Barrington Street Blues (39 page)

“I don't believe you.”

“I know you don't believe me, Collins. That's why it doesn't matter whether I say I don't know him or I say I was sitting on his face forty minutes before I arrived here.”

“Which is it?”

“The truth lies somewhere in between. Dickie! I can barely croak out a civil word to my inquisitor here, my throat is so parched. Hop to it, will you?”

“Sure thing, Mave. For you, sir?”

“I'll have a Keith's, thanks, Dick.”

“Now, what was it you were interrogating me about?”

“Swail-Peddle.”

“Alas, poor Gareth! Poor little putz.” She began rocking with
laughter and had to wipe her eyes. “The look on his face!”

She brought her hands up on either side of her mouth, like paws. Somehow she made her own broad visage resemble the rather ferrety features of the psychologist, and then did an imitation of him with his eyes bulging out in shock. I couldn't help but laugh. Dick came by with our drinks and asked: “Who're ya doin' now, Mave?”

“Oh, Dick, you don't want to know. You just stay behind the bar here and you'll be doing more good for the world than that little weasel ever did, no matter how hard he tried. Poor old Swail.” She was still shaking with mirth. When she got herself under control, she looked at me wearily.

“Why in the hell are you asking me about him?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“Things that are obvious to me are not necessarily obvious to the rest of humanity. And vice versa. So, why are you here badgering me about Doctor Strangefur?”

“He was at the Baird Centre when you and Corey were there.”

“Me and Corey.”

“You and Corey Leaman, the second of your acquaintances to die in questionable circumstances.”

“Screw you!”

“Talk to me, darling. Help me to understand.”

“Screw you, I said. I didn't know this Leaman. If he was there when I was, I don't remember him.” She downed her drink and held up her glass. Dick was over in a trice.

“How did you end up in the Baird?”

“Why, I have no idea, Mr. Collins. A case of mistaken identity, I guess. Somebody had me mixed up with a boozehound.”

“Did you seek treatment on your own account?”

“Are you
well
?”

“How else did you get in there? Nobody can have you committed against your will.”

“My dear, departed husband gave me an ultimatum. If I didn't sign myself into the Baird, he'd walk. He said he was doing it for me. As if me having a few drinks was the cause of all our marital
sturm und drang
. Coincidentally, as soon as he got me locked up in there he went off on a tear himself. Must have been afraid I'd tag along and
hog all the booze. That prick. Anyway, yeah, that's where I met Garess.”

“Why do you call him Garess?”

“Why do you think?”

“I'd rather not try to second-guess the workings of your mind, Mavis.”

“I called him Garess to needle him. So he'd have to correct me by saying ‘Gareth.' I sounded right; he sounded like he had a lisp. Had to do something to pass the time in there.”

“What did he call you?”

“‘Please, please, please! That's what he called me.” She let out a squawk of laughter.

“He begged you for something, is that it?”

“Poor old Gareth was determined that I was going to become part of his group. Of course, the last thing I wanted in this world, next to going one more day without a drink, was sitting around with his little group of whiners and mopes, yanging about their problems. Do I have a problem? Sure. And I love my problem. I live for my problem. I intend to feed it and nurture it and make love to it until the day they throw me in the ground. What's to discuss?” She stopped talking to light up a smoke and take another sip of Scotch. “Aah! Bliss! Anyway, Gareth just wouldn't let up. I pissed him off in a couple of his group gropes, and then he wouldn't leave me alone. He'd come to my room at night and want to ‘dialogue.' Of course that's not all he wanted.”

“What went on during these nocturnal visits?”

“Therapists need love too!” She snickered and took a drink. “You have to wonder what Mrs. Swail was peddling at home, the way this guy sat there gazing at me like a puppy. A bright-eyed little rodent, would be more accurate. On the first of his visits, he said ‘hugs!' and glommed on to me, after looking to me for permission of course. He claimed that I was the one who needed a hug. I pressed everything against him, then I broke it off and turned aside, as if tearing myself away from the great passion of my life. ‘Garess, I think you'd better go,' I croaked at him. He was all apologies and he scuttled away.”

She paused for a swallow of Scotch. “But the next night he was back for more, and he had a plan. He couldn't be more obvious. He began ‘sharing' with me some of his own ‘issues.' I won't bore you
with them. Then he turned the conversation — subtly, he thought — to my relationship with Dice. Was Dice meeting my needs as a person, as a woman? Did I see my drinking as an escape from an unfulfilling marriage? As if I just discovered twelve-year-old single-malt Scotch the first night Dice and I had a tiff. What a fruitcake. I don't know how he got a job there. Or how he hung on to it.”

He didn't, I thought, but kept it to myself.

“The next night,” Mavis continued, “to move things along, he smuggled some Scotch in for me! To a drunk in a detox! Is there a code of ethics for these people? Gareth had to go on his rounds, and he left me with this alcoholic fluid. Tasted like it came from Wal-Mart. War-Malt, I called it. But of course, I drank it. There was nothing else available. He returned later on, when he figured I'd be blitzed. And he could be forgiven for thinking so, because I was lying on the bed as if I was passed out. So Mr. Smooth makes his move. Starts taking his clothes off. He was down to his shorts when I made my own move. I jumped up from the bed, looked him in the eye and starting undoing my pants. I thought his heart was going to blow up. I turned around, yanked my pants off, and showed him my butt. He made a little choking sound, grabbed his clothes, and fled from my room!”

She smiled as if at a fond childhood reminiscence. “It was an awkward thing to do, but I had managed it. On one butt cheek I had scrawled ‘Share,' and ‘This' on the other one. And he thought he was setting
me
up!”

“Good for you!” I blurted, forgetting for a moment that I had this woman in the frame as a possible murder suspect. “What happened after that?”

“I heard he took a week off. Family emergency. I'll say. I was gone by the time he was due back.”

†

I had another widow in front of me on Wednesday. “I'll only keep you for a minute, Amber.” I wanted to see what, if anything, Amber Dawn Rhyno could tell me about Swail-Peddle. “Where's Zachary today?”

“Over at my cousin's.”

“All right. What I'd like to know is whether Corey ever mentioned
the doctors or therapists at the Baird Centre. If he talked about any one of them in particular.”

A canny look came over her face, and I could see her wondering about the implications of my question. She couldn't come up with anything, however, so she just said: “Maybe. Why?”

“Why don't you just tell me what you remember.”

She thought for a moment. “Well, there was this one guy who was really mean to him.”

“Who was that?”

“I don't know his name.”

“What was he? A doctor, psychiatrist, staff member, what?” She shrugged. “How was he mean?”

“I can't remember, just that Corey didn't like him. He . . . was scared of him!”

I decided to play along. “Afraid of him why?”

“This guy was really big. He told Corey he had to do whatever this guy said, or Corey'd never get out! He'd keep him locked up in there forever!”

I cleared my throat. “Amber. Our claim is that they wouldn't let him
stay
. Not that they wouldn't let him
out
. Remember?”

She looked down and didn't answer.

“Now try to recall anything Corey might have said about the people at the centre. Anything at all.”

She sat silent for a while, then mumbled: “There was this guy he used to laugh at. But he wasn't scared of him or nuthin'.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he was, like, this dork. Corey said he seen him the first time he was in there, and he was still there.”

“Still there during Corey's most recent admission.”

“Yeah.”

“What was it Corey used to laugh at?”

“Just that he was a dork and said all these dumb things. And Corey seen him with his pants off.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, I remember now. Me and Zach were visiting, and this dweeb walked by. Corey told me he seen him standing there one night years ago, all red and sweaty, and he only had his underwear on.”

“Where was he standing?”

“Outside some girl's room. Corey could hear her laughing. Like, this geek was pissed ‘cause this girl was making fun of him. Every time Corey seen him after that, he'd say, like, ‘couldn't get it up, eh?' or ‘she thinks you're a jerk-off; she likes me better.' And stuff like that. Maybe this guy got Corey kicked out!”

I would like to have known a great deal more about what went on in the Baird Centre between Swail-Peddle and Leaman; Swail-Peddle and Mavis; and, possibly, Mavis and Leaman. Did the incident in Mavis's room come to the attention of the authorities at the centre? Did Leaman threaten to tell on the psychologist? Did the incident have something to do with Corey's departure from the centre? I was seriously hampered by the fact that the Baird Centre was the opposing party in what might, or might not, turn into a lawsuit. I was not going to get any information out of the people there until — unless — we started our suit and held discovery examinations. I tried to think of someone I might know who would be acquainted with the practices and personnel of the treatment centre. A couple of psychiatrists came to mind, as did Debbie Schwartz, a psychologist who helped me out on occasion with my criminal clients. Debbie's name triggered a memory; I had seen it written somewhere in connection with all this, but where? A file folder, a sheet of paper — I had it. Dice Campbell's files.

I dropped in to Jamie McVicar's office and asked to see the files yet again. It took a few minutes of digging, but I found Dice's scribbled a note: “Asked Debbie Schwartz re: fruitcake from
DT
; yukked about house call, says don't pay him time & 1/2 or might come back!; name familiar but doesn't know him; suggests try again, call Drug Dependency.” Drug Dependency: the detoxification and drug rehabilitation program run by the provincial government. Was Dice trying to get himself off drugs? Was he addicted? Or was it about his wife? He had strong-armed her into the Baird Centre. That hadn't worked; was that what “try again” referred to? What did
DT
stand for?
Delirium tremens
? That's what you suffered during alcohol withdrawal in the detox. Detox. The fruitcake from the detox. Swail-Peddle. A house call?

†

Mavis was planted at her regular station at the Holiday Inn.

“Dickie! Hit me up, and make it extra strength.”

“And the usual for you, sir?”

“Sure, Dick, thanks. Sorry to be such a trial to you, Mavis. What does it say about me that women have to step up their meds when they see me coming?”

“It says you're an interfering, unwelcome asshole who . . . Dickie! What's the difference between a lawyer and a tick?”

“No idea, Mave.”

“A tick falls off you when you die.”

“Don't die on me, Mavis,” I urged her, “not when you have so much to live for.”

“Why do I get the impression that is a segue into yet another baseless accusation against me? I think I'll hire a bloodsucker from another firm and sue you for slander.”

“I'll save you the trouble and, dare I say it, the expense. If it's just between us, there's no slander. So, just between us —”

I was about to ask for an account of the psychologist's house call but I had another question for the widow, as well, a question about the “mail” Kenneth Fanshaw had been receiving, according to Felicia's notes. Mail that gave rise to thoughts of a libel action against
MC
. “Mavis, what was the nature of your letters to Kenneth Fanshaw? Around the time the Bromley Point development was getting started.”

“Fanshaw!” Her surprise struck me as genuine. “If I was ever going to write anything to Kenneth Fanshaw, it would be ‘sex offender' carved into his forehead with my nail file! Other than that I never gave him the time of day. What are you accusing me of now, breaches of etiquette?”

So, if Fanshaw had been receiving nasty letters, they hadn't come from Mavis. I believed her. Had they come from Graham Scott after all? That's what Matty Fuller had told me: Dude say Scott sendin' him letters. I had formed the impression that Fanshaw was the “dude” and the letters might have constituted blackmail.

I realized I'd been had. Felicia must have been keeping an eye on the murder/suicide file Ross and I had started; she must have found the notes I'd made about Fanshaw receiving letters. Perhaps at the
instigation of Fanshaw, she had set me up at the partners' meeting, betting that, if she appeared to be subtly but determinedly keeping files out of my reach, I'd go through her office. She'd planted phony subfiles, and I'd fallen for it. Fanshaw didn't want me to know that
he
knew the nasty letters were from Graham Scott. Blackmail and the threat of exposure by Scott constituted a possible motive for Fanshaw to want Scott out of the way. To deflect my suspicion, he pretended he thought they came from Mavis Campbell. This ruse put Fanshaw squarely in my sights again. But now I had Mavis before me.