Blue Moon (20 page)

Stella was 19 when her mother died. Her youngest sister was a mere 13. Until the time of her mother's death, Stella had been a devout Catholic, a reader of the lives of the saints. She had especially admired the Neapolitan Maria Goretti, the eleven-year-old admirer of the Blessed Virgin Mary who allowed herself to be murdered rather than be defiled by the eighteen-year-old handyman who coveted her. Like Maria Goretti, Stella was an idealist, one who was certain that everything would turn out well in God's divine plan if she could but see the way forward.

But there was no easy road ahead. She was expected to look after her sisters. Rather than going to university, Stella's parish priest crisply informed her that God's benign providence indicated that she was to find work in order to maintain a home for herself and the other four orphans. At first, Stella did what was expected of her, but, without really being aware of it, a rebellious streak began to assert itself. She became angry at the way life had treated her, no longer able to say to God: “Be it done to me according to Thy word.”

At about this time, a shocked neighbour told her of the activities of the Widow Agostini, who despite the premature death of her husband—was putting both her children through McMaster University. The Widow had even forbidden the children—both boys—to work during the school year. Mrs. Agostini obviously did not know her place in God's providential plan. The community felt that boys had no place in the halls of higher learning; the Widow was aiming far above her station. Such conduct would have been barely permissible had not the manner in which the Widow was supporting herself become known.

The Majestic Lunch on Barton Street East was the favourite spot of the male Jewish population of Hamilton. The professionals—doctors, lawyers, accountants, money lenders, and scrap metal dealers—frequented the place as did factory workers and pedlars. Many of the men spent their time playing euchre, pinochle and dominoes. Sometimes, when angry waves would appear at the front door, errant husbands would hop the fence at the rear and head reluctantly home.

The Widow Agostini's employment was at the Majestic. Every weekday afternoon—at one o'clock precisely—that slim, elegant woman would, clad completely in black, enter the restaurant, walk the length of the room and position herself in the booth adjacent to the washrooms. Sometimes, she knitted; sometimes, she darned socks. From time to time, a customer would walk down to her, glance at her and then walk into the woman's washroom. She would wait a minute or two and then enter that room. By that time, her client would have positioned himself in front of the sink and, keeping all his clothes on, would have unzipped his fly. The widow would kneel before him, remove his penis from its resting place and proceed to perform fellatio. From start to orgasm, most clients required fifteen minutes. The pleasure she gave to her clients was so intense that their moaning sounds would fill the Majestic. She left for home precisely at five o'clock. During her four-hour shift, she averaged seven customers. Her only overhead was the rental she paid to use the washroom which, without her presence, would have been unused.

Reports of the Widow's activities shocked her parish priest. Up to the time he upbraided her, she had attended Mass and taken Holy Communion daily. He told her she could no longer receive the
sacrament. How could she receive the Body and Blood of Christ everyday when she was performing sex acts with her mouth? when she was obviously in a state of Mortal Sin? The Widow was not to be dissuaded from her new profession. She continued to attend Mass daily but was no longer a communicant.

When Stella heard of how the Widow had been threatened with excommunication, something within the young woman snapped. Her anger knew no bounds at what she now considered the ruthless interference of the Church into the activities of a local businesswoman. At about this time, Stella became a prostitute.

“I'm not a prostitute or—as you once described yourself—a call girl. I'm a whore. I do tricks and lots of them. Like the Widow, I suck some of the Johns, but most of the time I let the guys fuck me frontways or backwards. I don't use a room and I won't go anywhere with them—only cars and alleyways. That way it takes only fifteen minutes. That's why I've gotten arrested so many times. I've become a public nuisance.”

“I would never have the courage to do what you've done. Those men could be dangerous.”

“I've gotten lots of bruises and cuts. In my experience, men are interested in one thing only: getting rid of loads of spunk. Until they do that, they're restless and edgy. If you interfere with them then, they'll harm you. Once they've come, they're like contented pussycats.”

“I know exactly what you mean. But I feel I'm never in the same room as my clients. It's like I'm not there. They're doing things to my body, but it's not me who's in that room.”

“You're lucky. I've never had the ability to remove myself from the situation. I'm all too aware of what's happening.” She paused, puffed on her cigarette and continued: “I now know one thing about myself: I hate men, each and every one of them.” She lowered her voice: “To tell you the truth, I like women.”

“I don't like men or women. I don't really like the sex thing one little bit.”

“When you make a business out of sex, you lose all interest in it. I wish I never had to see another penis ever again.”

“Amen to that. That is exactly what will happen in my particular case.”

After three or four days, Stella was released from Barton Street. I lost track of her, but years afterwards I noticed—in the
Canadian publishing industry magazine
Quill
&
Quire
that she had become a celebrated writer of Harlequin romances. More recently, I learned that she had moved from Hamilton to Alberta in 1950 where she had established a long-term relationship with another woman, a cattle rancher.

In Hamilton, the police had a long and distinguished career in allowing female murderers to evade them. Everyone on the force was well schooled in the Kinrade case. Thomas Kinrade, the principal of the Cannon Street School, lived in a comfortable red brick home with double veranda on Herkimer Street, not far from downtown; he owned a considerable amount of property inherited from his father in the poorer, east side of the city. The socially conscious Kinrade, his wife and his daughters—Ethel and Florence—frequently fed transients or gave them food tickets. On the evening of February 24, 1909, someone tried to break into their house. The next day, after her husband had left for work, Mrs. Kinrade, leaving her daughters in charge, walked to the police station to report the incident.

On her walk back home, Mrs. Kinrade's attention was attracted by the large crowd hovering about the bulletin in the window of a newspaper shop. To her horror, she discovered one of her daughters had been murdered.

At eleven that morning, Florence, the younger daughter, had answered the doorbell and confronted a young man of medium height, sandy brown hair, and a wispy moustache. Dressed in black and wearing a felt hat drawn down over his forehead, he peremptorily demanded food and money. Frightened by his insistent, nervous manner, she agreed to give him money. She allowed him into the vestibule, walked up the stairs to her bedroom, called to her sister to lock herself in her room, and retrieved a ten-dollar bill from her dresser drawer. At that point, although she heard what sounded like shots from a gun, she walked down the stairs, handed the bill to the stranger who left the house; then, she walked into the parlour and climbed out the window. At that point, the intruder—who had snuck back into the house—pounced upon her and pulled her back in; she escaped from him, ran out of the house, returned, and then ran across the street to tell a neighbour: “Ethel is shot, six times!”

Her count was inaccurate: seven bullets penetrated Ethel, four in the area of the head, three near the heart. Florence was an exceedingly poor witness to the events in which she had been a participant. She swooned when asked any question that attempted to make logical sense of what had occurred. She did not know how or where the intruder had come upon her sister; she had no idea why he would have shot Ethel; she did not know how she had arrived at the number six.

George Blackstock, the criminal lawyer turned Crown investigator, uncovered some fascinating information about Florence, who was very much the unfavoured of the two daughters. Unlike shy, retiring Ethel whose only occupation was that of rent-collector for her father, Florence was a concert singer of some distinction. In the autumn of 1908, she had taken lessons in the use of revolvers in preparation for a journey to Richmond, Virginia, where she had accepted an engagement to sing. While in the South, Florence—who was engaged to Montrose Wright, a divinity student from Toronto—had an affair with James Baum, an actor. Following her American interlude, her mother and sister had intercepted a brooch from the actor. Another strange piece in the puzzle: Mr. Blackstock was surprised by Mr. Kinrade's impromptu remark upon arriving home on the day of the murder: “I have expected something like this for a long time.”

Hamilton gossip knew what the police were afraid to act upon. Florence, the black sheep of the family, had obviously murdered her sister. In so doing, she forced her prominent, well-heeled parents to protect her from the long arm of the law. In one mighty swoop, she became her parents' favourite. Sibling rivalry hardly ever carries itself to such bizarre extremes. Although the inquest found that Ethel had been shot by a person or persons unknown, the reliability of some of the evidence produced, they claimed, suggested that the case should not be closed.

Mr. and Mrs. Kinrade abandoned Hamilton. Florence married Wright and moved with him to Calgary; after his death in 1918, Florence returned to the concert hall—she even played Hamilton in the twenties. Later, she settled in California. I have always wondered: was there a steely sound to Florence's voice, a certain metallic edge that showed what a hard-hearted artist she was?

As the ending or climax of my own trial approached, even more people presented themselves each morning as spectators. One morning, they even managed to break a courtroom door off its hinges. Further mayhem ensued when the ladies' rooms were used as lunch rooms by groups of twenty or more until the court officials expelled them. Each morning, the mostly female assemblage in the crowded benches stood and leaned forward when my entourage of
matrons and I entered the room. “Sit down! “the sheriff would bellow.

In a desperate attempt to stem the tide, Mr. Sullivan tried to insinuate that the police officers had engaged in unseemly conversations with me. In yet another cross-examination of Preston, he asked about my refusal to attend John's funeral.

“Were you on intimate enough terms with her to discuss the reason?”

“She discussed sex freely.” For Preston the words “sex” and “intimate” were obviously synonymous.

Seizing his opening, Sullivan continued: “And she habitually discussed sex with you?”

“No, sir.”

“You didn't tell her that it might be better for her if she did not attend the funeral and stayed behind to chat with you?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“You did press her for a reason for not attending?”

“Yes, sir. The
Spectator
wanted that information. Then they couldn't use it.”

“Well, what did she say?”

Preston blushed. “She was very unladylike.” He looked at Barlow for encouragement, which was not withheld. She said, “I am very sick. I have used three pads already today.”

Then Mr. Sullivan returned to the infamous trip up the Mountain. “You gave Mrs. Dick two chocolate bars before the trip, did you not?”

“Yes”

“An inducement to talk?”

“Certainly not. A courtesy. A little something to tide her over.”

“You purchased some magazines for her at the outset of the trip?”

“At her request. She gave me the money for them.”

“You provided her with a special chicken dinner at the police station before returning her to Barton Street?”

“That is accurate.”

“Another inducement to talk? You've been trying to confuse her, hoping to get at the truth if you forced her to spin enough accounts.”

Barlow, visibly displeased at the suggestion the police had tried to force me to produce conflicting variants of what had really happened, intercepted him. “You are harassing the witness. Cease from such unseemly behaviour in my courtroom.” At that point, the sound of children playing on the lawn of Prince's Square filled the room. Now thoroughly outraged, the judge ordered all the windows firmly shut. I sat quietly sketching him and the other court officials. His small squirrel eyes narrowed, outraged that I appeared so unshattered.

Shortly thereafter, the Crown concluded its evidence. To utter silence, Mr. Sullivan rose, “My Lord, the defence is not offering any evidence.” Somewhat relieved, Barlow replied: “That closes the case, gentlemen. We shall adjourn until ten o'clock tomorrow morning, at which time we will proceed with the addresses.”

On the following morning, Mr. Weatherston, Mr. Sullivan's young associate, rose and, in the absence of the jury, said: “I should like to submit, my Lord, that there is not sufficient evidence in this case on which the jury can reasonably find “

Calmly, Barlow interrupted him: “You should have made that motion yesterday when you announced you had no evidence to submit. Having failed to do so, the case was then closed. I shall not hear any arguments in this matter. We shall proceed with the addresses to the jury.”

The jury was recalled. Even within the confines of the courtroom, the bright blue sky outside made its presence known. Behind the polished black walnut of the prisoner's bar, I sat slouched and disgruntled. Mother was supposed to have purchased a new outfit for me for these final moments, and she had not bothered to do so. “I have to look after Heather, pet. I have a lot of responsibilities.” (As I write these words in 1999, I recall what a petty, small-minded young woman I was despite the tragedies that had rained down on me.)