Coming Unclued Page 4

  “Nice. Very professional,” said Julie. “Is he with the police? I should get his badge number.”

  “Please don’t,” I told her. I was trying not to look at the body bag. This was surreal. How could Mr. Potter be lying in front of me zipped up in a black plastic bag?

  The man came back, this time with a police officer in tow. “I’ll take the head,” he said, and they casually picked up Mr. Potter and ventured down the stairs.

  “This is like something from the Twilight Zone,” I said to Julie. “He’s talking about my boss’s head.”

  “Well, at least it’s still attached to the body.”

  I gave her a look of disgust.

  “As opposed to being decapitated. Look, I’m just trying to see the bright side here.”

  “Good job. Maybe you could write a self-help book. Look on the Bright Side. At Least He Wasn’t Decapitated.”

  Julie gave me a slight smile. “Look at that,” she said, suddenly excited, pointing to the floor outside my condo. “What’s that? Is that blood?”

  I looked where she was pointing but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  “What is that?” asked Julie, walking over to the door and bending down.

  Peering closer I could see a red drop glistening against the beige tiles. We both bent down to get a closer look.

  “If it’s blood,” said Julie, “that could be evidence that someone left your apartment after the murder.”

  I touched the tip of my finger to the red drop. “Don’t touch it,” snarled Julie. “You’re contaminating the evidence.”

  “It’s wet,” I snapped. “Wet blood.”

  “Shit,” said Julie. “It must have dripped off the body bag.” She stood up. “Sorry for getting your hopes up.”

  Julie watched as I wiped my finger on my pants.

  “Did you just do that? Corpse blood?”

  “I wasn’t thinking — in case you haven’t noticed I’m under a lot of pressure here.”

  Detective Crowley was sitting on the couch talking on his cell phone. “I’m not getting skim. I’m sick of all this low fat crap. Julia Child drank full fat and she lived till she was ninety.” All in a day’s work for a detective I guess. Zip a man into a body bag and then go to the grocery store for some fatty milk. The detective looked up and saw us. “Gotta go. Text me.” He shoved the phone in his pocket. “My wife wants us to lose some weight before Christmas.”

  “Ahh.” I said. Christmas was in a week. He had a good forty pounds to lose.

  “So Ms Valentyn,” he said, nodding his head at an officer holding a roll of yellow crime scene tape. “Your apartment is going to be off-limits for a few days, but we’d like you to stay within reach. We’ll need to be in touch with you. Is that a problem?”

  “No problem. Why would it be a problem?”

  “I just want to ascertain where you will be in the city.” He flipped through his notebook. “Do we have your cell number? And could we have the keys to your apartment?”

  “Is she an official suspect?” asked Julie.

  “No one is an official suspect yet.”

  “Who will you be looking at, suspect-wise?” I asked. “This is going to be a difficult investigation. I can’t picture anyone wanting to kill Mr. Potter. He wasn’t the type to have enemies.” I had a sudden revelation. “It’s almost always someone close to the victim. A family member, a business associate. Murders are seldom random.” Shit. I was a business associate. “I mean a high-level business associate, not a person who just happens to work in the same office. Someone who stands to gain from the victim’s death.”

  Detective Crowley didn’t look bowled over by this insight. “We’ll be looking carefully at every angle.” He checked his notebook. “Where will you be staying?”

  “She’ll be with me,” said Julie, in a firm voice as she handed him one of her business cards. “Does she need a lawyer?”

  “That is completely up to Ms Valentyn.”

  I went over to the hook by the door and got my spare set of keys for him. “Guess you don’t need my car key,” I said as I struggled to remove it from the key chain.

  “As long as you don’t plan on going anywhere in your car.”

  “Nowhere?”

  “Nowhere out of the city,” he said with a tight smile. “No making a run for Mexico.”

  He was a riot.

  “Could you tell me who else has a key to your place?” asked the detective.

  “I don’t know — Evan, my son. He has one. Julie do you have a key?”

  “No.”

  “Does your building have a superintendent?” asked the detective.

  “No — we’re only eight condos.”

  “So just you and your son?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And where is he?”

  “He lives in the West End. He’s a dental student at U of T.”

  “Any reason he might have dropped by last night?”

  “No,” I said. “He knew I had the office party.” Wait a minute. Why was he asking about Evan?

  “What are you asking?” I demanded. “You think my son dropped by and stabbed Mr. Potter?”

  “I’ll need to speak with him,” replied the detective, unfazed by the affront to my maternal instincts. “Can you give me his number?”

  I gave the detective Evan’s number while Julie paced around the living room, seemingly deep in thought.

  “What about a master key?” asked Julie. “Doesn’t someone on your condo board have a master key to all the condos?”

  Good thinking Julie. “That’s right,” I said. “Someone could have got hold of the master key. Anybody — the skies the limit!”

  “Do you happen to know who would have this key?” asked Det. Crowley.

  Who was on the condo board? Besides me that is, because I certainly didn’t have any master keys. I pondered this for a moment, while the detective tapped the pen against his teeth. It suddenly hit me. “Rose. Rose Canning. She’s on the board. She lives on the first floor.”

  The detective snapped his notebook shut and snorted. “Make sure we can reach you,” he said.

  “She’ll need clothes,” said Julie. “They’re in her bedroom.”

  “You’ll have to make do,” he said to me as he headed toward the door. “Officer Sobey over there will see you out.”

  “He has to get to the grocery store,” said Julie in a low voice. “And I don’t believe Julia Child drank whole milk. 2% maybe.”

  I sat down on the couch and hugged a throw pillow to my chest. “I am in deep shit. They really think I did it.”

  Julie sat down beside me. “Val. Of course they think you did it.”

  There were times when I enjoyed Julie’s brutal honesty. You always knew where you stood with her. But as I sat on the couch, contemplating my predicament, it occurred to me that a friend who was a little softer around the edges, a friend who knew how to sugarcoat a situation would be a comforting friend to have. Unfortunately, Julie was what I had.

  “Do you think I did it?”

  Julie looked me right in the eye. “Val, I can’t figure this. A knife-wielding intruder who breaks in, stabs your boss, doesn’t touch you and leaves without taking anything. It doesn’t compute.”

  I sank back into the couch and shut my eyes. Maybe I did do it. Maybe I lured Mr. Potter to my condo, plied him with wine and snacks and then staggered into my bedroom and stabbed the poor man to death while he slept. What other answer could there be?

  CHAPTER 5

  Julie touched my arm. “Let’s get going. We’ll get you settled in and then figure out a lawyer. There may even be clean sheets on the spare bed.”

  I looked over at the officer guarding the bedroom door. “Do you think he’ll let me in for just a minute?”

  “No.”

  “My luggage is in the closet.”

  “You can’t get your clothes. Just grab your bag and let’s get out of here. I’m going to give Andrew a quick call.�
��

  Andrew is Julie’s wonderful husband. Her high school sweetheart. They both think that the smartest thing Andrew ever did was to marry Julie, and it works for them.

  “I’m just going to get my purse,” I called to the policeman hovering by the kitchen.

  Under the watchful eye of the officer, I grabbed my reading glasses and wallet and stuffed them into my gorgeous Roots tote bag, a present from my sister when I turned forty-five. “Forty-five is a big one,” she told me. “An epoch. The end of an era. You’re officially middle-aged at forty-five.”

  There you have it in a couple of sentences. The reason I can only handle Sharon in very small doses. Who uses epoch in conversation? That’s the kind of word you see in a book and don’t know how to pronounce. Sharon would stop reading, look it up and then slip it into a sentence at the first opportunity. And “you’re officially middle-aged at forty-five.” That’s exactly the sort of pronouncement she is known for. Sharon is five years younger than me. When she turns forty-five she will probably pretend to contemplate having one last baby so everyone will think she is full of spritely eggs just waiting to be fertilized. The tote bag is beautiful though.

  Sharon is an emergency room doctor and the mother of two adorable little girls. In her spare time she writes a Mommy Blog full of essays like Farewell to my Breastfeeding Journey. She took only two months off after each of her kid’s births because, “I want them to have a mother they can look up to, who has something going on other than fetching them juice boxes.” This pointed comment was a judgment on the twelve happy years I spent out of the work force fetching juice boxes for Evan.

  “We’re going to go now,” I told the officer.

  “Sure ma’am,” he said, holding out his hand. “If you’d just let me take a look through that bag first.”

  I passed him the tote bag. After ascertaining that I wasn’t attempting to hijack any evidence, the policeman handed it back to me and strolled over to window where he glared at me while chewing on a hangnail.

  “I guess we can go,” I said, looking around the place. How could I come back here? How could I ever sleep in that bedroom again? I picked my keys off the table by the front door, looked at the keys and then at Julie.

  “Okay,” I said. “The door was locked this morning. I had to unlock it to throw my wine down the chute.” I leaned against the door. “So, to recap, whoever murdered Mr. Potter didn’t break in. He had a key. Or he’s really good at picking a lock.”

  “Or you let him in.”

  “Or I did it.”

  “And there’s that one,” said Julie. “Let’s go.”

  Heather’s door was wide open. She must have been watching for us because she came rushing out as we walked past.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Everything is far from all right Heather,” replied Julie in her most imperious voice.

  Heather, however, wasn’t taking any guff from Julie. “What I meant was, are there any new developments? A detective came over to question me. He didn’t seem very friendly toward you.”

  “He thinks I murdered Mr. Potter. I guess he finds it off-putting.”

  Heather shook her head. “This is just crazy.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t worry Val. I didn’t say anything incriminating.”

  “Just tell the truth Heather. They’re going to find out my history. Don’t get yourself in trouble.”

  Why was I being such a martyr? I wanted her to lie for me; tell them any rumors about my drinking were completely unfounded. Tell them she came home late and saw a suspicious looking man she’d never seen before unlocking my door. Tell them it never occurred to her that it was a big deal. It’s not like Heather was incapable of acting a little … simple.

  “I’ll be thinking of you Val, and sending good vibes out into the universe.”

  Well that was a relief. The universe would be rooting for me.

  “Thanks Heather. I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Yes! Do that. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  I gave Heather a quick hug before Julie and I headed for the stairs and started down the four flights. We kept up a brisk pace, relieved to be leaving. “You didn’t even say goodbye to her,” I said.

  “You know how that wheat-free green tea talk irritates me.”

  “You’re too easily irritated.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe.”

  “I have to call Evan. What am I going to tell him?”

  “Just tell him the truth,” said Julie.

  We descended into the foyer and I could see police and neighbors milling about outside.

  “Lets do this,” said Julie. “Walk quickly, keep your head down and don’t talk to anybody. My car’s just up the street across from that hideous new house.” In recent years many of the old houses in our neighborhood had been torn down and replaced with dazzling monster homes. Julie did not approve.

  Julie pushed open the door and we put our heads down and hustled down the street. “Hey there luv, how’s about you give us a picture?” Was that a Cockney accent?

  “Say nothing,” said Julie. “Just keep moving.”

  “How does he know it’s me?” I muttered.

  “People talk.”

  Julie had brought the poop van, because why waste an opportunity to advertise her business? We hurried over to it, the photographer racing along beside us. I had my head down, my face turned away from him when suddenly I tripped and started flailing, grabbing on to Julie so I wouldn’t wipe out. My hood flew back and I grimaced as I struggled to right myself. The photographer kept flashing away. It was a cat. I’d tripped over a cat. What was it doing lying in the middle of the sidewalk? Why can’t people keep their stupid cats inside where they belong?

  “Quick, get in,” said Julie, opening the passenger side door.

  I jumped in the van, pulled my hood back over my face and slumped down in the seat. Julie clambered in and pulled away from the curb as quickly as she could, glancing over at me as she drove. “Too late. He got a picture of you kicking that cat.”

  “I didn’t kick the cat! I tripped over the damn cat.”

  “The picture’s going to look like you kicked it.”

  I glared at her. She was getting on my nerves. I wasn’t sensing a lot of good vibes emanating from her. At least Heather had a positive attitude.

  “Call Evan.” Julie looked in her rearview mirror, and then took a sharp right through an alley. She looked over at me. “In case anyone is following us.”

  “No one will follow us. I’m not famous. Or infamous.”

  “A pillar of the community was stabbed to death in your bed. A married pillar. People are interested.”

  “He was hardly a pillar.”

  “Oh a support post then. Whatever.”

  I pressed the first name on my contact list. The phone rang twice and a squeaky voice answered. Did Evan have a new girlfriend? He hadn’t mentioned it. And what was she doing answering his cell phone? That seemed a little brassy for a girl I didn’t even know. I asked for Evan and I could hear her squeak his name.

  “Hi Mom. What’s up?”

  “Hi Sweetie. Why does something have to be up? I’m just calling to say hello.”

  Julie gave me a dirty look.

  “Great,” said Evan. “How’s things?”

  “Actually, now you mention it, something is up.” I sounded like a moron. How was I going to go from “I’m just calling to say hello” to “I’m about to be indicted for murder.” “There’s been a little … incident … this morning.”

  “Are you okay?” He sounded worried. I knew this was going to happen. Evan’s a worrier. He was always one of those ‘what if’ kind of kids. “What if a tree falls on the house?” “What if the train goes off the tracks?” “What if I buy the wrong backpack?” “I’m fine,” I reassured him. “I’m right here with Julie, heading to her house. Actually we’re at her house. Oh my God, what is that?”

&nb
sp; “What?” asked Evan.

  Julie had one of those horrible blow-up Christmas decorations in front of her house. A huge ten foot high Santa’s workshop with fake snow falling and elves making toys. A monstrosity that took up most of her yard.

  “Andrew bought it. He thought it was cute,” said Julie. She sounded a little defensive. No wonder. Her house was now the scourge of the neighborhood.

  “He was wrong,” I told her. “Sorry honey,” I said into the phone. “A lapse in judgment on Andrew’s part”.

  “Mom, what’s going on? I was kind of in the middle of something.”

  “Who was that who answered the phone?”

  “Mikel.”

  “Nickle?”

  “No, Mikel.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “It’s a family name,” said Evan, with a barely concealed sigh. I shouldn’t have been surprised that there was a new girlfriend afoot. Evan had always been very popular with the girls, though he’d had a bit of a dry spell when he was bunking with me.

  “Tell him,” snapped Julie. “Jesus.”

  “Okay, honey. There was a little thing this morning. There was a terrible thing and then there’s been a misunderstanding about it.”

  Evan was silent. Julie sighed and shut her eyes as she leaned back against the headrest.

  “You know Mr. Potter, my boss?”

  “Sure. The guy with the breath.”

  “Yes. Him. He was found dead in my apartment. In my bed. Stabbed to death.”

  There was a pause before Evan spoke. “What the…? Who killed him? What was he doing there?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem — and that he’s dead is of course a problem. The police don’t know. They’re investigating.”

  “Who are they investigating?”

  “I don’t know their exact plan. They’ll want to talk to me some more eventually. Just to get everything down on paper.”

  “Okay Mom. Stay at Julie’s. I’m coming right over.”

  “There’s no need Evan. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Give the phone to Julie,” Evan told me in a firm voice. “I want to talk to her.”

  I handed the phone to Julie, who took it and stepped out of the van and shut the door. Suddenly I didn’t care what she told him. I was sapped of strength. Mr. Potter was dead. How? How did it happen? I struggled with my memory, willing it to release whatever images were trapped in there. I waited. I concentrated. Nothing. There was nothing there. Not so much as a flicker that would help me figure out what happened. I opened my eyes and watched the elves make toys as the snow fell inside the dome. Andrew was right. It was kind of cute. And as I watched the elves and as Julie strategized with Evan I had an epiphany. The last time I had a true epiphany was on my one-week wedding anniversary. I came home from work and Jack was on the couch watching People’s Court and reading a Richie Rich comic. I looked at him and knew our marriage wasn’t going to work. I knew I never should have married him. It took me over fifteen years to act on that bolt of insight. And actually I wasn’t even the one who acted. Jack did. One evening I came home to find him happily eating the baggie of Snausages I’d packaged up for my next trip to the dog park. He was dipping them in Salsa and watching a hockey game. I said nothing until after he finished eating. Jack insists that my silence was an act of aggression that pushed him out the door. Earlier that week I’d been happily curled up reading a book and commented, not complained but commented, that our bank account was in overdraft again. Jack’s eyes practically boggled out of his head and he screamed at me, “Well get off the couch harpy, and get a real job.”