Murder Is Uncooperative (20 page)

“Yep, same story. She's a bit younger than I am, but I remember her as a little kid. I think her parents moved in just before she was born. In fact, I don't think she ever moved out. She got married quite young and was able to move into another unit in the co-op. Her daughter's lived there since she was born too. Cara's mom died a few years ago, but until then she was able to help out with Cara's daughter quite a lot. They were very close. And a real co-op family.”

I wondered if that was why Cara had looked upset when Mariana was talking about her son and grandson coming back to the co-op to live. Cara must be missing her own mother as much as I was missing mine. I couldn't seem to get along with Cara, but I could sympathize with her all the same.

“Say, that might make an interesting anecdote for the co-op history, don't you think?” Jeremy went on. “How the co-op sometimes has been home for generations of families. Could be interesting. You could interview me and Cara—Eddie if he comes back.” I must have looked puzzled because he explained, “Eddie Cole—Mariana's son. He grew up here too. She keeps saying he's going to move back.”

He frowned a little. “I guess he's coming back soon. Les was concerned Mariana's been in a three-bedroom apartment for a number of years on her own. He was suggesting she move to a smaller apartment. But if Eddie's coming back that won't be a problem.”

I had been suspicious of him before, wondering if he was lying about living in the co-op, or if he might have left the
threatening note. But he had been so open just now, I decided to venture a question.

“Did Eddie have a sister?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure, Amy. Stepsister really, her dad married Mariana when Amy was quite little and adopted Eddie. I guess Mariana adopted Amy too. Then he had a heart attack and died. That was really sad. I know Amy had a hard time with that. Her mom had died of cancer when she was small and then her dad goes when she wasn't even a teenager.”

It was hard to lose a parent at any age, I thought. But I pressed on, anxious to satisfy my curiosity. “I found something about Amy when I started researching the co-op history. I actually found some newspaper clippings about a murder.”

He looked solemn. “Yeah, Jessie. She was Amy's friend. I knew her a little bit. But all that happened after my family moved up north. We heard about it, of course. It was all over the news. But I didn't really know what was going on. And it's not exactly the kind of thing I could talk to Mariana about.”

“I wasn't sure if she was Mariana's daughter,” I said. “I saw a newspaper clipping of the parents when the girls went missing, but the woman in the picture didn't look at all like Mariana. In fact, the paper kept referring to her as Marian.”

“Well, I always called her Mrs. Cole. But, yes, Amy was Mariana's daughter. And Mariana did look different then. She was quite heavy, I remember, but I think she tried to lose some weight, or at least eat better, after her husband had that heart attack. Too late for him, but maybe it helped her a bit. She had a heart attack herself a few years ago. That's when she finally quit smoking and lost some more weight. She looks a lot better now and dresses differently too. I think when Gwen moved in, Mariana liked the kind of clothes she wore and started dressing a bit like her.”

I had noticed that Mariana and Gwen quite often dressed in a similar style. “Maybe they just shop at the same stores. I know my mother used to complain that it was sometimes hard to find clothes she thought were appropriate. Even I find that sometimes. A lot of the stuff in the stores seems designed for teenagers.”

“Maybe,” Jeremy said. “But I think Mariana did change after Gwen moved in. Before that she dressed a bit trashy. Too much makeup and skirts that were too short.”

“I didn't think men had such an eye for fashion,” I teased.

“Hey, I do call myself an artist,” Jeremy said. “And I do notice women, or at least some women.”

His smile was very attractive. But I suddenly noticed the time and realized I needed to get back home.

“Thanks for suggesting this,” I said to him. “I guess we both needed cheering up after the funeral. Not that this has really been a cheerful topic.”

“I'm not sure you want to rake up all the stuff with Jessie for the co-op history,” Jeremy cautioned me. “She didn't live in the co-op. And Amy's disappearance was sad for her family and friends, but it was a long time ago.”

“But don't you wonder what happened to her? She was one of your friends,” I said.

“Not really,” he replied. “We lived in the same place. I'd sometimes play basketball or something with her brother when we were little. But I really spent more time with my friends from school. But, if you want to find out more about Amy and Jessie, you could ask Cara. She was a few years younger than they were but they'd sometimes hang with each other.”

Everyone was urging me to talk to Cara. I might have to.

We agreed to get together again, and I went back to the co-op.

I was a bit nervous about seeing Gwen again, but I wanted to return her platter right away.

Her eyes were red when she answered my knock on her door. But I was relieved to see she smiled at me in greeting.

“Oh, Gwen, are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Rebecca,” she answered. “I was just so upset about everything. First Les, now Ruth. Now we don't have any staff. And I just know no one else will want to work here, at least until we find out what happened to them. I guess we can get by with the board doing the work for a while but not for long. I just don't know what to do.”

She started to cry again, and I moved into the doorway to give her a hug, somewhat hampered by the platter I still held.

She laughed at my awkwardness. “I'd better take that. Thanks for bringing it back. I don't have much to remind me of my grandmother. I probably shouldn't use it as much as I do. I shouldn't have left it at the funeral, but when Mariana said she was ready to leave, I just wanted to get out of there.”

I thought of the china plate I had found by the dumpster, the one that Betty had taken. It was a different pattern from the platter, but I wondered if they belonged to Gwen too. But after the incident this afternoon I wasn't about to ask her.

And I wanted to ask her if she had spoken to Sergeant D'Onofrio. But I wasn't going to bring up that topic either.

I found Mariana with my father again when I got home. They were sipping his single malt scotch. I would need to get him another bottle soon. Maybe that could be his Christmas present, although I might have to get him several bottles if I could afford it.

“Hi, Becky,” my father said. “Mariana said she brought Gwen home early, but we both expected you home quite a while ago.”

This was the downside of living with my father. He tended to want to know where I was going and when I was coming back. Fair enough when he was looking after Ben for me. But Ben was with his own father this weekend. My dad sometimes made me feel like I was still sixteen.

“Did the reception go on for so long?” Mariana asked.

“No, I left a little after you did. I stopped for coffee with Jeremy.”

“That red-haired guy who was here for Thanksgiving?” my father asked. “Well, it's nice that you're making friends in the co-op, Rebecca. But surely you could have driven Mariana home first.”

She really must be starting to mean something to him, if he was getting protective of her.

“Now, Angus,” Mariana chided him. “Gwen just needed to go home early. She's been very upset lately. She's worried about the co-op and what we're going to do about staff. I'm not sure anybody's going to want to work here until the police find out what happened to Les and Ruth. It was no problem to come home in a cab.”

“It was kind of Mariana to bring Gwen home,” I said. “I just talked to her, and she's still very upset. I was glad I stayed though. I had a chance to tell Ruth's mother how sorry we all were.”

“The poor woman. She must be devastated,” Mariana said. “I'm glad you stayed to talk to her. She was always surrounded with people while we were there. Did she say whether the police have any more information about what happened to Ruth?”

“Well, they know that she was poisoned,” I said. “Mushrooms apparently, although she had a bad heart too or she might
have lived. But they don't know anything more than that. Or, at least she didn't say. Well, she wouldn't would she? She doesn't really know me. And I certainly didn't ask. I'd already made my share of untactful remarks by then.” I tried to smile.

“Speaking of untactful remarks,” I asked, “do you know if Gwen did talk to Sergeant D'Onofrio about the muffins she brought to Ruth? I guess if they suspect poison mushrooms, it's not really relevant, but I think she should tell them just in case.”

“Yes, well, she said she was going to call him when she got home,” Mariana said. “I assume she did.”

I wasn't about to share Carol's belief that both Les and Ruth had been murdered. And that their deaths were related to something in the co-op.

“Well,” I said, “I'll leave you two to your scotch. I've got some work to do.”

“And maybe lots to think about?” Mariana smiled at me. “I wouldn't describe Jeremy's hair as plain red, Angus. I think it's a very handsome chestnut color, as handsome as he is himself.” Then she winked at me.

I smiled. But somehow when she said the word handsome, the image in my head wasn't of Jeremy. It was D'Onofrio, smiling at me at the funeral.

I decided to try my luck with the newspaper the next day. They had run small pieces on both Les and Ruth's death but only on inside pages. I knew D'Onofrio's involvement meant the police were treating both deaths as suspicious, but no one except Carol had publicly uttered the word “murder.”

I had sent a short email to the City Editor, proposing a freelance article. Now I followed that up with a phone call.

“Yeah, Rebecca, good to hear from you. How's it goin'?” was his gruff reply when he heard my voice. “Got your email,” he went on. “Any other time I might be interested. But, hey, we're facing another round of layoffs. Advertising revenue is down apparently. We're hoping it'll pick up soon, now that it's close to Christmas. But I sure don't have much of a freelance budget, and I don't think I could commission you to write anything without the union going after my head.”

I tried to sound confident as I outlined the possible connection to the death twenty years ago.

“You mean kids are in danger? That might be an angle. I thought it was just the staff who died? And no one's said anything about murder.”

I backed off a little. “I'm not sure the two things are related,” I said. “And the police are just saying the deaths are suspicious right now. They haven't gone any further, but—”

“Well, I might be able to sell a personal angle,” he interrupted me. “Sort of a 'My life in the co-op of death: residents live
in fear' kind of thing. Let me think about that. I'll get back to you.

He hung up before I was able to protest that wasn't at all the angle I was aiming for. Enough co-op members seemed to resent me already. I didn't want to add to the number by portraying their home as a death trap.

I guess, in my eagerness to get an assignment and work my way back into the paper, I'd acted too soon. At least Dave didn't have to worry about telling the paper about a story they might find interesting.

But I needed to find out if there really was a connection between the deaths.

I remembered Jeremy said he had keys to the office and the storage area. Maybe I could start searching through more boxes of materials. Even if I didn't find out any more about the deaths in the co-op, I'd at least be further ahead on the co-op history. But I only got voicemail when I dialed his number. And the same when I tried to reach Gwen.

I had just put the phone down in frustration when it startled me by ringing.

“Is this Rebecca Butler?” a hesitant voice greeted me. “It's Carol, Ruth's mother.”

Her voice choked a little. “I've found some papers in Ruth's room. I think they belong to the co-op. I thought I should let someone know. I mean, if she brought work home, it's probably important, right.” She took a long, shuddering breath. “I'm sorry. I just thought I should start clearing out her room, maybe giving away some of her things other people could use. But I guess I'm just not ready.”

“No, of course not,” I agreed. “It is a hard job.” I remembered trying to sort through my mother's things after she died.
Dad had wanted to do the same thing, hoping someone else might get some use and enjoyment out of things she would no longer need. But neither of us could face it for months.

She rushed on. “Anyway, I found these papers, and I thought the co-op would want them back. But when I called the co-op office, of course there was no one there. And Ruthie's voice was still on the voicemail . . .” She started to sob openly, then checked herself.

“I remembered your name from the funeral. I wondered if you wanted to come and pick them up. Or I could send them by courier I guess.”

The papers Ruth had been working on before she died? That she had thought important enough to take home? It might have been nothing, of course. Maybe just some bookkeeping she needed to catch up on.

But I was going to find out. “Of course, I can come and get them,” I said. “When would it be convenient for me to pick them up?”

Her address wasn't too far away, but I checked with my father to see if I could use his car. Carol hadn't said how much material there was, but it would certainly be faster to use the car. And I was impatient.

She greeted me at the door of a neat bungalow a few blocks east of Commercial Drive. The house wasn't as old as some of the Victorian and Edwardian houses in this neighborhood, and lacked the gingerbread trim and stained glass some of those houses had, but it had a cozy charm. It dated perhaps from the late 1920s or early 1930s. The house was nestled in a pretty garden, with a winding path to the front door. A location on a hill gave it a stunning view of the North Shore mountains. The rainstorm we'd had a few days earlier had turned to snow at that elevation, and the
mountains were covered with a light dusting of white that shone in the sunlight.