Dan played it through twice. There was nothing personal in the communication, no inquiry into his well-being, though that wasn’t unusual for Bill. He wondered what Bill had in mind when he’d offered his help. As much as Dan disliked the presumption that he’d show up on — he glanced at the clock — two hours’ notice, he was already scrambling through his office organizer to free up his schedule.
He rebooked his first meeting then emailed Sally with the rest of his appointments, asking her to make sure they were followed up. As usual, there was no answer on Bill’s cell. Dan left a message to say he’d do whatever he could for the Killingworths then picked up the phone and dialled the number for the Picton OPP. Saylor took his call.
“Detective Constable Saylor here.”
“Hey, Pete — Dan Sharp.”
The surprise in Saylor’s voice was audible. “Don’t tell me. It just occurred to you how brilliant my theory was and you’ve called to tell me so.”
“Bang on,” Dan said.
“And other than that?”
“I was just wondering. How much have you told the Killingworths about the investigation?”
Saylor hesitated. “Only that the death was considered suspicious.”
“Any personal details?”
“You mean the pregnancy? No — I spared them that. Remember, she’s not their family.”
“Then do me a favour. Let me break it to them. I’m going over there this afternoon.”
There was a pause as Saylor calculated this request and its consequences. “All right, but you didn’t hear it from me. And mum’s the word on my private theory, mind.”
Poplar Plains Crescent was the city’s most desirable mid-town street. A long-time WASP enclave, with rows of high-banked old money estates, it had begrudgingly given way to the ranks of wealthy immigrant families only in the past decade. Or maybe not so begrudgingly — there were just so many old money families left in Toronto, and not all of them wanted to live on a hill in an enchanted forest. Especially not now, with the newcomers changing the tone of everything.
Dan drove south, noting the declining numbers. He was momentarily stunned when he saw the one he wanted. The Killingworths’ in-town residence made their country home look like a summer cottage. Someone in the family had a preference for imposing structures. One of the grande dames of a bygone age, this was Bayreuth and Klingsor’s magic castle rolled into one.
Dan parked curbside and climbed the stone walk past a rose garden and the trunks of a dozen century-old trees. A servant answered his ring, a bent and withered ancient whose presence seemed to have been wrested from the earth. He stood there, grim in a hair-shirt, guarding the ancestral realms.
The walk-in foyer was lined with oak panels and overhung by the polished links of an eight-tiered chandelier. Terra cotta angels danced on the perimeter above the entrance. It might have been the first sight glimpsed by the dead entering Valhalla. Dan’s coat was hung in a closet the size of most people’s living rooms. A staircase twisted up and out of view. Dan recognized the glowering features of Nathaniel Macaulay — another oil portrait. This one clearly predated the one in Adolphustown. Still, the family forebear looked no friendlier at thirty-something than his aged self had. “Malevolent” was the word that came to mind. Dan wondered if they made portrait subjects sit on tacks back then.
He was shown into a sitting room and left alone, half-expecting to be given an admonishment not to touch the valuables. A damask weave sofa and two armchairs commanded centre stage; a vase of blossoms, gigantic and pale-pink, languished on an oval table. A fireplace with a cavity large enough to stand upright in filled the north wall. In medieval times, it might have served to feed the king and his men as they passed through on their way to the crusades. In the front window, lid cocked, a full-size grand piano waited expectantly, keys glittering like freshly minted teeth beside a gold-framed harp and standing cello. Dan wouldn’t have been surprised to see a circus troupe waiting in readiness, with a couple of prancing ponies and a small corps de ballet to complete the set. Was it Thom or his world that Bill was in love with? Dan mused.
After a moment’s wait, Thom entered with his mother. He was dressed in jeans and a white shirt and seemed to have recovered from his ordeal. He took Dan’s hand, greeting him with an earnest sobriety, like old comrades who’d been fighting the same battle for years. Lucille, somewhat more subdued, wore a chaste beige sweater over a long black knitted dress, possibly her attempt at mourning. In the room’s autumnal light she appeared more severe than Dan recalled, her face pinked with syllables of exhaustion or worry. He could see the family resemblance now, the wide, intelligent brow, the long, full cheekbones, the gold under-toned hair.
She offered him a hand. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy day to come all this way to see us,” she began, her voice suggesting fragility. She gestured toward the sofa. “Please, sit.”
Dan sat on the end near the fireplace. Thom sank into one of the wide chairs across from him. Lucille remained standing. Nervousness, Dan thought. Or maybe she intended to keep things brief.
She clasped her hands and addressed him directly. “As you know, we’re anxious to learn as much as we can about this terrible situation,” she began, her voice quickly regaining its equipoise. “Naturally, we’re shaken by this poor girl’s death. I can only imagine how her family must feel.” She stopped and looked at Thom. “My son and I thought — in light of what’s occurred — that it would be best if we were prepared for whatever might happen next. Bill McFarland felt you might be able to help.…”
Dan saw this as his cue to jump in with words of reassurance, possibly wisdom, though he doubted that what he had to say would fall into either category. “I might have a bit of information that will help,” he said. “I’ve been in touch with a constable at the Picton OPP detachment. I believe you already know they’re treating Daniella’s death as suspicious.”
“Yes,” Lucille said with a shiver. “That’s what’s so worrisome. It seems ghastly to think anyone could suspect that one of our guests might have had something to do with this. Have they considered that it might simply have been an accident?”
“I’m sure they have. It’s routine to treat a death as suspicious unless it was clearly the result of an accident. Without any witnesses, they have to consider other possibilities.”
Lucille absently fingered one of the pink blossoms. Begonia, Dan thought. Or maybe peony. He thought of tissue-paper pompoms used to decorate wedding cars. Not funeral flowers.
Lucille continued. “But several people have said she was quite inebriated before she fell overboard. A number of people saw her drinking heavily that evening. Surely they must realize it was a case of a tragic, drunken fall?”
“The autopsy revealed there was no alcohol in her system,” Dan said. “In fact, she hadn’t been drinking at all.”
“Is that possible?” Lucille’s face resumed its pensive look. “Even so, what makes them think it could be anything but an accident?”
“There was a large bruise on her forehead just under the hairline above her right temple. Thom saw it.”
Lucille looked to her son, who nodded. “And … that’s why they think she may have been murdered?”
“I don’t think the police would use the word ‘murder’ at this point. The bruise is one reason they’re treating the death as suspicious,” Dan said.
“Will we need alibis?” Thom said suddenly.
“They’ll