If It Bleeds (9 page)

“But I do. Steve Marsh ended up dead.”

After I got off the phone, I went over the small pieces I'd uncovered. There was Eldert Harris and his water of life. There were Steve's arguments with a couple of men, along with the agency termination agreement I'd found at the studio. The fact that the show had sold out once Steve was dead was never far from my mind. And Caitlen's lateness at the opening still struck me as curious.

It was a gorgeous day and I felt like stretching my legs, so I headed toward Granville Island on foot. I grabbed a coffee at the Blue Parrot in the market, then wandered up along the shore, past Bridges Restaurant and the party boats moored nearby and up along the walkway at the seashore that got so much less traffic than the main entranceway to the island.

This walk, coffee in hand, has always been a peaceful respite for me. A place to think and reflect. So when I looked up and saw a familiar hull tied up in one of the marinas, I almost discounted what my eyes told me was truth.

I was so anxious to get to the boat I'd seen, I had to stop myself from running along the wharf. I told myself I couldn't be right. But how could I possibly be wrong?

When I got to her I tried to keep down my excitement. She was old and wooden and absolutely right. I couldn't imagine that this was not the boat from the painting. She was moored on a finger, bow in, so I couldn't see the name to confirm. But when I got closer, a man's voice distracted me just as I read the name
Fleetwood
stenciled on the stern.

“You lost, young lady?”

The man who peered at me from the boat's interior was beyond elderly. He was old.

“I'm…I'm not,” I stammered.

“Explain yourself then.” Despite his extreme age, as he came out of the cabin he looked fit and upright. His voice was tinged with dust, but it held steel.

“This boat. I saw it. In a painting.” It was all I could do to keep from stammering.

“And you are…?” he asked, making me think he wasn't a regular reader of my paper.

“I'm Nicole Charles, sir. I'm a reporter with the
Vancouver Post
.”

“And what might a newspaper be wanting with me?”

“It's not the paper, sir. It's this boat. As I said. I saw it. In a painting.”

“Not one like it?”

“No, sir. It was called
Fleetwood.
”

“That does seem a strange coincidence.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Mr.…” It was then I realized he hadn't given me his name.

“Harris,” he said, extending one leathery mitt. “Eldert Harris.”

“How do you do, sir.” Inside I was hesitating. And it didn't take me long to formulate the question. “Are you related to Caitlen Benton-Harris?”

“My granddaughter.”

“Do you know her boyfriend, Steve Marsh?”

His face darkened. “I did. Marsh. He's dead.”

“Sir, forgive me, but I have to ask. I was told that Marsh had words with someone who meets your description not long before he died.”

“Did you now?” To my discomfort, the old man looked amused.

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“Did this ‘someone' also tell you that Marsh had been cheating on my granddaughter?”

“No, sir. I haven't heard even a whisper of that.”

“Well, it's true. He told me, that day, that he'd broken it off. That he was going to finally ask Caitlen to marry him because he was free. I told him I didn't care. They're a bad lot, those Marshes.”

“Are you saying you didn't kill him?”

“Me? Honestly? I wouldn't dirty my hands. Anyway, better or worse? Caitlen loved him. And I think, after a fashion, he loved her as well.”

“She didn't kill him?”

“Caitlen? Don't be daft. She had more to lose than gain if she got rid of him.”

“Can I ask who he was having an affair with?”

“I'm not going to tell you that, no. Ask Caitlen herself. If she wants you to know, she'll say.”

As I walked back home, my mind was racing. Once in the door, I grabbed my laptop. Reporters have access to good online tools, but I didn't need any of those today. Fifteen minutes with Google filled in some of the blanks, though I needed to bring out a steno pad and take notes in order to keep track.

Eldert Harris was the son of the original rum-running Harris, Ebenezer. Ebenezer had been partners with Phineas Marsh, but where Phineas Marsh and his descendants ended up with a fortune, Ebenezer Harris ended up dying in jail in Walla Walla, Washington, near the end of 1930.

The things that had bound Steve Marsh and Caitlen Harris were deep and old, and, it seemed, both had been aware of this. The connection of these two might even have righted an ancient wrong. I drew myself up, chided myself. I was just being dramatic. Romantic. But a picture was beginning to emerge. I knew who I had to talk to next.

TWENTY-ONE

A
quick call to Itani had supplied me with an address. She'd gotten it from Steve Marsh's cell phone.

The Rosewood Building on Beach Avenue was built in 1928. Itani didn't tell me that, a plaque on the building did. The building wasn't tall, but it was beautiful. Just five stories of nothing but charm. A place built for rich people who wanted to pretend they were living someplace warm. There was a buzzer, but I didn't want to use it. I waited at a discreet distance until a slow-moving matron came into the foyer with three tiny dogs. I darted forward to give her a hand with the door.

“Thank you, my dear!” she exclaimed as she went out.

“Don't mention it,” I said from inside.

“So many young people are not polite these days,” she said as she and the dogs made their way down Beach.

If there's one thing I am, it's polite.

Itani had told me Caitlen was in 106, which I found without much trouble. When she opened the door, I could tell I was the last person she expected or wanted to see. She started to close the door so quickly, I was glad I'd thought to stick my foot in it just as it opened.

“You,” she said in a voice that said she remembered me.

“May I ask you a few questions?”

“You may not. In fact, if you get your foot out of my door, I'll close it.”

“Eldert Harris,” I said. It wasn't a question, but it got her attention anyway.

“Is he okay?” The concern on her face was real.

“He's fine. I was just wondering about your connection to him.”

“Excuse me?”

I planted my foot more firmly in the door.

“He's your grandfather?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“But he was also your boyfriend's enemy.”

“Please. Get your foot out of my door.” She squeezed the door on it so tightly, I could feel tears starting. I held on and hoped like hell my foot wasn't broken.

“Your grandfather is the enemy of your boyfriend,” I insisted.

“But that's ridiculous,” she said, though she didn't ease the pressure on my foot.

“I don't think so.”

“Steve didn't have any enemies.” Her gaze was innocent. And blue.

“There's an ice pick at the cop shop says that's not true,” I said, though I felt bad when I saw her pale at my words.

“Please. Why are you doing this? Just leave me be.”

“Your grandfather killed Steve Marsh!” There. I'd said it aloud.

“No.” She shook her head, firm and confident. And I bought it. Whatever
was
true, this woman didn't know about it. I sailed on anyway.

“Sure. He's hated the whole Marsh family since he was in jail and Phineas Marsh stayed free and—”

She interrupted me. It didn't take a genius to know she was glad to be able to do so.

“That's ridiculous. My grandfather was never in jail. He was really only a boy himself when his father—Eldert Senior—died in jail.”

“Senior?”

“That's right.” She stopped fighting with the door now and stood back on her heels, her arms crossed in front of her, looking pleased.

“I've made a mistake,” I said. And now that she'd said it, and I did the math, it was the only obvious thing. The man I'd met had been very young when the bad blood between the Marshes and the Harrises had been spun. “I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry? Imagine how sorry I am. Steve not two days gone and you here accusing my poor grandfather of God knows what.”

“But it all made so much sense.” I could feel my sketchy theories crumbling in the face of her confidence.

“My grandfather
was
upset with Steve,” Caitlen said. Her voice was slightly softer now. I had the feeling she might even be feeling a little sorry for me. “But not for the reasons you think.” She shifted her eyes left and right, as though searching for the answer to a question that hadn't been asked. Then she surprised me by saying, “Why don't you just come in?” I was too startled to do anything but follow her inside.

The living room had a wonderful view of the beach at English Bay, but I barely noticed. Caitlen directed me to sit on a long white sofa, perching herself opposite me on a matching chair.

“The thing is, Gramps found out that Steve was having an affair.”

“So he went to talk to him? Isn't that a little—?”

“Extreme?” Caitlen supplied. “Absolutely. But he's very protective of me.”

“You see how this looks.”

“I do. But I'm sure Gramps didn't kill him.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because I think I know who did.”

Caitlen told me a story. It was one that made sense and also confirmed what her grandfather had told me at the
Fleetwood
.

I sat with her for the better part of an hour, occasionally interjecting with a question but mostly listening to a tale that was obviously difficult for her to tell. Sometimes while she talked, she cried.

“But why didn't you tell the police?”

She looked at me. “I thought about it. Truly I did. But answer me this—would you have?”

Afterward, I got back in my car and headed in the direction of the Cambie Street Bridge. I could have told Itani with a phone call, but I wanted to be with her when she rolled out to make the arrest. That would even be in my story—the cops rolling out. I was going to get my byline. There was no way Hartigan could have scooped me on any of this. Turns out that's another thing they don't teach you in journalism school: every truly good ending has a big twist.

TWENTY-TWO

A
fter I met with Itani, I wrote the story as quickly as I could. I was scared Hartigan might get wind of even part of it and break it ahead of me. But he did not. There were details I left out. I knew I'd clean up some of those in follow-up stories over the next few weeks.

When I was done, I didn't even upload my piece to the server. I put it on a thumb drive and walked it down to the fourth floor, where I put it into Mike's hands.

“I don't want Hartigan's mitts on this,” I said. I sat on the chair opposite his desk, trying not to try to read his face while he read.

“Good work, Nic,” he said when he was done. “Far as I know, the art dealer wasn't even a suspect.”

“That's right.”

“And Steve had been having an affair with him? Your source is good?”

“The best. His fiancé, Caitlen Benton-Harris.”

Mike whistled.

“Exactly,” I said. “Steve was using him, Mike. He tried to end it some time ago, but the dealer was in love with him. Plus Steve still needed him to sell his work. But recently he started getting bigger. Caitlen told me Steve had an offer from a gallery in Toronto that would have taken his work international.”

“So Steve was going to end it.”

“Right. Which would have meant the end of these growing commissions, not to mention the relationship. So Sam kills Marsh outside the gallery, which is perfect. Not only does it secure Sam's position as agent of a fairly large body of work, but the timing and location—right outside the gallery where Steve's show was opening—meant that the publicity from the killing alone would make Sam a fortune.”

“You said the show sold out by the next day.”

“It did. Plus there were stacks and stacks of finished canvases at the studio and more in the basement at the gallery when they went to arrest Sam. Steve was prolific.”

Mike whistled. “So hundreds of thousands?”

“In commissions, yes. I did a rough calculation. The gross from sales of everything we know about would have been in the millions.”

“But the ice pick, Nic. Why the hell use an ice pick?”

“Itani says that's the best news of this whole thing. Without it, Sam might have gotten away with manslaughter. But the ice pick indicates premeditation. See, Sam was trying to frame Caitlen's grandfather.”

“You've indicated that in the story. I'm still not sure I get why.”

“He was in the rum-running business with Marsh's great-grandfather when he was a kid. His own father went to prison. Sam knew all of that and thought he could make it look like Old Man Harris did the deed for revenge of crimes against his family.”

“And the ice pick?” Mike prompted again.

“It wasn't from Harris's boat. The police think there might be no actual connection with Harris, but it's definitely from that era.”

“So it
could
have been from that boat, which was all that mattered.”

“Exactly.”

I asked if I'd be moving downstairs.

Mike shook his head. “You did a good job, kid. But we're set down here just now. And I gather things are not so set upstairs.”

I couldn't help myself. I sighed. “Gossip.”

“That's right.” He gave me a crooked grin. “It's a tough job, kid. But someone's gotta do it. You can be proud of yourself on this one though. You did a good job reporting. And you uncovered some stuff I'm pretty sure no one else would have done. You can give yourself a pat on the back.”