned to Wheeler and, with appetite, said, “Oh, she’s quite the scandal!”
“What do you mean?”
“Poor old Morley. He advertised for a housekeeper, and when she showed up for an interview, I’m sure the both of them began to drool. She’s very voluptuous, you know, in an Ava Gardner sort of way. And despite his religious, God-fearing exterior, Morley’s a horny old goat. And I should know, for hasn’t he pinched my bottom on more than one occasion! And when that Sweet woman saw how old and feeble he was, she must have thought she’d died and gone to heaven. As well, he was living alone. It didn’t take her long, I’m sure, to claw her way into his affections, and now I’m just concerned that she’s sinking her teeth into his fortune. I’ll bet my Mercedes his will has suffered a codicil or two since her arrival! They’re common people, the Rogerses, common as mud, and they’re not the brightest people in the world, either, but Morley has been squirreling away money for years, and when he sells his acreage, he’ll be very well off indeed.”
“Does she—”
“And those two young men she has working for her, well, I’m sure I just don’t know what to think of them.”
“You mean Eric and Kevin Favors?”
Summer Caldwell put down her sandwich. “My word, you’ve done your homework, haven’t you? I didn’t know their last name.”
“Technically speaking, don’t they work for Morley Rogers?”
“Well, yes, I suppose they do, but my guess is she runs the show. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all. What do you mean you don’t know what to think of them?”
“Well, to begin with, they’re black, which is almost unheard of in this community.”
Wheeler nodded, waiting.
“And they’re twins. Identical. Until that meeting at Morley’s house, I thought there was only one—I used to see her with one of them at the Caledon Hills Mall—then lo and behold, there were two of them at the meeting. I thought I was seeing double. I thought I’d had one too many martinis!” She leaned conspiratorially towards Wheeler. “And I’m positive there’s something going on.”
“What sort of thing?”
“You know.” She nodded meaningfully.
“Something ... sexual?”
Summer Caldwell held the flame of her gold lighter to the end of a cigarette as long as a drinking straw. “Exactly.”
“How do you know?”
“That evening at Morley’s. The air was positively charged with sexual energy. I could feel it. I’m very good at sensing these things, and I kept searching the room to find out who was involved. And then I discovered eye contact between Myrtle Sweet and one of the twins.”
“Which one?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, my dear, I can’t tell them apart!”
Wednesday, June 14
By the time he went to bed Tuesday night, Young’s stomach ache had an evil grip on his guts. It was different this time. This time it wasn’t going away.
Earlier in the evening, as he’d watched television, he had deliberately laid off the cheesies and Jack Daniel’s. He had drunk milk instead. Still, as he lowered himself into his bed, he knew the demon in his belly was making itself comfortable.
Despite the pain, he was so tired he slept heavily, but as soon as he woke up in the morning he was in agony. He let Reg out, fed her, showered, shaved, dressed himself, skipped his Grape-Nuts, downed six ounces of Pepto-Bismol, and left for work. By the time he reached the end of his street, he was folded over the steering wheel. He could turn right and go to work or turn left and drive himself to East General Hospital. He sat there at the stop sign for so long that the driver of a car behind him honked his horn.
He turned left.
In the emergency ward at East General Hospital, he explained his problem to a receptionist; she asked for his health card and told him to take a seat. Eventually, a doctor whose name sounded to Young like Wallawallabingbang led him into a curtained cubicle, and Young repeated what he had told the nurse: that he had been suffering from a series of stomach aches—one a week for the last three weeks—but he couldn’t seem to shake this one. When the doctor, a small man with thick glasses, asked Young to lie down on his back, Young had to bite his lip against the pain. And when the doctor probed the lower right section of Young’s abdomen with the four fingers of his right hand rigid as a board, Young screamed and almost came off the table.
An hour later, after x-rays had been taken, Young was told he would be number five on the emergency operation list and that he should phone his place of employment and tell them he was going to be off work for at least a week, probably two.
“But I can’t miss work,” Young explained.
“Why not?” asked the doctor.
“I’m a detective. I’m working a murder case. I’m—”
“Does your appendix know you are a detective? I don’t think so. Your appendix does not care two hoots if you are a detective.”
Early that afternoon, Staff Inspector Bateman assembled Young’s team in the conference room and told them the news. For a moment there was quiet, then he said, “I talked to the hospital a few minutes ago, and the prognosis is Camp will be gone at least a week, maybe two. I’ll let you know when he’s ready for visitors.” He turned to Wheeler. “Meanwhile, Lynn, you’re acting leader of the team.”
Wheeler looked around the table and said, “Okay, everyone, you all know your assignments. Tony, have you made any progress with Richard Ludlow?”
“Tomorrow.