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Chapter Text

Sprawled across his own desk, illuminated only by the street light filtering through the window, Charles Mackinnon was dying. 

His laboured breathing disturbed the papers on the desk. Business documents, old photographs, well-thumbed letters. The detritus of his life. The catalogue of his mistakes. The reason for his demise. His mouth worked, brushing his jaw against the dusty cover of the book lying next to him, but no sound came out. Hand spasming, his knuckles brushed the empty frame that had once held his wedding picture. 

Behind Mackinnon’s chair, his killer stood and watched, waiting for him to die. Murdering Mackinnon had been easier than the killer had expected. At the crucial moment, all the anger had welled up, sharpened to a point, found its outlet; and now that Mackinnon’s body was nearly finished fighting its final battle to stay alive, the killer felt nothing but a calm contentment. 

“Come on, Charlie.” 

A hand patted Mackinnon’s head, almost gently. They’d been fond of each other, once; they might still have been, if Mackinnon hadn’t ruined everything. He deserved to die, painfully, knowing that he’d brought it upon himself, but in the end the killer couldn’t leave him to die alone in the dark. 

“Come on, Charlie. Easy now. You’re almost there.” 

Eyelids that had been twitching ceased, resting half-closed over deep brown eyes. One last ragged exhale, and then silence. 

The killer slipped out of the room, and there was no more life. Nothing but a husk that had once been Charles Mackinnon. 

Chapter Text

Toronto, Ontario

October 1956

Outside, a storm raged. The heavy grey skies that had been threatening all day had finally given way to a dark and stormy night. Gusting winds knocked colourful leaves out of the trees, where rain pelted them into a matted and mushy clump in the sewer-drains. 

But inside, the gallery was bright with fluorescent light. The only rain came from the tower of champagne flutes, overrunning with real French champagne; the only mist came from the perfume of hothouse flowers and the smoke from expensive cigarettes; and, thrumming below it all, the only wind-gusts came from the gossip being whispered across the room. 

And yet for all that, a storm raged inside, too. Because the gossip was about murder. 

Between the flowers and the paintings, the placards that were supposed to be the feature of the gala, between the white-coated waiters with their trays of champagne, the bright lights of Toronto high society clustered together to exchange whispered rumours about one of their own. 

"I can't believe it — Charles Mackinnon! Oh, he was no angel, but —"

"Murdered in his own study. I heard that he'd been stabbed with a butcher's knife!" 

“—his own letter opener, I'd heard." 

"Stabbed with a letter opener?" 

"Yes—a commemorative one he got when he graduated from St. Andrew’s College!” 

"Can you stab someone with a letter opener?" 

"I don't think he was stabbed at all. I heard he was poisoned." 

"Poisoned!" 

"Yes, a healthy slug of arsenic right into his good scotch." 

Titters all around, but at least one lady paused to eye her champagne suspiciously before her next sip. 

"They're saying it was his wife. Can you believe it?" 

"Isn't it always the wife?" 

"But Marilyn Mackinnon! What a little mouse she is!" 

"Would she have the strength to stab him?" 

"Doesn't take any strength to pour arsenic in his scotch." 

"But why would she?" 

"He was stepping out on her, didn't you know?" 

"Oh, we've all known that forever. Why would she poison him now?" 

"Who knows?" 

"Weren't the Mackinnons getting—a divorce?" 

“Yes—from the Angel of Divorce herself, didn’t you hear?” 

Titters across the group. 

Bea felt their glances and moved farther toward the back of the gallery. For heaven’s sake—after six months, that stupid nickname had been starting to die down, and then this just had to go and revive it. A pox on the garden club ladies of Toronto. A bunch of macabre magpies disguised in floral prints, that's what they were. 

For the twentieth time in as many minutes, Bea wished she'd been able to stay home tonight. She hated these kinds of parties at the best of times. Her profession and her father's status gained her entry to the higher strata of Toronto's social circles, but she felt like an outsider when she was there. Her family hadn't been rich for generations. Her name wasn't on any streets or buildings. People didn’t know who she was. 

Or at least they hadn’t known who she was, until she had been featured in an article in Maclean’s magazine. Now high society did recognize her, and it was so much worse than being invisible. The women stared at her with a kind of morbid curiosity and whispered to one another behind their hands. The men eyed her with suspicion and kept their wives away, as if speaking to Bea might suddenly give these women ideas about leaving their husbands. 

Bea might have reassured them on that point, if they'd cared to speak to her. Divorces were difficult enough to get under the best of circumstances. Bea was more likely to talk a potential client out of a divorce action, than to talk a potential client into one. 

She finished her first flute of champagne and picked up another, ducking by another group of chattering society matrons. 

“I heard it direct from Mrs. Flewelling that he was stabbed, and she lives right next door. And I can't see Marilyn Mackinnon stabbing anyone, can you? She hasn’t the gumption for it.”  

“Could it have been the housekeeper?" 

"The housekeeper?"

"Maybe Charles was becoming a bit too familiar, if you know what I mean." 

“I bet it was his lover. Or the lover's husband." 

"Maybe it was a burglary gone wrong!" 

"A burglary?”

“What, was anything taken?” 

"It wasn't a robbery!"

"Well, how would you know?"

“You know, I did hear there’s been teenagers loitering in the neighbourhood lately.” 

"I told you, I spoke to Mrs. Flewelling this afternoon. Nothing was missing. It couldn’t be a robbery!” 

"Which brings us straight back to Marilyn." 

“I heard Agatha went over there yesterday afternoon. Is she coming tonight? Has anyone seen her?”  

Bea sipped her champagne and pretended to study the painting in front of her. The housekeeper, the lover, the lover’s husband, a burglar. At least the rumour mongers weren’t only considering the wife. 

The gossipy cats by the hothouse roses had one thing right, at least. Mrs. Marilyn Mackinnon was one of Bea's clients, and up until today—or, technically, sometime last night—her divorce case had been going shockingly smoothly. Charles Mackinnon had confessed easily to adultery when asked; his confession was believable enough and his evidence convincing enough that Bea didn't anticipate any major problems with the judge; all was proceeding as planned, and the court date was coming up by the end of the month. There were no children, and the discussions about marital property had gone amicably enough. The only tense moment of the entire case so far was when Mr. Mackinnon had commented, somewhat snidely, that he expected his next wife would be able to bless him with children. Marilyn had gone pale, and Mackinnon’s own lawyer had instantly rebuked him, and the conversation had continued as if he hadn’t spoken. Only one bitter moment in the whole proceeding had to be a record. 

So why would Mrs. Mackinnon murder her husband, just weeks shy of potentially being free of him? 

The gossipy cats had been, regrettably, right about one other thing. Marilyn Mackinnon didn’t have a lick of gumption. It had probably taken all the initiative she would ever have in her life just to come to Bea in the first place. This was not a murderess. 

Bea hadn't been able to get in touch with Marilyn all day. The police had taken her away when they'd come for her husband's body, and she hadn't been allowed to return home. She couldn't have murdered her husband—it made absolutely no sense—and yet, if the police weren't going to charge her, wouldn't they have allowed her to go home by now? 

Bea sipped her champagne and turned to the wall, looking at the art so she could pretend to ignore the crowd. She wished she could have stayed home—she had work to do, or maybe she could have called the police station and cajoled them into letting her talk to her client. But obligations like this were difficult to avoid. 

The gala was being hosted by four neighbourhood gardening clubs: Rosedale, Forest Hill, Lawrence Park, and Riverside. Bea suspected that most of the planning had been done by the Rosedale Garden Club. Who but a rich Rosedaleite would ever think to have a floral-themed party in October? The flowers were all from hothouses, of course. They were serving good champagne. All for a good cause—well, a cause, anyway. The various garden clubs had decided to begin a scholarship program for young ladies, and this reception was a fund-raising event for that particular endeavour. The theme: the best of Canadian nature, in art and in literature. 

Bea paused in front of a painting and accompanying placard. The reason that she could not skip this evening's torture: on the canvas, the sea roiled violently, a tempest of oils that faithfully depicted September storms off the coast in Blair Water. In the corner, a tiny signature: "Theo. Kent." The placard bore a brief quote with a poetic description of a similar storm, signed, E.B. Starr. 

At least these pieces suited the October evening, the sombreness and turmoil that should accompany a murder. Not the gleefully gossiping garden ladies in their inappropriately June-like florals. 

Bea moved on to the next piece—a Group of Seven painting, one of the many that depicted a windblown tree. The placard beneath it bore a quote from another poem:

Came the wind of the salt grey seas, 

With a bite and a tang in the breath of it, 

Binding with bitter sorceries

Those who walk in the path of it.*

It would be fitting, except that the painting had been done in Northern Ontario and the note on the placard indicated that the poet was from Prince Edward Island. Not that the garden club ladies were likely to care. To a Torontonian, Algonquin Park and Prince Edward Island were much the same, never mind the thousand miles separating them. They were both Not Toronto. 

This whole thing was a farce, really, from the October gloom to the hothouse flowers. The best of Canadian nature? To a Torontonian, nature was something to be corralled into park or a lawn so as not to disturb the city around it. If it hadn’t been for the ravines, their steep pitch resisting any hope of civilizing factors, Toronto would have no nature at all. 

Jules would have called these thoughts uncharitable. But Jules was across the room, earnestly showing her portfolio to two soberly-dressed gentlemen who presumably really were here about the art. 

Bea had just taken another sip of champagne—a self-defense mechanism she would have to curb, or she’d be three sheets to the wind before her parents arrived—when the man approached. 

"Beatrice Miller?" 

She turned and smiled politely. Was she supposed to recognize him? As both a woman and a practitioner of family law, Bea was inclined to be suspicious of men. Especially men who turned up unexpectedly, and especially men who presumed upon politeness to feign a familiarity that didn’t exist. 

On closer inspection he still didn’t look familiar—tall and stout, well-dressed but slightly rumpled, like he’d thrown on the grey suit haphazardly and hadn’t given it a thought since. His hair looked like it had been mussed by the wind. 

“Can I help you?” she inquired. 

The man stuck his hand out to shake. There was a look in his hazel eyes that Bea could only describe as mischievous. Already this didn’t bode well. “I hope so. You see, Miss Miller, I’m a journalist, and I was hoping to talk to you about the Mackinnon murder—“

“No,” said Bea instantly, and hurried toward the exit.  

The man—the reporter—easily kept pace, dodging through the crowd as though he’d been born to it. “I started that in the wrong place, didn’t I? The thing is, I’m not a muckraker for the society rags. I’m an investigative journalist for Saturday Evening magazine. This wouldn’t be a hack job. I’d want to do an in-depth piece. What drives a wealthy housewife to murder?” 

Did he think offering an in-depth piece would be more appealing to Bea? Wasn’t that the same line Jack Reynolds had used? “I’m not so sure how Saturday Evening’s legal counsel would feel if you published a piece calling my client a murderer when no charges have even been laid yet.” 

The reporter wasn’t in the least flustered. “Well—that was just one idea for a headline. I wouldn’t publish it until later, anyway, but the article will be so much better if I can start collecting interviews now. I mean to write a lengthy exploration of the psychology involved in a murder trial—and maybe a divorce trial, too, for comparison’s sake. Two ways out of a marriage, mediated by the courts. There’s all the trappings of a page-turner there, isn’t there? Money and infidelity and violence. How does that sound?” 

“Awful,” said Bea flatly. They were in an empty hallway now, and she could see the sign for the washrooms in the distance. 

“You know, I phoned up Jack Reynolds this afternoon and asked after you. The Angel of Divorce. Very fascinating what you had to say about divorce reform, and a shame he didn’t include it all in the final piece. I could quote you in full on that subject, too. We’re not squeamish like Maclean’s. Whatever you have to say, I can make sure that Saturday Evening will print it.” 

“I have nothing to say,” Bea told him, and ducked into the ladies' room, where he could not follow. 

God damn reporters. To think that she’d been pleased when that absolute donkey of a Jack Reynolds had asked to write about her life and her career! Bea should have known better than to open her mouth on divorce reform, should have redirected the focus to the broader picture of her family law practice. But of course, she’d let herself be baited. Of course, divorce represented the most dramatic bit of the profile. Of course, he’d taken her remarks out of context and made her sound like some kind of anti-marriage crusader. 

Still cursing Jack Reynolds’s name, Bea spent a few moments in front of the mirror, fixing her hair and reapplying her lipstick. She was not a particularly pretty woman, and had never tried to be. Other than a bold red lipstick that she thought gave her face character, she didn’t wear much makeup, and kept her hair short and styled simply—to her mother's chagrin. "You have such beautiful hair!" Ilse Miller would cry every time Bea had it chopped off. This was rather more of an incentive to keep it short than not. 

Tonight’s invitation had specified a floral theme to the dress code, but Bea hadn't owned a floral print since she'd been old enough to buy her own clothes. Her dress was green, and she hoped that was enough. Besides—a woman in Bea's line of work had to be careful not to appear too feminine and frilly. She could work her best when her male colleagues forgot to think of her as a lady. 

She was just finishing up when another lady emerged from a booth and came to wash her hands. It took Bea a second to recognize her. 

"Mrs. Peterson?" she said in surprise. 

Agatha Peterson jerked to a stop, startled, blue eyes widening, hands still dripping into the washbasin. “Oh! I’m sorry…?”

"My apologies. I’m Beatrice Miller. Marilyn Mackinnon is one of my clients." 

"Ah. Yes. The lawyer." 

"That's right." 

Mrs. Peterson was a small woman, fine-boned and delicate. Her blonde hair had been styled into an elaborate up-do and the makeup on her pale face was perfect. Unlike Bea, she’d followed the dress code: she wore what was clearly a summer dress, a sleeveless cream silk with red roses scattered across it. Between the fine bones and the pallid perfection of her skin, she looked like a porcelain doll. A porcelain doll dressed as though it was June, rather than October. 

Frankly, Bea was shocked to see her here at all. Mrs. Peterson was one of Marilyn Mackinnon's closest friends. What was the protocol for attending a fundraising gala when one's friend was suspected of murdering her husband? 

"You saw Marilyn yesterday?" Bea asked. That was one of the tidbits of gossip she'd picked up earlier. 

“Y—es," said Mrs. Peterson hesitantly. She turned to dry her hands. "I went for tea." 

"And how was she? Did anything seem amiss? Did you see... him?" 

Mrs. Peterson shook her head—and kept shaking. Her whole body was shaking now—or was she just shivering? Really, that was not a good dress for this weather. 

"No, there was nothing,” said Mrs. Peterson, heading towards the door. “Lovely to meet you, Miss—"

Bea followed her out of the ladies’ room. “I only want to know if Marilyn is alright. The police wouldn't let me talk to her earlier and this all seems very out of character her, wouldn’t you say? I really can't imagine—“

“There was nothing,” Mrs. Peterson repeated. Her eyes looked shadowed, suddenly, and Bea wondered if she hadn’t gone even paler under her makeup. 

“Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?” 

Mrs. Peterson shook her head, but she had stopped backing away and was wringing her hands and swaying slightly. Bea hoped like hell the woman didn’t faint—that was just what this evening needed. 

“Mrs. Peterson,” Bea said, really concerned now. “Maybe you should go home. I’m sure it’s been a difficult day. Your friend—“

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Peterson, jerking back. 

"What's going on here? Aggie?" 

"Oh, Ralph," sighed Mrs. Peterson in something like relief, turning toward the tall, scowling man who was approaching. He wrapped an arm around her, steadying her, and she turned her face into his shoulder.  

The man glared at Bea. 

"What's the big idea? Are you bothering my wife? She doesn't need any reminders of this awful business." 

Ah, so this was Mr. Peterson. 

Peterson was much taller than his wife, and handsome in a severe kind of way, all clean lines and precise angles, with the kind of Celtic colouring that paired dark hair with blue eyes and a fair complexion. His black suit hung perfectly, as though it wouldn’t dare be anything other than expertly fitted or face his wrath. He and his wife would have made a well-matched picture, the beautiful and well-dressed couple, except that while Mrs. Peterson’s expression was distressed, her husband’s was cold and contemptuous. 

But—no. Even then, they looked perfectly attired for different seasons, Peterson dark and severe as a winter night while his wife shivered in a sunny, floaty dress for a summer’s afternoon. Were they really so well-matched? Even his arm around her shoulder seemed more commanding than comforting. But then, Bea was more cynical on the subject of marital felicity than most. 

Bea put on her most diplomatic smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Peterson, I'm not trying to bother anybody. I was just wondering if your—if either of you have had any news from Mrs. Mackinnon. I'm concerned about her." 

"Oh, she’s concerned!" Peterson shook his head. Mrs. Peterson pressed her hand to her stomach like she might be ill. "A good man is dead. That's what you should be concerned about, lady." 

If Peterson cared so much about Charles Mackinnon's murder, Bea wasn't sure why he was here at this party only twelve hours after it had been discovered. But Peterson strode away down the hall before she could reframe that thought in polite words, dragging his wife behind him. Mrs. Peterson glanced back at Bea once, but whirled away when her husband yanked her toward the gallery. Her skirt flared out behind them, the crimson roses looking ominously like drops of blood from this distance. 

Bea shivered. No wonder such an anxious woman as Agnes Peterson spent so much time with a gentle soul like Marilyn Mackinnon, if this stern and sarcastic man was her husband. 

"Bit rude, wasn't he?" came a voice behind her, and Bea whirled around to see the reporter again, leaning against the wall as though he hadn't a care in the world. 

"Were you waiting for me out here?" she demanded. 

He clearly hadn’t been freshening up—his red-brown hair still stuck up in all directions. Bea was thankful she’d taken the time to fix her own hair and freshen her lipstick. She held herself as tall and confident as possible as the reporter approached her with a grin that he probably thought was charming. 

“Miss Miller, I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier.” 

“Did we?” 

“Miss Miller—may I call you Beatrice?” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

“Miss Miller, I realized I didn’t quite introduce myself earlier. Gil Ford, Saturday Evening—“

“I wouldn’t think Saturday evenings would be very exciting in Guilford,” Bea said. “Isn’t there a brand-new subdivision going in there?” 

She’d hoped to make him uncomfortable but instead he grinned. “Do you mean Guildwood? I do hear great things about the planned community there. And I’m sure you’ve heard of Saturday Evening magazine.” 

Of course she had—everyone had heard of Saturday Evening magazine. It was difficult to escape it in Toronto, and even outside of the city, every educated household seemed to have a subscription. Since she had barred Maclean’s from her office after the “angel of divorce” debacle, it was one of the most popular magazines in her waiting area—outside of Chatelaine, of course.  Her clients were almost exactly Chatelaine’s target audience. 

“Gilbert Ford at your service,” said the reporter. “Gilbert Owen Ford, for the full treatment, but call me Gil.” 

“I’d really rather not,” said Bea, and then as her mind caught up to her ears, “Wait. Owen Ford, as in The Life-Book of Captain Jim?” 

Ford’s face twitched—a grimace, a very slight one, but still a little loss of composure. “My grandfather. Interesting choice—the Life-Book isn’t normally the first of his works that comes to mind, for most people.” 

It was for people from Prince Edward Island. Bea said nothing. If she divulged her origins, any reporter worth his salt would know who her father was by the end of the evening. Based on this Ford’s resourcefulness so far, he would probably have her entire family tree and a quote from her mother by morning. Heaven forfend. 

Ford must have realized she wasn’t going to say anything else about his grandfather or Captain Jim, because he dove straight back into his pitch. “The thing is, Miss Miller, I’m very interested in a long-form feature on this subject. It wouldn’t be disrespectful or gossipy or invasive, like something from the society pages. I want to write—“

“An in-depth psychological profile, I think you said.” Bea leaned against the patch of wall he’d occupied earlier and settled in, crossing her arms and her ankles. 

This threw Ford off his game for a moment—but only a moment. He glanced down at her silver pumps, and then he blinked and dove straight back into his pitch for how he wanted to expose the most private and painful details of her client’s marriage to the reading public. 

Bea already knew she wasn’t going to allow him to interview her, but it certainly was entertaining to watch him speak. Gil Ford was a spot of chaos in the quiet, empty hallway. He was rocking on his feet as he spoke, gesturing emphatically to underline some point she had missed. He was wasting his time—but, honestly, it was better to stand out here and listen to him than it would be to stand in the gallery and be the subject of whispers. She wondered, incidentally, what buttoned-up Toronto society made of him. 

She was startled from her thoughts by the sound of her name. “Bea! Are you hiding in the back hallway?” 

Bea couldn’t stop a smile at her cousin’s approach. Juliet Kent was, technically, Bea’s cousin at some remove, but their parents had always been close, and the two girls had spent their summers together on P.E. Island, growing up in some ways more like sisters than distant cousins. 

Jules had Aunt Emily’s violet eyes and dark hair, and the gamine look of Audrey Hepburn. Wherever she went she had plenty of male attention—which was ironic, since she had even less use for it than Bea did. Tonight she had foregone the floral motif entirely, wearing a gown of the same deep grey that had threatened the skies all afternoon. 

“I’m not hiding,” Bea replied, turning towards her cousin. The movement angled her away from Gil Ford, incidentally. 

“At least one quarter of the attendees are talking about something other than the murder,” said Jules brightly. “Unfortunately, most if it isn’t the art or the poetry.” 

Which must be disappointing for an aspiring young artist, Bea supposed. “Are you here to hide in the back hallway, then?” 

Jules’s eyes flitted to Ford and back to Bea, and her eyebrows rose. “I’m here to warn you that the family has arrived. Maybe you’re right to hide in the hallway. I can just imagine what Aunt Ilse would say if she saw you spending time with — !” 

Bea grimaced. “Alright, thank you, Juliet.” 

Jules winked at Ford, waggled her fingers at Bea, and disappeared back into the gallery. 

When Bea turned back around, Ford seemed amused by the whole exchange. Little laugh lines had crinkled up at the corners of his eyes, and tilted his head to the side as he observed Bea. “Beatrice. I didn’t realize before.” 

“Didn’t realize what?” she asked, aggravated by his continued presence and by his use of her given name. 

“Much Ado About Nothing, right? Your sister is much more obvious. I wouldn’t have made the Shakespeare connection otherwise. What’s your third sister named, Ophelia?” 

In fact, Bea had a brother named Horatio. But the name owed nothing to Shakespeare, and she resented the implication. 

She let her annoyance bleed into her voice. “What is this, some game of deductive reasoning? Are you a Sherlockian? Maybe you should be solving murders instead of exploiting them.” 

Ford looked almost offended. “I’m not exploiting anyone!” 

“Why are you here tonight? Are fundraising galas your normal beat, or did you have the ghoulish idea that there would be people here tonight you could interview for your murder article? And if you really have spoken to Jack Reynolds, what on earth makes you think that I’d be likely to trust a reporter?” 

“Journalist, if you please. Investigative.” 

Was that really what he had taken from her little speech? Honestly. 

“Good bye, Mr. Ford,” she sad coldly, and stalked back into the gallery.

Chapter Text

This time when Bea entered the gallery the change in atmosphere from the hallway was so stark that it felt like walking into a wall of flowers, smoke, gossip. At least this time the room was full enough that her entrance wasn’t immediately noticed, everyone already tucked into their little groups and intent on their conversations. Bea snagged a new flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray so she had something to do with her hands, and set out to find her father. 

Her mother found her first. 

“Oh, Bea, what have you done with your hair,” was what she said, in tones of great despair, as she enveloped her daughter in a hug. 

Ilse Miller might be—age redacted—but, minus a few grey streaks, her hair was still the same yellow-gold colour as Bea’s, and she wore it much more fashionably, too. Tonight it was styled in a sleek updo, with some kind of twist that managed to blend the grey in with the yellow strands. At least, Bea was glad to see, her mother had also ignored the floral dress code, and instead was wearing a gown reminiscent of autumn leaves. 

“I haven’t done anything to my hair, Mother.” 

“Exactly! I wish you’d let it grow—“

Bea grimaced. “It’s fine. Besides, Jules thinks it looks like Elizabeth Taylor’s.” 

“But you don’t look like Elizabeth Taylor,” said her mother. “Oh, don’t make that face at me, Beatrice. If you grew your hair out just a little and styled it more elaborately, you might almost resemble Jane Powell.” 

“Mother!” 

“It might even be good for your career,” Ilse persisted. “Since Jane Powell did Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and that movie is an advertisement for divorce reform if I ever saw one.” 

“Well, she isn’t entirely wrong,” came a gentle voice, and Bea turned gratefully. 

“Aunt Emily!” 

Unlike Ilse, whose figure had softened and broadened through motherhood and middle-age, Emily Kent was just as slender as she’d been in her wedding photos. The grey streaks in her dark hair were more numerous and more obvious than Ilse’s, but she eschewed any kind of hair dye—“Just like a Murray,” Ilse sometimes said. But Bea thought it suited her, the gentle, natural aging. Soon enough she’d be totally silver-haired, and her violet eyes would be even more striking for the fine lines around them. 

“Juliet says that you have some connection to this murder we’re hearing about,” Aunt Emily said after they embraced. “You didn’t have to come tonight.” 

“Not a close connection,” Bea assured her. “The victim was the husband of one of my clients. And so, apparently, my client is a suspect.” 

“Do you think she did it?” Ilse asked bluntly. 

“Ilse!” Aunt Emily objected. 

But when they weren’t talking about Bea’s personal life, she did appreciate her mother’s bluntness. “I don’t, actually. She isn’t the type, and I can’t think what motive she would have.” 

Ilse nodded. She trusted Bea’s judgement professionally, even if she didn’t trust Bea’s ability to make decisions about her own life. 

“Even if she didn’t do it, it doesn’t hurt to put that thought into some of these men’s heads for a moment. Remind them that there’s a worse outcome to an unhappy wife than a divorce,” Ilse said, which was a point Bea could appreciate even if she didn’t necessarily agree. Unlike her mother’s next point, which was, “And the unmarried ones might look at you a little more kindly. Strike while the iron is hot, I say. There’s a handsome one watching you right now.” 

Bea scowled. “You know I’m not looking for a husband, Mother—“ but she turned to look anyway. 

Ralph Peterson was staring at her with quiet contempt. When she met his eyes, he smirked and turned away. 

She didn’t realize until she felt a shiver of apprehension that she’d expected that if any man was watching her, intently enough to make her mother notice, it would be Gil Ford. But he was across the room, deep in conversation with another man. Ford’s gaze would have been an annoyance, but Peterson’s was ominous. 

“Oh, him,” Bea said, as lightly as she could manage. “Suspicious husband. I was talking to his wife earlier and he told me off. And he’s not the first to think I’m trying to alienate his wife from him. These men aren’t scared of the Mackinnon case. They don’t think their wives are capable of seeking out a divorce lawyer on their own, let alone murder.” 

Ilse tutted. “Would they be less suspicious if you yourself were happily married, do you think?” 

“Mother!”

She threw up her hands. “Fine, fine, I won’t say anything else. Tonight.” 

Fortunately she didn’t have an opportunity to test this, since Uncle Teddy arrived with more champagne and there was another round of greeting and embracing. 

“Not quite what I was expecting when they asked me to display one of my paintings,” he said thoughtfully. “And this is for a scholarship programme?” 

“It’s an excuse to dress up and have a party,” said Bea. 

Teddy smiled indulgently. “Always the cynic, Beatrice.” 

He had never called her Bea, preferring to use her full name. Often she found it endearing; when she was in a bad temper she found it annoying. Tonight was the latter. 

“Well, all those Rosedale Garden Club ladies have more than enough money. They could have just set up the scholarship without having to raise funds for it. Never mind Forest Hill and Lawrence Park and Riverside. So, yes—it’s an excuse.” 

“At least they took the excuse to appreciate art and literature.” 

Uncle Teddy and Aunt Emily exchanged a loving glance that softened Bea’s heart to an appreciable degree, at least until her mother said, “Ha! Another fish on your line, Bea.” 

Bea turned around. It was Gil Ford watching her this time, head tilted, like he had done earlier after Jules had left them in the hallway. When she caught his eye, he turned sheepishly away. 

“That’s not a man, Mother, it’s a reporter. A journalist,” she corrected herself. 

“And he can’t be both?” 

“Of course he’s a man, but it doesn’t matter, because his interest in me is journalistic.” 

“Is it?” murmured Aunt Emily. 

Aunt Emily firmly believed that women could happily spend their lives unmarried, and often tried to discourage Ilse’s match-making attempts. If she was questioning Bea on this, no one would be on her side 

“Oh, look, there’s Jane Stuart,” Bea said hurriedly. “Must go and say hello. I’ll see you later.” 

She took off before anyone could object, leaving her empty champagne flute on a passing waiter’s tray and weaving her way through stands of people who recognized her and watched with suggestive eyes, and people who were caught up in their conversations, a malevolent edge to their chatter as they talked murder and motive. 

Jane Stuart stood alone at a cocktail table and watched coolly as Bea approached. Bea had always wished they were better friends; Jane did not appear to share the sentiment. She was exactly the kind of woman Bea most admired—intelligent and resourceful and never afraid to tackle any problem laid out in front of her. She also had the kind of pride and public reserve that came with so many Old Toronto families, and which Bea could never in a million years hope to achieve. 

She could probably blame that pride for the fact that they weren’t better friends—except that Jane had told her directly that she thought that divorces were bad for the children involved. Since Jane was the vice-president of the Children’s Aid Society, Bea would have expected her to take a more enlightened view. Yes, divorce could be difficult for children, but being raised in an unhappy household could be much worse. Another lawyer had told Bea that Jane’s mother had been a Kennedy and Kennedys on the whole did not approve of divorce; and a mutual friend had confided that Jane’s own parents had once come very close to divorce and Jane had gone to some great length to reunite them. 

Whatever the reason, Jane maintained her reserve around Bea, and particularly since that confounded “angel of divorce” article, was always polite but not warm when they met. Tonight was no exception. “Good evening, Bea. Are you enjoying the art?” 

“As much as possible. I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you involved in one of the garden clubs?” 

“Riverside,” Jane confirmed. She was wearing a floral print, Bea noticed—but it was a sturdy fabric, and the flowers were in darker, richer hues. A floral appropriate for autumn. “And you? I didn’t take you for much of a gardener.” 

“I’m not—it’s a family obligation. My aunt and uncle are contributors.” 

They made polite small talk for another few minutes, while Bea scanned the crowd for her father. Nowhere to be seen—but she did, unexpectedly, see another man she knew. Why would the lowest-budget private detective in town be at a fancy fundraising gala?

Jane must have been scanning the crowd too, because she suddenly said, “Oh, there’s Gil Ford. Are you acquainted?” 

Bea turned to see Gil Ford, maybe ten feet away, bringing his champagne up to his lips. 

“Only minimally acquainted,” Bea replied frostily, hoping Jane would let it drop. 

But instead, Jane called out his name and beckoned him over. His smile for Jane got a bit tight when he saw Bea, but he snagged two more flutes of champagne and made his way in their direction. 

“Ladies,” he said jovially, passing Jane a flute. “Enjoying your evening?” 

“Thank you, Gil. You know Bea Miller?” 

“Mostly by reputation,” he said, passing her the other flute. 

“Thank you,” she said, to be polite, and took a long sip hoping that it would serve as an excuse not to say anything else. 

Jane had already turned back to Ford. “Have you seen my father lately?” 

“I’m hiding from him, so therefore, I know exactly where he is.” 

Jane sent him a cooly amused glance. “Are you past your deadline again?” 

“Investigative journalists don’t have deadlines.” 

“Well, that’s certainly not true.” 

He sighed. “I saw him five minutes ago, at the far end of the gallery, reciting old habitant poetry in front of a Krieghoff landscape.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Bea without thinking. All that did was make them both blink at her, as though neither of them thought it would be very embarrassing to have one’s father recite habitant poetry in front of the Rosedale elite. 

“Thank you.” Jane put her still-full champagne flute down on the cocktail table. “I’ll go find him now. Good night Gil, Bea.” 

And—proof positive that she wasn’t a true friend—she walked off and left them alone together. 

If it hadn’t been for the crowd, Bea might have walked away too. But there were too many speculative looks pointed her way. The news must have gone around the entire gallery by now that she was Mrs. Mackinnon’s divorce lawyer. That she was “the angel of divorce”. Bea didn’t want to be left alone, and she certainly didn’t want to do anything to draw more attention to herself. Instead, she took another sip of her champagne—which, honestly, might not have been a good idea. How many had she had, at this point? 

“Who are you, Beatrice Miller?” 

She turned to look at the man beside her. He was studying her with his head tilted again, but this time he looked more puzzled than amused. 

“I prefer Bea, in fact.” 

“You’re passionately for divorce reform yet it’s clear that in your practice you prioritize the needs of your clients. You’re not from an established family yet you move in pretty high society. You don’t garden, but you’re here at this garden club fund raiser. You wear a plain dress with silver slippers. You’re close enough to one of the best contemporary painters in Canada to embrace him when you meet. You’ve read The Life-Book of Captain Jim. And you’re friends with Jane Stuart.” 

Wasn’t he supposed to be an investigative journalist? It sounded like he had enough of the clues that he should be able to piece together her identity. 

“I don’t know that Jane would call me a friend,” she said. “We’re professional acquaintances. Children’s Aid, family law. Although I don’t think she approves of divorce.” 

“Well, her mother was a Kennedy,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone that made her want to throw the rest of her champagne at him. The Torontonian snob. She took another sip instead. 

“Her parents—“ she began, but stopped when she remembered she was talking to a journalist. 

“Her parents were never going to divorce. Although it’s interesting that you know that story. I barely know it, and her father’s been my editor for almost ten years.” 

Bea couldn’t remember who had told her the story, so she shrugged. He shook his head. “Who are you?” 

“You mean you haven’t deduced it all by now?” she asked. 

It came out with more hostility than she intended, but he just raised his eyebrows. 

“I didn’t think you liked it when I tried that earlier.” 

She hadn’t realized he’d noticed. “Well, you came to the wrong conclusion. It might have been more impressive if you’d been right. Juliet is my cousin, not my sister. And I was named after my grandmother.” 

“Ah. I did think the Shakespeare connection might be a stretch. But Juliet is an uncommon name.” He smiled ruefully. “This deductive reasoning business isn’t as easy as Sherlock Holmes makes it seem.” 

“Or maybe you’re not very good at it,” she said, without thinking. Damn. Either she’d had too much champagne, or not enough. She took another sip, which would either hurt or help. 

Ford looked more amused than offended. “Do you want to try?” 

“On you?” 

He shrugged broad shoulders. “Be my guest.” 

Bea looked him over, gathering her observations, for so long that he started to fidget. 

“Someone cares for you,” she started, which made him raise his eyebrows again. “I mean, someone takes care of you. Your clothes are high-quality, well-tailored and well-maintained. The creases in your suit have been pressed perfectly and it looks like your collar has been starched. So, someone puts time and energy into your clothes, but it isn’t you. I’d bet you don’t spend a lot of time thinking about your appearance. Your jacket is crooked—probably has been since you took off your overcoat when you arrived, and you’ve never fixed it. And your hair has been a disaster since the first time you approached me and you still haven’t fixed that, either.” 

He reached up to run a hand through his messy curls, and Bea felt surprisingly vindicated. Borne on the tide of six (or was it seven?) flutes of champagne, she continued, “I don’t think you’re married—“

He set down his empty flute with a thud. 

“—you’re not wearing a wedding ring. Not every man wears one, of course, but I think you would. Unless you were unhappily married—in which case, you wouldn’t be quite so keen on a story about a man being murdered by his own wife. Either way, whoever is looking after your wardrobe, it’s not a wife. But for all that, you don’t have that kind of stretched-thin look a lot of bachelors have. So, not a landlady—and besides, although I’m sure you would charm a landlady into ironing and starching, you’d never think to ask her advice on your tailoring. A female relative, then. It could be a sister, but based on the balance of probabilities, I would guess that you live with your mother.” 

“Well,” he said. “Good gravy.” And he picked up Jane’s still-full champagne flute and downed it in one long swallow. 

It was easier to think of him as Gil when he was like this—red-faced and flustered, but still softening his curses. If he hadn’t been a journalist, maybe they could even have been friends. 

“This was your idea,” she reminded him. 

“So I have no one but myself to blame that you’ve flayed me open so neatly?” He was still a bit red in the face, but he laughed self-deprecatingly on that. 

Bea felt wobbly with too much champagne. “Well—“

“Ah, there’s my Busy Bea!” Her father’s voice broke into the conversation, and Bea nearly jumped. Well, for heaven’s sake—Gil Ford had distracted her enough that she’d forgotten the crowd, she’d forgotten the reason she was here, she’d almost forgotten they were at a gala at all. 

“Dad,” she said gratefully, as her father pulled her into a hug. 

Perry Miller still had a thick head of hair, though it was now fully grey—and it amused him to no end that his hair now matched his clear grey eyes, still sharp behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Bea had always found comfort with him, and encouragement, and support. He’d been thrilled that his daughter wanted to follow him into the legal profession, and now that she’d made a success of herself he occasionally mentioned the political sphere. But Bea was not prepared to go there—at least, not yet. There were still a lot of things she had to do in the legal world. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Perry said, looking to Gil with his political-campaign smile. 

“Oh, it’s not—“ Bea began. 

But Gil reached out a hand with a charming grin of his own. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Miller. Gil Ford.” 

Gil must know who she was now. If he’d recognized Uncle Teddy, what were the chances he hadn’t recognized a senior cabinet minister? It was the sort of story journalists salivated over—the orphaned son of a sea captain, working his way up from hired boy to one of the closest advisors of the prime minister. 

“Ford,” said Perry, shaking his hand and probably going through his mental files to place the younger man. 

“Saturday Evening magazine,” said Gil, “and Glen St. Mary.” 

Bea had not fully considered the Island connection when she’d learned that his grandfather had written The Life-Book of Captain Jim, but clearly she should have. 

Perry’s face brightened. “Ah, that Gil Ford! I read your article about Polish and Italian immigrants this summer. Great stuff. And I’m very well acquainted with your uncle, of course. The judge.” 

He said it in such a way as to imply that Gil Ford had a whole boatload of uncles with whom he was also acquainted, but in a far lesser capacity. 

“You weren’t with the others earlier, Father,” said Bea, trying to keep herself on keel. 

“Got caught up in another conversation—but I heard you spoke with your mother.” 

Bea narrowed her eyes. Had her mother seen her talking to Gil and sent her father over to investigate? “Yes, but—“

“Ah, give her some slack, Bumble-Bea. You know if you came to visit more often she wouldn’t worry about you so much.” 

Her mother gave her a hard time over her hair and her lack of husband because she was worried? That didn’t sound much like Ilse Miller. 

“I can’t get away for that long—“

“You know that excuse won’t work when the House is sitting. Only a few hours on the train to Ottawa, and you’d make your mother happy. And I always want to see you more often. And so does Horatio.” 

“Ha! Horatio hasn’t missed me a day in his life,” Bea countered. 

“Well, let an old man have an excuse,” her father said easily. “Oh—I see the lieutenant governor. If you’ll excuse me—I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow, Bea. Nice to meet you, Ford.” 

Perry disappeared into the crowd, leaving Bea once again alone with Gil Ford. She went to take another sip of champagne—only to find herself empty, tipping the champagne flute almost upside down as a small, sticky drop rolled out and onto her tongue. 

A passel of ladies wandering by were whispering loudly enough that their words drifted over. 

“—getting divorced?” 

“Oh, everyone knew that.” 

“Do you think she was the one being unfaithful? Maybe he was going to reveal all the sordid details of her affair to the papers.” 

“If he was being cuckolded maybe he was the one who put the cyanide in his own bourbon.” 

“I thought he was shot?” 

As the women passed out of hearing range Bea snorted and dropped her empty champagne flute on the table behind her, where it wobbled unsteadily for a moment before settling. 

“‘In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo’,” said Gil. 

Bea stared. 

“Sorry. It’s from Prufrock.” When this did not illuminate things for Bea, Gil cleared his throat. “Ah. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock? T.S. Eliot. He—“

“I’m familiar with T.S. Eliot,” said Bea. 

Of course Gil Ford was the kind of person to enjoy the Modern poets. Bea had nothing against poetry, at least not when it was the good, straightforward kind that said what it meant, even if it said it in flowery language. But she could not stand the Modern poetry that hid its meaning under vague allusions or implied it in the mildest terms. One needed to be an expert in deductive reasoning even to begin to understand. 

Gil raked a hand through his hair, making it stick up all over again. “Look, maybe—Can we start again? From the beginning?” 

Bea wished she had more champagne, or something—something that could be in her hands, something she could sip to relieve the awkwardness. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean—okay. We’re at a social event. We’ve been introduced by a mutual acquaintance, and now it turns out we have an entire network of familial connections. Frankly, it’s a miracle we hadn’t met before now.” 

“I avoid these kind of events whenever possible,” Bea said, crossing her arms so her hands wouldn’t feel so empty. 

“Me too,” said Gil, which surprised her. He must have seen that, because he sighed. “Okay. So, can we pretend the beginning of this evening didn’t happen?” 

“Are you going to use any of this for your article?” 

“No. And if I was going to quote you I’d let you read it before it went to press anyway.” 

“Fine,” said Bea, without much grace. 

Gil smiled anyway. “If you normally avoid events like this, I’m guessing there’s some reason you couldn’t avoid this one? Are you a gardener?” 

“Heavens, no. My uncle, the… how did you put it? ‘One of the best contemporary painters in Canada’. He has a painting here, and my aunt has a placard, so the whole family descended en masse. And you?” 

“Well. I’m not here for… how did you put it? The ghoulish idea that I could find people to interview for my murder article.” 

Bea winced. 

“My mother—with whom I do, in fact, reside,” Gil continued, “is the vice-president of the Forest Hill Garden Club.” 

“Ah.” 

“Ah,” Gil echoed. “But I suppose the real reason I’m here tonight is that.” 

He pointed to the placard where he’d been standing earlier, before Jane had called him over. Bea went over to read it. 

A filmy western sky of smoky red

Blossoming into stars above a sea

Of soft mysterious dim silver spread

Beyond the long grey dunes’ serenity, 

Where the salt grasses and sea poppies press

Together in a wild sweet loneliness.

Canadian Twilight, Walter Blythe, Prince Edward Island*

She felt surprisingly moved—or maybe that was just the champagne. 

“Walter Blythe,” she said when Gil appeared at her side. “The Piper?” 

“Yes sirree.” He’d found more champagne on his way over to her, thank the lord for small mercies, and passed her one now. “He was my uncle.” 

Bea took a grateful sip of champagne and lingered over it because she didn’t know how to respond. 

“Big shoes to fill?” was what she eventually came up with, which was neither original nor clever. 

Gil shrugged. “Between my uncle the famous poet and my grandfather the famous novelist? A bit of a family legacy. And me, a mere journalist, making my bread by charming ladies into telling me their stories.” 

“You’re not that charming,” Bea said into her champagne. 

She hadn’t really meant to be mean—in fact, she hadn’t really meant to say it at all. The champagne really was getting the better of her. Gil’s eyebrows went up, but before she could apologize he said, “Well, gee, Bea Miller, you sure do a number on a guy’s confidence.” 

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that sarcasm was the lowest form of humour, but she bit it off in time. “That’s—sorry, I didn’t mean—sorry.” 

But somehow he was smiling again. “You know, I think I like you better when you forget to be icily polite. You’re much more interesting when you’re biting my head off.” 

Bea was trying to work her champagne-drowned brain to a quip about biting heads with loose lips when Gil said, “Who is Horatio?” 

“My brother,” she replied. “And don’t you dare bring up Hamlet. Our grandfather was named for Admiral Nelson.” 

“Heck of a coincidence, you must admit.” 

“I must admit no such thing.” 

They were silent a minute, watching the crowd ebb and flow around them. The tone of the chatter, the laughter, seemed more malevolent, now—maybe they’d moved on to worse rumours, the kind invented entirely from whole cloth. Or maybe that was just the champagne-induced headache working its way through Bea’s skull. 

“Do you really think she didn’t do it?” Gil asked suddenly. 

“Hmm?” 

“Marilyn Mackinnon. You said something before about charges not being laid. Do you really think she’s innocent, or is that something you have to say, because she’s your client?” 

He was a journalist. It probably wasn’t a good idea to tell him these things. But Bea found herself saying, “How much do you know about divorce?” 

“An average amount, I think. I know maybe two or three couples who’ve considered it.” 

“Here’s the thing. In the province of Ontario, the only acceptable reason for divorce is adultery. And not—the spouses can’t just say that there’s been adultery. They have to present their proof to the court, and a judge decides. Technically it’s a civil case and therefore the burden of proof is what’s required for civil law—a balance of probabilities. But some judges believe in a more stringent standard—that there must be hard proof, proof of adultery beyond a reasonable doubt. And some judges don’t believe confessions, or even photographic evidence if they think it’s been staged. If the judge thinks the spouses are colluding together to try to get a divorce, he won’t grant it. Or if a woman forgives her husband for his infidelity and takes him back, only to try to divorce him the next year on the ground of that infidelity, a judge can deny them the divorce on the grounds of conniving.” 

“So it really is like a real trial,” said Gil. 

Bea shrugged. “Maybe. But my point is: if you’re a woman going through a divorce, at what point do you think you might be so angry at your husband that you’re tempted to violence? When you start suspecting he’s unfaithful, perhaps, or when you see the proof. Or when the judge rejects your divorce petition and you realize you’re stuck with this man until one of you dies. But the Mackinnons weren’t in that state. They were just weeks away from a court date, and I had every expectation that they would be granted their divorce. So why would she murder him now?” 

“Maybe something else happened,” Gil suggested. “He did something else to make her angry, or she found out something else. They were married a long time. It could have been more personal than her desire for freedom.” 

Bea shrugged again. Her shoulders were feeling wonderfully loose. “I suppose. But I can’t really imagine it of her. And it worries me that the police haven’t let her go and I haven’t heard of them arresting anyone else.” 

“You know,” said Gil, in a suspiciously casual tone, “I do know a private detective.” 

“Well, that’s lovely for you. I know several.” They were often integral to divorce cases, after all. 

“I mean—I know a private detective who’s here tonight. Maybe he can shed some light on the police’s investigational procedures.” 

That seemed spurious to Bea, but she was here and the champagne was good, so… 

“Why not?” she said. “Lead on, Macduff.” 

His hazel eyes twinkled her way again. “I thought you didn’t like Shakespeare references.” 

“Lead on, Gil,” she said instead, and he grinned at her. 

He made a movement with his hand like he’d intended to put it on the small of her back, to guide her through the crowd, and then thought better of it. Bea was grateful. She wanted to be treated like a professional, not a lady. It would have been very distracting to have his hand at her back. Although, she could possibly have used the assistance with her balance. Her champagne flute was empty again. 

“So who is this fellow?” she asked, as they ducked past a group of women decked out in some kind of tulip-inspired garb. 

“He goes by Stirling.” 

Bea paused as a memory from earlier pinged. “I thought I saw him here!” 

“You know him?” 

“I’ve worked with him on occasion. When my clients want a real budget option. How do you know Stirling?” 

He gave her a sheepish smile over his shoulder. “Ah. From the way you glared at me when I mentioned the Kennedys, I’m afraid this is the kind of thing you’ll hold against me. Our families summer at the same lake in Muskoka?” 

What a rich person thing to say! “That does make me hate you a little.” 

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Well. Can’t say I didn’t want you. There’s Stirling.” 

Gil didn’t need to point, because Stirling stuck out like a sore thumb. He was surely the shabbiest person in attendance. 

Al Stirling—just Stirling, if you didn’t want him to be sarcastic at you—was probably in his mid-twenties, thin and pale. He hunched over slightly, clearly uncomfortable and sullen about being here. His black hair was unkempt, even messier than Gil’s, and, unlike the mostly clean-shaven crowd, he was sporting what looked like two or three days’ beard growth. He eyed the assembled socialites suspiciously from behind a cloud of cigarette smoke and a tumbler of amber liquid—heaven alone knew where he had found that, since Bea had seen nothing but champagne all evening—and his clothes… his clothes were something of a disgrace, cheaply made and too big for him and not quite formal enough for the event. If the clothes themselves weren’t bad enough, he wore them sloppily, wrinkled and asked. 

Frankly, he looked exactly like he did after a late-night stakeout tailing a cheating husband. Bea was surprised he’d been allowed in the door. 

“Am I really supposed to believe that Stirling summers in Muskoka?” Bea muttered, leaning toward Gil so he could hear her without alerting Stirling. 

“I think this is something of a delayed rebellious phase,” Gil whispered back, his breath hot against Bea’s cheek. 

She stepped away from him and toward Stirling, and Gil rushed past her to clap the younger man on the shoulder. 

“Stirling!” he exclaimed, all good-humoured charm. “Great to see you. Didn’t know if you’d turn up at this shindig. You know Bea Miller?” 

Stirling didn’t extend his hand to shake. Instead he at Bea up and said, “No.” 

Bea crossed her arms. “No?” 

“Right,” Gil muttered. “Why am I talking to the two most difficult people I know when they’re both drunk?” 

“How am I already one of the most difficult people you know?” Bea demanded, at the same time as Stirling said, “I’m not drunk.” 

“I’m not addressing either of those statements. Miss Miller here has a question for you.”  Goodness. She’d forgotten she’d told him not to call her by her given name. 

“Yes. How did you get into this event?” Bea demanded. 

Stirling raised his eyebrows and looked between them with a smirk Bea didn’t like. 

“He’s a Redf—“

“Shh!” Stirling waved his hands as though that would stop Gil’s words. A bit of the amber liquid sloshed over the sides of his tumbler. “Don’t call me that!” 

“Redfern,” Gil whispered to Bea while Stirling was looked down at his damp wrist. 

“Redfern,” said Bea. “As in Dr. Redfern? Patent medicines?” 

She’d spent too long in Toronto society. Such a revelation barely surprised her anymore. 

“Don’t call me that,” said Stirling. 

“I told you it was a delayed rebellious phase,” muttered Gil. “Although the Redferns aren’t—well.” 

He gestured to a couple halfway across the room. The gentleman had a look of slightly ironic amusement on his face as he studied the hothouse flowers, as though his opinion of a floral-themed party in October was similar to Bea’s own. The lady on his arm caught their gazes and smiled indulgently at Stirling, as though she found his disarrayed state endearing. 

“Oh yes,” said Bea. “I can see exactly why he needs to rebel against them.” 

Stirling grunted and turned away. 

Taking pity on the man, Bea changed the subject. “I did have a question for you.” 

Stirling took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly. “And I already said no.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask yet!” 

“You’ve got a cheating husband staring at you. It doesn’t take a genius.” 

He gestured with his cigarette. Following the motion, Bea turned to see that Ralph Peterson was watching them again. 

Gil let out a low whistle. “You can tell that Ralph Peterson is cheating on his wife from all the way across the room?” 

From this distance, Peterson couldn’t possibly hear their conversation, but he set a proprietary hand on his wife’s waist anyway. 

“They all cheat eventually,” said Stirling, sounding as world-weary as a man twice his age. “And even if they don’t, I can make it seem like they do.” 

Finally Peterson looked away. Bea turned back to the two men beside her in time to hear Gil say to Stirling, “You know, it’s fascinating to see this side of you. Now I know why you get along with the Angel of Divorce.” 

“I wouldn’t say we get along,” said Stirling, at the same time as Bea snapped, “Don’t call me that!” 

Gil raised his hands in surrender. Bea turned to Stirling, determined to set the conversation back on track. 

“One of my clients is suspected of murdering her husband. And she didn’t do it. So why aren’t the police looking for anyone else?” 

He shrugged and took another drag of his cigarette. “Laziness? Balance of probabilities? It’s often the wife.” 

“But it isn’t in this case.” 

“I don’t know what to tell you, then. In my experience there are usually two primary motives for murder: money or sex. Or both. If they’re getting a divorce, one of them has been screwing around. If the wife didn’t kill him, I’d start with the lover. Whichever one of them has a lover.” 

A good point. How much of Mackinnon’s estate went to the wife who was divorcing him, and how much went to his parents, or to others? Bea had never known the name of Mackinnon’s lover, but it might be a place to start. 

“What’s your interest in this?” Stirling asked Gil. 

“Ah.” Gil glanced back and forth between Stirling and Bea. She raised her eyebrows, wondering if he would admit that he was angling for an article about it. “Well.” 

Stirling smirked. “I see.” 

Men smirking knowingly at one another was never a good sign, in Bea’s experience. She had to change the subject. “What are you drinking, and where did you get it?” 

“This?” Stirling swirled the tumbler sloppily. “Did you really think the good ladies of the garden club could get their husbands to come here without real liquor? They’re pouring armagnac behind the potted fern over there.” 

“Oh good,” said Bea, turning toward the potted fern. 

“Miss Miller—“

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Just call me Bea and have it over with.” 

Out of the corner of her eye she could see a grin spread across Gil’s face. But she didn’t have time for that, so she strode across the room towards the good booze. 

There was a small counter behind the potted fern, and as Bea approached a waiter diligently poured out a small glass. Bea stopped abruptly when she saw that the man waiting for the glass was Ralph Peterson. 

Peterson flicked his eyes over her contemptuously. “Well. If it isn’t the lady lawyer.” 

This probably wasn’t his first armagnac of the evening. He looked a little less rigidly controlled than he had been earlier, a very tiny bit sloppy. Behind him, she could see his wife in conversation with a few other women. 

Bea swallowed. “Mr. Peterson.” 

“Ladies first,” he said, gesturing at the glass that had just been poured—and even that seemed patronizing, mocking. 

Bea hesitated, but the waiter finished pouring a second glass at that moment. Peterson picked up the second glass and gestured her toward the first one again, and she picked it up carefully. 

“Can a lady lawyer hold her liquor?” Peterson said, on a laugh. 

Bea narrowed her eyes. “This one can.” To prove it, she downed the armagnac in one long swallow. 

Peterson snorted and turned away. “Aggie. We’re leaving,” he called over his shoulder.  

Mrs. Peterson still looked terribly pale. Her wide, anxious eyes flared even wider when they passed over Bea, and then she dashed after her husband. 

“Well,” said one of the women she’d been talking to. “I’m going to take the liberty of blaming Ralph Peterson’s poor manners this evening on the shock of the murder.” 

Her companion giggled. 

“Bea, are you—oh, Mother. Good evening.” Bea jumped as Gil stepped around the potted fern, gaze darting rapidly between her and the older woman. Who was, apparently, his mother. 

“Gil. Where have you been all night?” 

“Circulating,” he said dryly, leaning forward dutifully to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Have you met Bea Miller? My mother, Mrs. Rilla Ford.” 

Mrs. Rilla Ford came forward to take Bea’s hand, and Bea had to reevaluate several concepts. When she’d deduced that Gil lived with his mother, she’d expected a sweetheart of a woman, who spoiled her son, doted on him, buying him all his fancy suits and greeting him with half-hearted, ineffective scolding when he brought them home wrinkled and scuffed. But Mrs. Ford was not that. If Bea had to guess, Mrs. Ford was practical but loving. Her dress was somehow both sturdy and lovely, patterned with chrysanthemums and goldenrods, and her hair was a dark shade of auburn that must come from a bottle, given her age and the fact that there was no grey in sight. Her gaze when she looked at Gil was so full of affection that it almost made Bea feel awkward to see it. Clearly Mrs. Ford loved her son dearly enough to see that he was well-dressed—and loved him dearly enough not to mind that he thought so little of her efforts. 

“Mrs. Ford,” Bea said, before she could tongue-tie herself with all these revelations. “I hear you’re one of the ladies responsible for this evening’s gala?” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Ford. “If it had been up to me, there would have been more food and less champagne. But yes, I was involved in the planning. Are you enjoying yourself?” 

“Everything is lovely,” Bea replied, which was true on a superficial level. And—she had sort of being enjoying herself with Gil, hadn’t she? Perish the thought. 

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Ford’s companion. “Are you the one they call—? That is—” 

“This is Violet Cooper, secretary of the Forest Hill Garden Club.” 

Bea shook hands. Miss Cooper must be the same age as Bea, or even a few years older, but she was wearing a dress patterned in blue flowers—were they violets, to match her name?—that made her look almost girlish. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Miller. You’re Marilyn’s lawyer, aren’t you? I went to school with Marilyn Warren—Marilyn Mackinnon, now.” 

“Yes,” Bea replied as neutrally as she could. The combination of champagne and armagnac was beginning to make her feel a bit lightheaded. “Mrs. Mackinnon is a client.” 

Miss Cooper giggled. “Or was a client, perhaps! I suppose she doesn’t need a divorce now, does she?” 

Of all the reactions to murder—or divorce—Bea had not prepared for giggling. There seemed something almost gleeful in it. 

“I can’t speak of any of my clients or their legal matters.” 

“Of course not.” Miss Cooper pressed her hand again. “Oh, Miss Miller, you are doing good work. We ladies need to stick together, don’t we?” 

“We do,” Bea agreed, warming to the idea. 

Miss Cooper moved away to speak to another acquaintance, and Mrs. Ford came closer. “Don’t let her attitude bother you, Miss Miller. I don’t normally gossip—“ here, Gil snorted— “but Violet never married, and she gets a bit… funny about others’ marriages ending.” 

“In divorce, or in murder?” 

Mrs. Ford sighed. “I’d like to say divorce, but then, she was a bit too cheerful at Joe Towers’s funeral. Not that he was murdered—terrible auto accident.” 

“Are you well acquainted with the Petersons?” Bea asked, since she was terribly curious and they’d all been talking together when she arrived. 

“Agatha, mostly,” said Mrs. Ford. “We are on a few committees together. A sweet woman, but so quiet. And her husband is so forceful. You’d expect him to be domineering, but he really is very protective of her.” 

Ha! “Indeed,” Bea managed to say, but she was finding words a little bit harder than they had been a few minutes ago. 

“Things are starting to wrap up,” Mrs. Ford continued. “Gil, will you be ready to leave in twenty minutes if I go say my goodbyes?” 

“Ah—“

“I’ll circle back,” said Mrs. Ford graciously, and swept away. 

Gil watched her exit with an unsettled expression on his face. Bea liked seeing that, liked that she wasn’t the only one whose parents made her feel a bit guilty even though she knew they loved her. Actually, she liked the look of Gil quite a bit. Had she thought him aggravating earlier? Perish the thought. He looked soft—warm—he would probably be very comfortable if she were to lean on him—more comfortable than the edge of the potted fern, which Bea had started grasping with one hand at some point in the last few minutes—

“The way you’re looking at me now makes me nervous,” Gil said. 

“You should be nervous,” she said, or at least that was what her mind said; her lips did not seem to be very interested in obeying and it came out much less clear. 

Gil’s brow furrowed. “Are you well? How much armagnac did you have?” 

“I’m fine,” she managed to get out, but even then her legs threatened to crumple under her weight and she reached back to grasp the potted fern with her other hand to keep upright. 

“Bea. Do you have someone to see you home? Who did you come here with?” 

“My cousin.” 

Gil looked behind her for a minute. Bea watched the way his eyes darted around, the way his shoulders bunched as he waved—

“I see her now,” he was saying. “Can I take you over to her?” 

“Might as well,” she mumbled. 

His hand was warm and steady on her back—which was very nice because in addition to being a bit unbalanced, she felt suddenly very cold. Maybe she’d had more champagne than she realized. The paintings, the hothouse flowers, the floral dresses seemed to blend into one big garden scene as they crossed the room. The chatter, the laughter, blurred into one angry drone, like a swarm of wasps. Or bees.

“Bea!”

Bea, bees. Ha. 

“Okay,” said Gil from beside her. “I think that’s the most concerning thing yet.” 

“What’s so funny?” asked Jules, because Jules was in front of her somehow. Bea realized she was chuckling. 

“Insects,” she managed. 

“Oh, dear,” said Jules. 

“Too much champagne, topped off by too much armagnac,” Gil reported. 

They were moving again, Gil on one side of her and Jules on the other. The two of them were talking over her head, but Bea couldn’t bring herself to care enough to parse out their words. And then—Jules was bundling her into her coat, and they were stepping outside into the cold, damp evening. 

“Here.” Bea blinked at the white rectangle Gil held out to her. He cleared his throat. “In case you change your mind about that divorce reform article.” 

She took the thing from his hands—a business card, she realized, as her own fingers felt the familiar shape. “I won’t,” she said, tucking it into the closest available spot, which happened to be her décolletage. Gil shook his head. 

“Definitely the most difficult person I’ve met.” 

That seemed unfair, but Jules was helping her away then, down the steps toward a taxi. 

Somewhere behind she could hear Mrs. Ford say, “Well, Gil. The angel of divorce? You always have enjoyed a challenge.” 

“What? No. You’re barking up the wrong tree there.” 

“Am I? Don’t forget that I’m your mother, Gilbert. I know what that look in your eye means.” 

“Mum!” He sounded scandalized. Bea felt mostly gleeful. She had to deal with these kinds of assumptions with her male colleagues all the time—only right that a man should feel the heat of it for once. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gil continued. “She spent the first half of the evening avoiding me and the second half saying mean things to me.” 

“Did she crack anything over your head?” 

“Mother.” 

“It was just a question. Sometimes you take after your grandfather—“

Jules poured Bea into the back of a taxi then, and she couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation. In the moving vehicle, with the rain hitting the window and the occasional pool of streetlight illuminating fall-leaf-filled puddles on the otherwise dark streets, Bea leaned back and slipped into sleep. 

Chapter Text

Bea’s head pounded. The fact that the sun had decided to come out, after yesterday’s gloom, to reign over a truly perfect, blue-skied, gentle-breezed day was not helping. By the time she ducked into the blessedly not sunlit hallways of the Temple building, she was fantasizing quite intensely about Alka-Seltzer and Aspirin. The last thing she needed was a man. Especially one who turned up unexpectedly. Especially one who was blocking her way. 

There was one such now—an unexpected man blocking her way, that was. He was slouched against her office door in a manner that managed to convey both boredom and annoyance, a posture that was not helped by his poorly-tailored pinstriped suit. 

Bea quite liked that door. Perhaps it would never be seen by anyone unless they happened to walk through this neglected back hallway on the seventh floor of the Temple building. But it was here, and it was hers, and Bea thoroughly resented this man for blocking it. She’d chosen the hand-painted lettering, and Jules had done it as a favour: 

Family Law

B. Miller, Barrister

There it was: the evidence that she was her own woman, with her own practice. Or, there it would be, if a man with a shabby pinstriped suit and an incredibly unattractive pencil moustache weren’t leaning on it. 

“Excuse me,” she said pointedly when she came to her door. 

The man straightened. “Good morning. I thought this office opened at nine o’clock.” 

“I don’t believe you have an appointment.” If Bea had to unlock the door, it meant that Dottie, her secretary, hadn’t arrived yet. What a day for tardiness! 

Instead of taking the hint, the man followed her into the office. 

At least the surroundings were peaceful. Bea’s waiting area was all clean, modern lines, done in a soothing palette of natural blues and greens. Dottie’s desk—like the furniture in Bea’s inner sanctum—was cherry, adding a feminine touch. On the walls, Bea had hung some of Jules’s art photography. 

“I don’t have an appointment,” said the man, a bit too loudly for Bea’s head, “but I do need to speak to Mr. Miller as soon as possible.” 

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Bea went over to Dottie’s desk to root around for the Aspirin. “I very much doubt that.” 

“It’s about a client of his—“

“I’m not in the habit of speaking about clients’ business.” 

The man reached into his jacket for a card, which he passed over to Bea. “Your boss will want to talk to me. George King, detective, Toronto Police.” 

Oh, bother and damn. Bea gave up searching for the Aspirin and massaged her temples. It was never a good sign when the police turned up. 

“Do you have a badge? Do you have a warrant?” 

He passed his badge over for her inspection, but no warrant was in evidence. 

“I’m not here to compel any information out of Mr. Miller. I only want to talk.” 

With great effort, Bea managed not to roll her eyes. “If it’s the lawyer B. Miller that you’re here to see, Detective, you’re already talking to her.” 

When he only blinked uncomprehendingly, Bea held out her hand to shake. “Beatrice Miller, family lawyer.” 

“But—“

“Mr. Miller is my father. Who, incidentally, is also a lawyer, but is not likely to know much about my clients.” 

The detective still hadn’t shaken her hand, but he did follow when she gestured him into her private office. She sat down; he didn’t. She was used by now to men being confused by her existence, but it rarely got to this state. 

Of all the damn mornings! 

Bea steepled her hands on her desk. “Now, detective, how can I help you?” 

He cleared his throat. “Miss, ah, Miss Miller.” 

“That’s me,” Bea said as cheerfully as she could manage, although she wasn’t sure that had been a question. 

“I’ve come to speak to you about your client, Mrs. Charles Mackinnon.” 

Bea sat back abruptly. Good heavens. In her muddled state this morning she’d somehow forgotten about the murder. 

“One moment, please,” she managed to say to the detective, and then ducked back out to check the bottom drawer of Dottie’s desk. A-ha! Here was the Alka-Seltzer, and it was the kind with the Aspirin included. Bless Dottie. 

Bea poured herself a glass of water, dropped in the tablets, and drank it down in one very long series of swallows. When she looked up, the detective had come back to the door of her private office and was watching her with a weary expression. 

“Apologies,” she said, moving back toward him. “Detective… what was it, again?” 

“King.”

“Detective King.” She shut the door and his eyebrows went up. Goodness gracious, what kind of Victorian was he? “Mrs. Mackinnon is my client, but of course I can’t discuss her circumstances with you.” 

“Ah,” said the detective. “But those circumstances aren’t exactly relevant anymore, Miss Miller. The Mackinnons are no longer in need of a divorce. Yesterday morning, a housekeeper found Charles Mackinnon dead in his study. I’m here to ask you a few questions, because Marilyn Mackinnon is going to be charged with his murder.” 

“I don’t understand,” Bea said for at least the fifth time that morning. “Both of the Mackinnons had agreed that they no longer wanted to be married to one another. They had no major disagreements related to dividing money or property. The divorce case was going along as smoothly as possible from the legal perspective. She would most likely have been completely rid of him within a few months. Why would she resort to murder?” 

On the other side of the desk, Detective King looked like he was reconsidering whether or not he would resort to murder — to murdering Bea, that was.  He ran a thumb along his pencil moustache—truly, a terrible moustache —before saying, “Who knows what a woman like that is thinking? It’s an emotional period, isn’t it?” 

“I know what a woman like that is thinking,” Bea retorted, “and I think you’ll find women are more likely to murder their husbands when they can’t get a divorce than when a divorce is right around the corner. If a man is murdered during the initial breakdown of the marriage—or if the couple fails to obtain a divorce—then perhaps you might have a motive. But why would she murder him now? Now, when she’s already gone through the expense and the hassle of acquiring a divorce, and she’s close enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel?” 

Her office was beginning to feel stuffy. Sweat beaded on the detective’s flushed forehead. “Her antagonism may go deeper than you realize.” 

Bea doubted it. “Mrs. Mackinnon is, fundamentally, a passive person.” Bea did not say useless, first of all because it would be rude, and second of all because she allowed herself to think things like that about some of her clients but she would never say so in front of a man who was already looking for a misogynistic reason to pin this on. “All of her life, she has not been encouraged to make her own decisions, because the men in her life have made all the important decisions for her. First her father, and then her husband. It isn’t uncommon, for women of the privileged class. They are discouraged from being involved in financial or even major practical decisions, and then when they find themselves on their own they are wholly unprepared to face their realities. Divorce is probably the only major decision Mrs. Mackinnon has made, at least since her marriage, and I have no idea if she would have pursued it if her husband had not agreed to it immediately. I have been worried about how she would live, as a divorcée. Frankly, I don’t think she would have had the initiative to murder her husband.” 

“So you think she’s suggestible?” said the detective, completely missing Bea’s point about how poorly a patriarchal society prepared its women for a life under the eventuality of not having a man around. “Maybe this was something suggested by a lover? A friend with a similarly unfaithful husband?” 

“She doesn’t have a lover. The divorce case is predicated on Mr. Mackinnon’s infidelity, not his wife’s.” 

“That you know of.” 

Bea was beginning to really dislike this man. 

“My point still stands. There is no motive. She was about to be free of him, and get everything she wanted, so why would she invite this new legal trouble now?” 

“You don’t think revenge or passion are possible motives?” 

“Not for Mrs. Mackinnon. Not in this case. And my answer is not going to change. Do you have anything else to ask, or must we keep going around in circles?” 

The detective gave her a disapproving look before consulting his notes. “It is our understanding that the Mackinnons continued to both reside in the marital home during the divorce proceedings. Is that usual?” 

“They were no longer sharing a bed,” Bea pointed out. “I understand Mr. Mackinnon had been sleeping in his study.” Where he had apparently been murdered. “It’s not so unusual, especially when a couple has been married for a long time. It takes a while for them to untangle their lives and set up separate households.” 

“Mr. Mackinnon submitted a confession that he had not kept his wedding vows. Do you know anything about the other woman?” 

“Nothing, except that Mrs. Mackinnon discovered the affair somehow.”

“Do you know if he intended to marry the woman in question?” 

“I don’t know. I believe he intended to remarry at some point, but I didn’t have the impression that he was in any hurry.” 

The detective nodded as if it was what he’d expected. Bea wondered if they’d already spoken to Mackinnon’s divorce lawyer. 

“That’s all, Miss Miller. We may be in touch if we have any more questions.” 

“Do I get to ask any questions?” 

The detective looked pained again. “That’s not exactly how this works.” 

“Who are your other suspects?” 

He heaved a great sigh. “Miss Miller—“

So there were no other suspects, then. Despite the fact that Marilyn had little motive and even less means to murder her soon-to-be-former husband.  

“You arrested Mrs. Mackinnon. Has she retained legal counsel?” 

“She doesn’t get legal counsel in front of the coroner,” Detective King pointed out. 

So they had already begun a coroner’s inquest? Technically, the findings of a coroner’s inquest couldn’t influence any future trial. But it did not seem like a good omen for poor Marilyn. 

“I am still her lawyer,” said Bea, and the detective sighed so hard and long that Bea wondered about his lung capacity. “Where is she? You can’t prevent me from speaking to her.” 

“Can anyone prevent you from doing anything?” he asked sourly, getting to his feet. “Be my guest, Miss Miller. You can find your client at the Don Jail.” 

“Bea! Oh, thank heavens.” 

Marilyn Mackinnon looked less polished than Bea had ever seen her. Normally Marilyn was immaculately turned out, her blonde hair set perfectly, her makeup pristine, her clothing freshly pressed. She didn’t look a mess, exactly—her plain cotton smock was clean, if wrinkled. But her face was bare of any cosmetic, and her hair was in a lopsided chignon. 

“Marilyn,” Bea said warmly, as her client was ushered into the stuffy little room. As soon as the door closed behind the guard, she reached for Marilyn’s hands. “Are you alright? They haven’t hurt you?” 

“No—no—“ she said. “They haven’t hurt me, but of course I’m not alright. Oh, Bea, Charles—!” 

“I heard,” Bea said soothingly, as Marilyn collapsed into something close to hysterics. 

“He was just—and I didn’t think—after—I never thought—and they—oh, Bea, the police have just asked such awful things—and I can still hear Anna screaming—what’s going to happen now?” 

“They are going to ask more questions, so that they can understand exactly what happened to Mr. Mackinnon, and why.” 

“More questions!” exclaimed Marilyn in despair. 

“What kind of questions have they been asking so far?” Bea kept her tone gentle, and held Marilyn’s hand in hers. 

This approach seemed to work, because the other woman seemed much calmer when she said, “Oh, all kinds. First they wanted to know what happened yesterday, but I didn’t have much of interest to tell them. I awoke to Anna screaming—that’s the housekeeper. I guess she’d gone into Charles’s study and found him there. Of course I went running. He was just hunched over his desk, like he’d fallen asleep there. And what a mess he made! I tell you, Bea. And I thought, well, that’s not like Charlie. He likes things all spick and span. His papers were scattered everywhere. And he’d spilled—“ she stopped suddenly, eyes widening, like she was recalling the scene. 

Bea squeezed Marilyn’s hand. “What happened next?” 

“Anna was shaking him and he wasn’t waking up, and so I said, ‘Anna,’ I said, ‘you call the ambulance and I’ll see if I can’t shake him awake.’ Only he was cold to the touch, and I guess Anna called the police instead of the ambulance.” 

“That’s when you realized he was dead?” 

Marilyn flinched back a little from the word. “I suppose so. I didn’t—well, what a thing to think. And him relatively young and healthy. Although they say that a businessman like him with a high-pressure job is never too young to worry about his heart.” 

“Was it his heart?” 

“I guess not, or I wouldn’t be here.” Marilyn let out a hysterical laugh. Bea felt a moment’s sympathy. Marilyn was only a few years older than Bea herself was, and yet she’d been so sheltered for so much of her life. It must be overwhelming to handle this kind of situation. 

“What else did the police want to know?” 

“All kinds of things. About our marriage, and how it was ending, and how I felt about all that. About where I was and what I did yesterday. Or, yesterday from when they asked the questions. I guess that’s two days ago now. And they asked if I killed him.” 

“Oh?” said Bea. 

Marilyn flushed crimson. “I didn’t, of course! Why would I?” 

“Of course not. Why would you do that when divorce was so close?” 

“Exactly!” Marilyn nodded emphatically. “That’s exactly what I told that horrible detective.” 

“He is horrible,” Bea agreed. “What did you tell him about what you did the day before yesterday?” 

Marilyn pulled at a hairpin. “Oh, I don’t remember! A friend came to visit. Agatha Peterson.” 

“Is that so,” said Bea. Mrs. Peterson had seemed distraught last night. Had she been one of the last to see Charles Mackinnon alive—or was she afraid that we was one of the last to see Marilyn Mackinnon before she became a murderer? “Does Mrs. Peterson visit frequently?” 

“I suppose. She used to come over two or three times a week—but she’s been busy lately so it’s been less often.” 

“Did she stay until Mr. Mackinnon came home?” 

Marilyn shook her head. It moved loosely, like it was held on by a string. “She left at—oh, it must have been four or half-past. She had given me some upsetting news, so I told Anna to go home early because I didn’t want any supper. I went upstairs and took my Seconal. Charles isn’t normally home at that time, although I didn’t go to his study to check or anything. And then the next thing I remember is Anna screaming.” 

“You take Seconal?” Bea asked, a little surprised. She hadn’t heard any of this before, although the sedative was a common enough prescription for housewives. 

“Only when I’m very upset.” 

Bea was instantly alert. “Did you tell the police that?” 

“Well, I told them I took Seconal last night. They never asked how often I take it.” 

“What did your friend say that upset you so much?” 

Marilyn’s eyes instantly went wary. “Oh just—just some gossip. I don’t even remember anymore. Nothing important.” 

Well, Bea didn’t quite believe that, and it made her uneasy. She was starting to understand why the detective had been so confident in his questioning earlier. It certainly sounded suspicious—an upset Marilyn Mackinnon asking the only potential witness to leave early, and then claiming a sedated sleep as her alibi. She would feel much better if she knew that the gossip Agatha Peterson had imparted was unrelated to Charles Mackinnon. 

“Marilyn,” she said, squeezing her client’s hands, “you need a lawyer.” 

The other woman looked alarmed. “But—I thought—you—“

“That’s not really the kind of law I do. You don’t want me on a murder case.” 

Marilyn’s mouth opened and closed a few times, and she looked clearly lost. Bea squeezed her hand again. 

“Do you want me to make a recommendation?” 

Marilyn nodded vigorously. 

“Okay. I can do that.” She paused for a moment, unsure how indelicate she could be but needing the answer. “Is there any… particular financial constraint?” 

Marilyn blinked blankly again. Bea sighed. “I mean, if Mr. Mackinnon’s assets are unavailable to you until the end of the investigation, do you have another source of funds? Your mother, perhaps?” 

“Maybe?” The woman’s voice sounded so small and uncertain that Bea had to remind herself that she couldn’t solve every single problem in every single one of her client’s lives. 

“Do you trust me?” she asked instead. 

“Of course,” said Marilyn. “I trust you absolutely.” 

It was a lie, of course. She hadn’t trusted Bea with whatever unpleasant thing had upset her enough to send the housekeeper home and take to her bed. But it was enough for this. 

“Alright,” said Bea, letting go of Marilyn’s hands. “I’ll make some calls.” 

Both the Alka-Seltzer and the adrenaline rush she’d felt dashing over to the Don Jail had faded by the time Bea emerged into the sun of high noon. She winced against the light, wishing she’d brought sunglasses. On the streetcar she picked up a newspaper that had been discarded by a previous passenger and held it so that it would block out the worst of the sun. 

Most of Bea’s clients required some hand-holding. Over the years she’d developed a checklist of sorts. Did the client need assistance finding a new place to live? Assistance with financial planning? Assistance navigating various bureaucracies? 

Marilyn Mackinnon had required all of that, and more. On top of being sheltered and a bit naive, she had no family in Canada, and few friends who weren’t the wives of her husband’s friends. The Mackinnons had been married for ten years, but they’d been together since they were 16. Shortly after their marriage, Marilyn’s father had died, and her mother, who had been a war bride, returned to England. Marilyn was isolated; she needed Bea. 

Bea was so caught up in her thoughts that she was startled when a man came to stand in front of her. And, God damn it, she recognized him and she wished she didn’t. 

People from rural areas like Bea’s hometown liked to talk about Toronto as some massive place, full of unknowable strangers. Anyone who actually lived in Toronto knew the truth: that, big as the city was, it wasn’t big enough to avoid running into an enemy. 

“Well, Bea Miller, as I live and breathe.” 

“Jack,” she said, trying to realign her face to a neutral expression. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

She had not intended that as an invitation. But, as she now knew far too well, Jack Reynolds didn’t need an invitation to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted. 

“I was hoping to run into you, actually,” he said, slipping onto the seat next to hers. 

“Oh?” 

“I thought you might have some perspective on the Mackinnon murder.” 

“Why is that?”  

Jack did not seem to have noticed her reticence. “You had so many things to say about divorce reform the last time we talked, and at the time I didn’t think it was what the reading public wanted to hear but now I do wonder. Were the Mackinnons one of the couples you had in mind? Do you think there will be more housewives driven to murder if their divorces aren’t granted?” 

The gall of the man. He’d avoided her like the plague after that damn profile had been published so that he wouldn’t have to face her wrath for misrepresenting her, for that stupid ‘angel of divorce’ moniker. And now, the second that she was close to another story he wanted, he emerged like absolutely nothing was wrong. As if they were friends. 

Bea stood and pushed by him. 

“There are a lot of reasons why I advocate for divorce reform. But I can’t say that keeping selfish men alive is near the top of that list. Lovely to see you, Jack.” 

Pulling the cord to demand a stop, she jumped off the streetcar before he could follow. 

Good grief. Jack’s pitch had been almost the same as Gil Ford’s last night, except that Jack had phrased it in a slimier way. The reporters were already swarming around this story, and they had the same idea as the police. A crime of passion; the spurned and humiliated wife offing her unfaithful husband. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ people would say, and no one would even wonder why a woman should go to all the trouble of securing a divorce, only to turn to murder right before it was granted. Were the police looking for anyone else? Had it even occurred to them that if a woman really was going to murder her husband, she would probably try to secure herself a better alibi than Seconal? 

She wished desperately that she could speak to Agatha Peterson. If she could learn what had upset Marilyn so badly—more details about when Mrs. Peterson had left, and whether Mackinnon had been home yet—surely she could start understanding what had happened. And, at the very least, she could warn Mrs. Peterson to be cautious about speaking to reporters. 

Bea walked the two blocks to the Temple building at a fast clip, barely noticing the blazing sun. Once inside, she headed for the elevator and ask the attendant to take her not to her own office on the 7^th floor, but up to the 10^th. 

This door was not as nicely maintained as Bea’s; the letters proclaiming “N. Gordon, Barrister & Solicitor” were peeling at the edges. Bea stuck her head inside and found the outer office empty—but both doors at the back were open. 

“Nick?” she called, stepping into the waiting area. 

A moment later, a tall figure appeared in one of the doorways. “Bea? Is that you?” 

“In the flesh,” she said, sitting on the empty desk that should belong to a secretary. “What happened to your cousin? Wasn’t she answering the phones for you?” 

Bea and Nick Gordon had articled at the same firm, years earlier. He’d been one of the few people at that firm to never try for a glimpse down her blouse or up her skirt. Their careers had diverged since, but they still spoke regularly; a consequence, in part, of having offices in the same building. Nick was passionate about justice. And besides, he’d mentioned a couple times that while he had never been to PEI, his father had grown up there—and Bea, for better or for worse, had a soft spot for any Island connection. All this to say, she trusted Nick Gordon more than any other criminal lawyer she knew, which was why she was here now. 

Nick shrugged, the motion exaggerated by his height and the lankiness of his limbs. “One of my clients made a crude remark to my cousin and she refused to come back. Can’t really blame her. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do until I can afford a real legal secretary again.” 

“I might be able to help with that,” said Bea. “How busy are you right now?” 

“Not too bad. Just closed a couple of drunk and disorderlies, and I have a prostitution case with a court date coming up. And a buggery case, but I think the client is going to plead.” 

“I don’t envy you any of those.” 

“And I don’t envy you your divorces,” Nick retorted, moving over to sit in one of the lumpily stuffed wing chairs in his waiting area. 

The waiting area alone was an illustration of what kind of money it paid to defend drunks, prostitutes, and homosexuals—especially when half the cases were taken on pro bono. The furniture was all secondhand, faded and shabby, the carpet was threadbare, and in the absence of windows the harsh fluorescent light seemed to highlight every speck of dust. In contrast, Nick himself was always well turned-out—his dark hair Brylcreemed back from his face, suit neatly pressed, collar starched, tie done in a perfect double-windsor. Even his posture was always perfect—unusual for such a tall and lanky man. He looked like the picture of civility, even when he was sitting in a terrible little chair. A scarecrow in a nice suit. 

“Nick, have you ever had a murder case?” 

Nick shifted uncomfortably on the lumpy chair. “Ah—two years ago. It was a personal favour for a man I’d defended on an assault charge. But they dropped it from murder down to manslaughter in the end.” 

“Are you interested in another?” 

He straightened. “I’m always interested in murder. What’s happened?” 

Briefly, Bea explained the Mackinnon situation. Nick’s dark eyes narrowed in thought.  

“The worst thing,” she concluded, “is that I don’t think the police are even looking for anyone else. They’ve got their ‘woman scorned’ and it doesn’t matter to them that the rest of it doesn’t line up.” 

“You sound surprised,” said Nick. “Too much time in family law, Bea? You’ve forgotten what the criminal defence side is like?” 

“I haven’t—that’s why I thought of you.” 

“Because I’ll take on an underdog with very long odds?” 

“Because you give every single one of your clients the best defence you possibly can, no matter the circumstances. And because while Mr. Mackinnon’s assets are tied up I’m not sure Mrs. Mackinnon can afford society law firm rates.” 

“Well, that’s put me in my place,” Nick said on a laugh. “I’ll talk to your Mrs. Mackinnon as soon as I can, Bea, but I’m not a miracle worker.” 

Bea went down to the seventh floor troubled by Nick’s pessimism. 

Unlike Nick’s office, Bea’s was not empty—her secretary had arrived and was humming to herself as she typed. 

Dottie Dark probably wouldn’t have been Bea’s first choice for a secretary. But Dottie’s father was a member of PEI’s provincial legislature, and his provincial riding overlapped some with the federal riding held by Bea’s own father. While the two men disagreed on too much to be friends, they maintained a cordial colleagueship, and so when Dottie finished secretarial school in Montreal and decided she wanted to try living in Toronto, several phone calls had been made and Bea had found herself with a new secretary. 

She wasn’t the worst. She was young and idealistic and very romantic and sometimes sarcastic, but she was also a hard worker and she didn’t let her idealism get in the way of her job. Dottie’s parents had once, famously in Island gossip circles, come perilously close to divorce themselves; but unlike Jane Stuart, Dottie had not been poisoned against the institution. In fact, she seemed to agree with Bea on divorce reform. 

“Doesn’t it make a mockery of marriage, to force people who don’t want to be married to stay married?” Dottie had asked once when Bea had subtly inquired into her feelings on the matter. “Besides, there’s nothing to say that they can’t get divorced, and then later fall back in love and get re-married. Haven’t you seen The Philadelphia Story?” 

Sound enough logic, Bea had had to admit. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Miller!” said Dottie cheerfully. “I saw your note, but I think I might have misread it. The Don Jail?” 

Bea grimaced. “Unfortunately correct, Dottie. Do you happen to have any Aspirin in that desk?” 

“Jail? Really?” Fortunately the statement was punctuated by the thud of the Aspirin bottle landing on the desk. Bea reached for it gratefully. 

“I’m not sure if you saw the news last evening—or this morning—but Mrs. Mackinnon’s husband was murdered.” 

Dottie gasped, her big green eyes widening even further. “No! Murdered!” 

“Yes, and Mrs. Mackinnon is remanded in custody.” 

“No. Not Mrs. Mackinnon! She would never.” 

“I agree with you,” Bea said grimly. “I won’t have an innocent woman’s life ruined over this. Can you reschedule my appointments this afternoon? I need to make some calls.” 

Alone in her office, with the door closed, Bea took her Aspirin and reached into her pocketbook for the business card she’d found on her bedroom floor that morning. She had a vague memory of it being pressed into her hand the night before. 

The main switchboard operator at Saturday Evening was too perky by half, but when the extension she’d requested was picked up, the voice that came over the line was calm and soothing to Bea’s pounding head. 

“Gil Ford.” 

“Guilford,” she retorted, irked that his voice should have any effect on her at all. “What is that, an English country estate?” 

“Bea!” His voice was noticeably warmer this time. “I was hoping you’d call. How are you today? You got home alright last night?” 

“Fine, and yes, obviously. Listen, last night you said you’d talked to Jack Reynolds. What did you say to him?” 

A long silence on the other end of the line. “That’s what you’re calling about?” 

“What else would I be calling about?” Bea asked impatiently, rubbing her temples. 

“I was wondering if you were taking me up on that piece about divorce reform, or—well, never mind. Yes, I talked to Jack yesterday. As soon as I heard from my mother, who heard from Mrs. Flewelling, that Charles Mackinnon was murdered and that Marilyn had been to ‘the angel of divorce’—stupid nickname, by the way—I gave Jack a call.” 

“Interesting. Because I just ran into him and he pitched me almost the exact same idea as you did last night, except he framed it in a slimier way.” 

“The—divorce reform?” 

“Obviously not.” The Aspirin must be kicking in—Bea was able to roll her eyes without getting dizzy. “What drives a housewife to murder, or whatever your first line was.” 

“Oh,”said Gil, and then in a darker tone, “Oh. That—monkey. He’s trying to scoop me!” 

“So you’re still planning on writing that article, then.” 

“Not—exactly. I still want to write something. But I must say you’ve got me pretty convinced that Marilyn Mackinnon didn’t do it.” He let out a short laugh. “Maybe I can write about people being convicted of murder on circumstantial evidence, while judges can refuse divorces for colluding or conniving even if there is evidence of infidelity. How’s that for a parallel?” 

“Upsetting,” said Bea, “and unfortunately true. I’m really worried for Marilyn. The police came to talk to me today and it sounds like she’s going to be charged. Which suggests they’re not even looking at other suspects anymore.” 

Gil was silent for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Bea. I wish I could help. Maybe we can hire Stirling to investigate it if the police won’t.” 

Bea sat straight up in her chair. “Do you think he would?” 

“Investigate a murder case? Definitely, if you pay him.” 

“I think Agatha Peterson knows something. And her husband might, too, if his antipathy towards me is anything to go by. Although that might be coincidence. I do tend to provoke antipathy in a certain kind of man.” 

“Is that so?” asked Gil. If he’d sounded amused she’d have read him the riot act, but instead he sounded intrigued, so she ignored him. 

“Do you think Mrs. Peterson would talk to a man like Stirling?” 

“Maybe not,” said Gil. “But Bea—she would probably talk to you.” 

Bea curled her hand around the bottle of Aspirin. “What do you mean by that?” 

“I mean—“ his voice was growing warmer, more enthusiastic. She could practically picture him gesticulating energetically. Was his hair just as messy as yesterday, or had he found a comb? “I mean, what if we investigated together?” 

“‘We’ who?” 

“You and I, and of course Stirling. He’s a gumshoe—I have some investigative skills as an investigate journalist, and plus I have some connections into the Mackinnon’s social circle—and you are not only brilliant, but you also seem like the kind of woman that other women confide in.” 

“I—“ Bea wasn’t sure what to think of that analysis. The kind of woman that other women confided in? Because they did not see her as any kind of threat to their own marriages or marital prospects, perhaps? “Maybe.” 

“Why don’t we have supper tonight—“

“I have another engagement.” 

“Then why don’t we have supper tomorrow night. That might be even better. I’ll see if I can’t talk to Charles Mackinnon’s parents and I’ll give Stirling a shout and ask if he can circle around to his office, and then we can share what we’ve learned.” 

This was absurd. It was ridiculous. The idea of a lawyer, a journalist, and a private eye doing the work that should be done by police—

And yet. Hadn’t she already started? By trying to speak to Mrs. Peterson last night, by going to see Marilyn in jail, hadn’t she already invested herself in finding out who really did kill Charles Mackinnon so she could free his widow? 

And had she misheard, or had Gil called her brilliant? 

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” she said. “Supper tomorrow. If Stirling thinks it’s useless, I’ll trust his professional judgement.” 

“Excellent—excellent!” She could hear the grin in his voice now. 

They hung up after exchanging a few more details, and Bea was surprised to find her headache totally gone. 

And if she made Dottie bring out all the back issues of Saturday Evening they had around, until she’d found several of Gil’s articles—or if she stopped at a bookshop on her way to dine at the Royal York with her parents to pick up a volume of T.S. Eliot’s poetry—it was just curiosity, that was all. 

Chapter Text

Bea packed up her briefcase the next evening and emerged into the waiting area to find Nick Gordon flirting with her secretary. 

She did not really have the patience for this. Her parents were now safely back in Ottawa—after a painful supper last night during which her father had prodded her about political aspirations and her mother had cross-examined her on Gil Ford. And now she needed to hie herself home to make sure she could receive Gil as well as a surly detective who was, apparently, a millionaire. So needless to say, Bea’s tolerance for male entitlement was even lower than usual. 

It didn’t help that Nick looked ridiculous in her waiting room furniture. Since most of her clients were women, it was all built on a smaller scale; and since Nick easily cleared six feet, he looked like an adult sitting in a child’s chair, arms and legs all bunched up. 

“Bea! There you are,” he said, springing up from said chair, as Dottie giggled. “Are you leaving? I’ll walk out with you.” 

“Enjoy your weekend, Miss Miller!” 

Bea managed a smile for her hard-working, if misguided, secretary. “You too, Dottie. I’ll see you on Monday.” 

Once Nick had followed her into the hall she said, “Gordon. Do not flirt with my secretary.” 

“Aw, come on, Miller. There’s no harm in it.” 

“No harm in it until she falls passionately in love with you!” 

Nick’s face twisted into a grimace. Nothing like the threat of a woman’s tender feelings to discourage a half-decent man. 

“It’s all in fun,” he said glumly. 

“Never mind that.” Bea strode to the elevator briskly and pressed the call button with a firm hand. “What news?” 

“Well.” Suddenly he was all business. “I’ve taken on your Mrs. Mackinnon as a client, but it doesn’t look good. Her alibi is weak, at best. They think he died around midnight, and the housekeeper was at home with her husband, children, and parents to vouch for her. There’s no evidence that there was anyone in the house that shouldn’t have been there. So therefore: Mrs. Mackinnon is their best bet.” 

“No evidence that there was anyone else in the house?” 

“Nothing missing, nothing out of place other than the contents of Mackinnon’s desk, no forced entry. The back door was unlocked when the housekeeper arrived in the morning, but since it opens into their fenced yard, I gather they don’t always lock it.” 

The elevator arrived, and Bea digested the information as Nick greeted the elevator attendant cheerfully. 

“So they did at least a cursory investigation,” she said, once Nick and the attendant had finished exchanging pleasantries. 

“It is a murder,” Nick replied drily. “And unfortunately I can see how the wife looks good for it, from their perspective. Another thing—Mackinnon was stabbed in the back multiple times and it would have taken a few minutes to bleed out, yet there’s no sign of a struggle.” 

“Was he asleep when he was stabbed?” 

Nick shrugged. “You’d think that kind of thing would wake you up, no? Maybe drunk—they’re having his blood tested but it will take a few more days to get the results back.” 

The elevator doors pinged open and they stepped out. “They’re really going to pin this on her, aren’t they.” 

Nick was silent as they crossed the lobby, passing by others who worked or had business in the Temple building.  Finally as they stepped into the cool autumn evening he said, “The evidence is all circumstantial, but the picture it paints isn’t great. I’ll try my best, Bea, but I can’t make any promises.” 

The dire warning echoed through Bea’s mind the whole streetcar ride home. She hopped off in the shadow of Casa Loma—that glorified manor house that a rich financier had built for his fanciful wife a generation and a half earlier. And then, only a decade after it was completed, Casa Loma had been seized by the government to cover unpaid taxes. The financier fled the city and his lady died of a sudden heart attack. 

A fitting monument to modern marriage, sitting up on that hill, glowering down at everyone. No matter how well it began—no matter how ornate the facade—money troubles or health troubles or some other manner of troubles would always emerge at some point. A wife just had to hope that her husband was neither the type to flee, nor the type to take his troubles out on her. 

Enough maudlin thoughts—Bea turned away from the Casa Loma steps and made for home. 

Bea and Jules lived in the left half of a Victorian duplex, of the tall, narrow bay-and-gable style so ubiquitous in the older residential areas of the city. The first floor was Jules’s. She’d taken the front room, with the wide bay window, for her photography studio, and the darker areas in back for her darkroom and workroom. The principal rooms were on the second floor—kitchen, living room, dining room, library. And on the top, tucked cosily up under the eaves, were the bedrooms. 

Jules was just vacuuming the living room rug when Bea arrived home—normally a Saturday job, but doable on a Friday evening when they were expecting company. Even leaning on a vacuum cleaner Jules managed to look fresh-faced and gamine in a pair of cigarette pants and a fitted cardigan. 

Bea waved over the noise of the vacuum and went upstairs to change out of her own work suit. She could never make pants look good the way Jules did. For one, in her line of work she had to be careful not to appear too masculine, since her critics were already ready to call her mannish. For another—Bea knew she wasn’t beautiful, but if she was allowed one vanity, she thought her legs were her nicest feature. She had attractive knees, as far as knees could be considered attractive, and well-formed calves honed by walking around the city in heeled shoes, and a graceful ankle she’d inherited from her mother. Pants would only disguise her one charm. 

She changed into a soft, full wool skirt in an autumnal plaid and a boat-necked sweater, and wondered if the should try to do something with her hair. 

And then she stopped and shook herself. 

This was, for all intents and purposes, a business visit, not a social one. She’d primped and polished for Jack Reynolds, and look how that had turned out. She could still remember how he’d described her in the profile—because heaven forbid a profile of a woman not include a physical description—Beatrice Miller will never be a pretty woman, but she might be a handsome one if she gave any care to her appearance. But a serious career girl like Miss Miller doesn’t waste time on frivolous fripperies the way more leisurely ladies do. 

The—the mewling rapscallion! Bea dropped her hairbrush and scowled at her reflection. This was what came of thinking a journalist was interested in her, instead of her story. She’d made that mistake with Jack Reynolds—she certainly wouldn’t make it with Gil Ford. 

Bea tromped downstairs to begin cooking with this in the back of her mind. Thank heaven for modern technology! One could host a business dinner without slaving over a hot stove all day. Since it was Friday, Bea made a tuna casserole, mainly by opening up cans and dumping them into a casserole dish, and tossed together a green salad while it baked. 

There! That, plus a pie that Jules had picked up earlier from the Harbord Bakery, would see them through. 

Jules came through to the kitchen just as Bea was giving the salad a final, somewhat vicious toss. 

“Long day?” she asked, leaning over the counter to get a glass of water. 

“I’m worried about Marilyn Mackinnon,” Bea replied. Well, it wasn’t untrue. “I really hope Gil and Stirling are a help.” 

Jules eyed her speculatively over the rim of her glass. “Ah, yes. We should talk more about Gil Ford.” 

“What is there to say?” Bea bustled around for place settings. “He wants to solve this murder so he can write about it for Saturday Evening. Not the most noble of ambitions, but I’ll take the help I can get.” 

“Yes, he’s certainly coming here for the investigation.” 

“Exactly,” Bea said firmly, moving into the dining room to set the table. “He’s a kind of colleague.” 

Jules had followed her into the dining room and leaned against the wall, raising an eyebrow. “A kind of colleague? Is he a colleague or not?” 

“Jules—“

“I just mean to say, you had better decide one way or the other quickly. I think they’re here.” 

Bea abandoned Jules to finish setting the table and went down to the front hall. Indeed, she could hear some squabbling out on the steps. 

“Here, I know you weren’t really raised in a barn—“

“Thought you said this was a business meeting, Ford. You don’t need to bring a hostess gift to a business meeting.” 

“It’s not—it’s—it’s still in someone’s home and you don’t show up empty-handed!” 

Well, that was certainly interesting. Before the debate could get any further, Bea opened the door. “Good evening, gentlemen.” 

Gil straightened somewhat guilty, and Stirling continued to slouch and smirk. Gil looked more like an absent-minded academic than a journalist; he was wearing a tweed jacket and an argyle sweater, and his hair was disordered again. Stirling looked a bit less disrespectful than he had at the gala, which made Bea wonder if supper at her house rated more highly for him than a society event, or if he’d just had a less taxing day. 

Gil grinned. “Bea! Thank you so much for having us.” 

Goodness. Had the force of his presence been quite so strong the other night? Perhaps it had been diluted by the crowds in the gallery. But at the moment, Bea could only blink at his thousand-watt smile and accept the bottle of wine and box of chocolates he held out to her. 

“Thank you. Please come in.” 

She brought them to the living room and mixed up a round of pre-dinner old fashioneds. Gil was looking around with obvious curiosity and complimented the house several times. Stirling was silent and more subtle, but Bea wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he’d picked up every tiny detail about the space. Before she’d known he was secretly a Redfern, she’d thought that maybe he simply didn’t know he was being rude; now she thought that he liked having the advantage of being underestimated. Bea knew that feeling—it was one of the few benefits of being a woman in a male profession. 

Jules appeared with canapés—well, glorified cheese and crackers—and smiled warmly at Gil. “Glad to see you again. I wanted to thank you for your help with this one. And you are?” 

“Call me Stirling,” said Stirling, extending his hand to shake. 

“He’s a Redfern,” Gil interjected helpfully. 

“Ford!” 

“He was christened Almanzo Stirling Redfern, if you must know.” 

“Christ,” Stirling muttered. 

“Almanzo?” Bea couldn’t contain her surprise although she hoped she didn’t sound as disdainful as she felt. 

“My mother read it in a book. She’s sorta fanciful about names.” 

“I can see why you prefer Stirling.” 

“Bea’s brother is named Horatio,” Jules offered. “Named after a grandfather, who was named after Nelson. We call him HP.” 

“Yes, and it stands for ‘Horrible Prick’,” Bea quipped. 

Her language had apparently shocked Gil, who choked on his cocktail. 

Jules led them into the dining room with an innocent expression on her face and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Bea brought in the food, and they had a very civil supper, with conversation touching on people they knew with ridiculous names, the weather, and the artwork on the wall. Hung side by side were two frames—one holding a painting Uncle Teddy had done, of Lofty John’s bush back in Blair Water, and the other with a black-and-white photograph Jules had taken in the same spot, twenty years later. 

Finally, all polite topics of conversation exhausted and her own plate empty, Bea said, “I suppose you’ll want to hear what I know about the murder, then.” 

Gil looked up sharply. Stirling didn’t pause devouring his third helping of tuna casserole. Unsurprising. She doubted he got enough to eat on a regular basis—he had the grayish, gaunt look of someone who was surviving mainly on coffee and cigarettes. Probably forgot to eat while he was working. 

Succinctly, Bea summarized her visit with Marilyn the day before and her conversation with Nick Gordon that evening. Gil looked grim when she was finished. “Charles Mackinnon’s parents don’t like him very much. Your friend Gordon, that is. I guess they ran into each other at the police station. Lots of pointed comments about his Mediterranean looks.” 

“Well, that’s ridiculous. I suppose his mother is Italian—but who would hold that against him?” 

“The Mackinnons, clearly.” Gil shrugged. “Not very pleasant folks, but grieving doesn’t bring out the best in people, does it? They have no idea of who in the world might want to hurt their son, who was a beautiful angel who never did anything wrong in his life. Except for marrying that harpy, who has been such a trial to him that who can blame him for seeking comfort elsewhere, and who now isn’t even grateful for the life he gave her. You get the gist.” 

“Well, my goodness. With in-laws like that, how could she possibly be ungrateful?” Bea deadpanned, and Gil threw her another smile. 

“Well.” Stirling had apparently finished demolishing Bea’s casserole, and now put his fork and knife down carefully on his plate. “Sounds like I was only a hair more successful than Ford here. Mackinnon’s secretary has more air than brains between her ears. He clearly chose that broad for the way she filled out her sweater, not based on what she filled in her application.” 

“Stirling!” 

“What? You think these two worldly dames haven’t heard it all before?” He shook his head. “Your chivalry’s misplaced here, Ford.” 

“Did you get anything useful?” Bea asked. She never particularly enjoyed hearing that kind of language, but she had gotten used to it, over the years. She didn’t need Gil’s admonishments about polite language in mixed company, but maybe it was sort of nice that he thought she deserved the treatment a lady would get. This whole thing was getting very confusing. 

“I got two things, but I don’t know yet if they’ll be useful. The one thing the secretary could tell me is that a young man has been coming around lately, asking after Mackinnon. Described as five feet ten, athletic build, brown hair and eyes, casually dressed, and—“ Stirling rolled his eyes in a way that indicated how he felt about the descriptor — “very handsome. The devil knows if we’d have gotten any kind of description at all if the secretary hadn’t been flirting.” 

“If she was flirting with him and couldn’t even give you his name then she wasn’t very good at flirting,” Jules pointed out. 

Stirling shrugged. “The only other thing I found is that Mackinnon’s had some investments go bad recently. Not enough to seriously dent his bank accounts, but it wouldn’t have been great for his reputation—he’d recommended them to some friends and associates. I’ll have some names to follow up on soon.” 

“That could be promising,” Bea mused. “A financial motive. Or a stranger, coming in that unlocked back door.” 

They repaired to the library, leaving Jules to make coffee, slice the pie, and fill up the dishwasher—a luxury, but Bea and Jules were very much in agreement about investing in appliances that saved them from housework they disliked. 

“Are you a big reader?” Gil asked, looking around at the shelf-lined walls. 

Bea waved to the right side of the room. “Some of my law books and journals. The other side belongs to Jules—she is a devotee of pulp paperback novels.” 

Stirling perked up. “The kind the drugstores sell?” 

“Yes, and dime stores,” Bea said, watching as he crossed the room to take a look at Jules’s collection. 

Jules devoured the cheaply-produced books like they were candy. Bea had tried a few, on Jules’s recommendation, and they’d been… fine. If those were the few Jules had liked enough to recommend, Bea could only imagine how ludicrous the plots, how overdrawn the characters, and how unnatural the dialogue was in the rest of them. She was fairly certain Jules chose new books based on the luridness of the covers. She certainly couldn’t have expected Stirling to be a fellow fan. 

But here he was, reading the spines and occasionally pulling a book out to look at it. 

“Do you read much?” 

“Hmm. Cheap paperbacks are great for stakeouts. You can while away the hours and they fit in a coat pocket if you have to chase someone. I normally like adventure and crime thriller, but I’ll read the occasional—“ he flipped over Women’s Barracks— “‘tangled web of love, hatred, and desire’. Sure, why not.” 

Ah, yes, Bea had forgotten the theme of Jules’s favourite novels. It would be more accurate to say that Jules chose them based on the luridness of the cover and the number of scantily-clad women pictured. 

Jules came in with a tray of coffee and pie, and Stirling quickly drew her into conversation about The Price of Salt. Bea stepped closer to Gil. 

“I didn’t expect that,” she commented. 

“That he reads?” 

“That he reads, that he’d be sociable with Jules. It doesn’t go with the Rebel Without a Cause act.” 

“I think he’s aiming more for The Maltese Falcon.” 

“As long as he doesn’t expect Jules to be his Brigid O’Shaughnessy.” 

Gil’s laugh trailed off as he glanced down, and Bea realized that the hem of her skirt was brushing his leg. The problem with full skirts—she didn’t always know what the extremities of her clothing were doing. 

Quickly she stepped back, pulling her skirt away. “Sorry.” 

He held her gaze with a level of warmth she hadn’t expected. “I wasn’t complaining.” He inched back towards her, eliminating the distance she’d put between them, and Bea’s breath caught momentarily. 

Oh, that would not do—it just would not do. He was a colleague! 

“Coffee and pie and murder,” she said cheerfully, turning to the room at large. 

Stirling picked up a plate. “Okay. Let’s review what we know.” 

“We don’t know much,” Gil scoffed. 

Stirling ignored him. “On Monday afternoon, Agatha Peterson visited the Mackinnon house, and something upset Marilyn Mackinnon. As far as we know, the housekeeper and Mrs. Peterson both left around five, before Charles Mackinnon came home. Mrs. Mackinnon says she took Seconal and went to bed right away—but of course we only have her word on that.” 

“If you doubt her story already—“ Bea began, annoyed, but Stirling just shrugged. 

“I doubt everyone, that’s the job. Back to what we know. Around midnight, Mackinnon is at the desk in his study, and someone stabs him in the back. Who could have done it? We know there are no signs of forced entry. So it’s probably someone who had a key, or someone that one of the Mackinnons let in. The wife? The housekeeper? A neighbour who had a spare key? A friend who came for a late-night visit? Who would they give a spare key to? Who would be let in at midnight?” 

“The lover,” Gil suggested. 

“Someone who was already inside and had been hiding in the attic all day,” said Jules with ghoulish glee. She certainly had imagination, this daughter of a novelist. 

“Theoretically possible,” said Stirling, “as is the idea of a professional killer with enough skill to get into a house without making it obvious to the police. But so far we don’t have any motives that are strong enough for that kind of money or that kind of advance planning.” 

He was different when he was going over the possibilities of murder—he held himself straighter and forgot he was trying to scowl—in fact, he reminded Bea a bit of her father in the midst of a political speech. 

“There’s still the back door,” she pointed out, and he turned to her with glowing eyes. 

“Yes. That does expand the pool. Was it someone who knew, or guessed, that they sometimes forgot to lock the back door? That could be someone familiar with their neighbourhood or familiar with their habits, or someone who was casing the joint. Or did someone get lucky? Trying all the doors?” 

“The mysterious stranger who’s been hanging around the office!” Bea exclaimed. 

“And then, there’s the fact that there are no signs of struggle. Did Mackinnon not know that someone was advancing behind him? Or was it someone he trusted enough to turn his back on? It took him a few minutes to die but he didn’t move. Was he drunk? Drugged? Was he with someone that he thought had already called for help?” 

Silence as they all considered Charles Mackinnon’s last moments. Whose face—if any—had he seen in those dying moments? Did he know what was happening? Did he feel the betrayal? 

“Mind if I smoke?” Stirling asked after a while. 

“As long as you crack the window,” Bea said. She would not have the scent set in her good upholstery. 

Gil stirred as the cool breeze entered the room. “So, then, where does that leave us?” 

“Three people we can place on the scene—the wife, who we’re setting aside for now, the housekeeper, and, at a bit of a stretch, the wife’s friend.” 

“Agatha Peterson,” said Bea. “But she seems to have left before the housekeeper, and the housekeeper has a solid alibi for midnight.” 

“So then we need to know who else might have been around. And talk to Mrs. Peterson.” 

“I might have an in,” Gil said—more cautiously than Bea might have expected of him, by this point. “Mrs. Flewelling, the Mackinnon’s next-door neighbour. She’s going to be at a church bazaar tomorrow. She and my mother are both on the organizing committee.” 

“The church bazaar organizing committee? In addition to being vice-president of the garden club?” Bea asked. 

“My mother is on a great many committees and clubs, but never mind that. What matters is that Mrs. Flewelling will be there, and she’s the kind of person who watches the street through her blinds. I’d bet she has a good idea of who would have a spare key, or if there have been any loiterers in the neighbourhood. And it’s possible Mrs. Peterson might be there as well.” 

“I suppose I could drop into this church bazaar,” Bea mused. “I think Mrs. Peterson might talk to me if I found the right time and place. Away from her husband. Do you think Mrs. Flewelling would gossip with me, Gil?” 

“Indubitably. She has gossip to spare.” 

“That’s settled.” Bea put down her empty pie plate and stretched. “Can you write down the address?” 

Gil leaned forward, grinning once again. “I can do you one better and give you a ride.” 

Bea leaned back. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“What? Why not?” 

“People already saw us together at the gala. Do you want them to see us arriving together at a church bazaar, too?” 

“Well, what would be so bad about that?” 

“You don’t think people would talk if they thought you were spending too much time with the ‘angel of divorce’?” 

Gil muttered something under his breath that sounded uncomplimentary—towards Jack Reynolds and that stupid name, Bea hoped. 

“I still don’t see,” he said aloud, “why that would be so terrible. Are you really afraid of a little gossip, Bea?” 

A ‘little’ gossip. Harmless, nothing to be afraid of. Such a male view of the world. Bea was suddenly annoyed. 

“It only takes a little gossip to impact my livelihood. The reputation of a professional woman is precarious.” 

“Surely no one will impugn your reputation because you’ve been seen with me twice in one week.” 

“Surely nothing,” Bea snapped. 

Across the room, Stirling stubbed out his cigarette, closed the window, and picked up another of Jules’s books, having clearly decided to ignore this squabble. 

Jules, looking amused in only the way a friend who was like a sister could, had started to collect the empty coffee cups. “You should know that Bea is highly protective of her good name. She burned all of our back issues of Maclean’s after that ‘angel of divorce’ article.” 

“Jules,” Bea said warningly. 

“And,” Jules continued, not at all warned off, “she has a very strict policy about never getting involved with colleagues.” 

“Jules!”

Stirling lowered the book he’d been flipping through to shoot a look at Gil. “Oh, is that so?” 

“It’s not relevant to this situation,” Bea said firmly. “And besides, it’s only good sense. It’s no good to muddy those waters. If a professional woman spends too much time with a male colleague people start treating her like she’s his secretary, or his wife—or worse—rather than treating her as a professional in her own right.” 

Gil was studying her with his head tilted to the side, the way he had the other night at the gala. Bea wasn’t sure she liked it. 

“I wonder—“ Gil began, but in a case of excellent timing, was interrupted by the peal of the doorbell. 

“That’ll be Betty,” Jules said, gracefully putting down the coffee tray. “Good night, everyone. It was lovely to meet you, Stirling.” 

Of course—Jules was abandoning her at the first opportunity. “I didn’t know Betty was coming over.” 

Jules paused at the threshold to grin back at Bea before heading toward the front door. “She isn’t — I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me, Bea.” 

“Just the two of them? Alone, this late?” Gil asked after she’d gone. 

“The two of them are more than capable of looking after themselves,” Bea replied, raising her eyebrows at him. 

Gil looked like he wanted to argue that, but on the other side of the room, Stirling flicked through a copy of Strange Sisters and said, “You should listen to the lady, Ford. Your overdeveloped sense of chivalry is out of place here.” 

Before Gil could take offence and turn this into one of those tiresome fights about male pride, Bea stood up. “Another coffee, gentlemen? Or a brandy? I’m getting myself a brandy.” 

They both nodded and Bea absconded to the kitchen with the tray of dirty dishes. Alone, she let out a long breath. 

The rule about not getting involved with a colleague had served Bea very well so far. It was both rational and extremely logical. Men seemed to think that they had some kind of power or influence over any woman they were involved with, a conflict of interest which should be avoided in legal cases at all costs. And even if the men didn’t think so, everyone else thought it for them. And besides, when the involvement ended there was always a mess, and Bea did not need any new messes close to her work. 

In fact, the rule about not getting involved with a colleague was so successful that Bea liked to apply it to her friends as well. Of course, with friends it was more of a guideline. Messes could be more easily avoided with friends than with colleagues. But messes could never be avoided entirely. That was men for you, wasn’t it—creating messes where they went and never thinking to clean them up. Or prevent them. 

She returned to the library with the brandy, to see Stirling skimming the back cover of Of Love Forbidden while Gil scowled at him. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, pushing a snifter of brandy into Gil’s hand and dropping another one on the table next to Stirling. “Whatever nonsense you’ve been badgering each other about, can we please put it behind us? Let’s review our next steps.” 

Stirling put down the book. “Church bazaar, Mrs. Flewelling and Mrs. Peterson. Bea will not require a chauffeur—“

“The TTC is perfectly sufficient,” Bea interjected. 

“—and since Gil’s attending anyway, he can make some discreet inquiries of his own. Meanwhile, I’ll chase down the names of the men who were impacted by Mackinnon’s failed investment. Does that meet with everyone’s satisfaction?” 

Bea nodded. Gil sighed. “Thank you, Stirling. I’ll take that assignment. Bea, I’m sorry if I overstepped.” 

The apology was a nice surprise, even if it was for the wrong thing. Bea sipped at her brandy and turned to face him. He looked genuine, hazel eyes wide and remorseful, maybe a hint of an embarrassed flush on his cheeks.  She wondered if he freckled in the summer. 

“You didn’t overstep,” she told him. “You questioned my judgement, and you suggested you know what will affect my life better than myself, the person who has been living my life.” 

He winced. “I didn’t mean to do that. It’s only that—well, never mind. I really am sorry. I’ll listen better next time, or at least try.” 

Bea opened her mouth to reply and found that she had no words, at least none that she could say now, here, to him. She had been bracing for him to be annoyed, angry even, when she’d corrected his first apology. What was she to do with this humility? 

“At least you apologize nicely,” she finally said, grudgingly. 

That made him smile. “It sounds at least a little like I’m forgiven?” 

“Oh, be quiet and drink your brandy.” 

On the other side of the room, Stirling looked at them over the top of The Strange Path and shook his head. 

Chapter Text

In another time, in another place, Rilla Ford might have been a general. 

Bea’s first impression of the St. Timothy Anglican Ladies’ Church Bazaar was that of organized chaos. Too many women and too many tables and too many hooked rugs and embroidered pillows and crocheted doilies. The church hall could hardly contain them all. And yet, with only a few short words, a number of vigorous gestures, and the occasional pointed unfolding of a diagram, Mrs. Ford had managed to tame the too-many tables into orderly rows, with the too-many women unloading the too-plentiful wares in a spirit of general harmony. 

Had it been Bea’s mother running such an event, it would have devolved into a hurricane with Aunt Emily as the eye of calm. But with Gil’s mother at the helm, it was more like the dam at Niagara Falls—somehow controlling and harnessing the power of all that rushing water. 

Everything proceeded more or less to plan, and when it didn’t, Mrs. Ford gave the perpetrator a look that indicated how she felt about the disruption to her plan, and then rearranged things to make up for it. 

Bea was perhaps a bit in awe. 

And also she understood now why Mrs. Ford was on so many committees. 

She was almost intimidated when Mrs. Ford spotted her and marched over, clipboard in hand. “Miss Miller! It was good of you to join us this afternoon.” 

“Hello, Mrs. Ford. I want to compliment you on the organization of your bazaar. Everything looks so smooth and efficient.” 

“So far,” Mrs. Ford replied darkly. “There always has to be something, doesn’t there? I’m waiting to see what it will be this time.” 

“Do you organize many events? You seem to be very talented at it.” 

This got a smile from Mrs. Ford. “I suppose I do. Not from any particular enjoyment, I must say, so much as a frustration from attending so many sub-par ones myself. I always tell myself that even if I could do better, that doesn’t mean I have to step in. And then I find myself stepping in anyway. I do like to see a thing done well, especially if I know exactly how it should be accomplished.” 

“So I should expect the next garden club gala to have better catering and a more fitting theme?” 

“That’s a lost cause, I’m afraid. Rosedale doesn’t have a great deal of common sense and I can’t browbeat them to seeing my point of view.” 

“It’s their loss.” 

“Well, I certainly think so. Now, Miss Miller, can I interest you in some home-baked muffins? Maybe the antique silver candlesticks?” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Ford, but I’m really looking for some people. Do you think I could wrangle an introduction to a Mrs. Flewelling?” 

“Dorcas?” Mrs. Ford looked unimpressed. “I suppose you could. She’s here somewhere.” 

“Somewhere?” 

“By the children’s toy-fishing stall. But you don’t seem like the type of woman who’s looking for mindless chatter,” Mrs. Ford said frankly. 

It seemed that Gil hadn’t mentioned much—or anything—of their investigation to his mother. Bea wasn’t sure what to make of that. Granted, she hadn’t decided if she’d mention it to her own parents, but she didn’t live with them. Where did Mrs. Ford think Gil had spent yesterday evening? 

“I fear I need to resort to mindless chatter in this case,” Bea admitted. “Well, hopefully not too mindless. Mrs. Flewelling lives next to the Mackinnon house, doesn’t she?” 

“Ah.” Mrs. Ford’s regard became sympathetic. “Is that what this is about, then? Poor Marilyn Mackinnon.” 

“The police are planning to charge her. And I’m just hoping that Mrs. Flewelling might have seen something that would help.” 

Mrs. Ford’s expression had entirely softened by this time. “I wouldn’t be surprised. You know her reputation?” 

“Not entirely. Gil mentioned something,” Bea admitted, feeling a bit awkward; but Mrs. Ford just looked amused. 

“Of course he did,” she said briskly. “Well, come along then, and I’ll introduce you.” 

That was how Bea found herself behind the toy-fishing stall, helping Mrs. Dorcas Flewelling in her task. 

From the other side of a board painted blue and decorated with drawings of fish, children “cast” their fishing lines baited with clothespins, and Mrs. Flewelling was supposed to attach a paper bag with a small toy inside to the clothespin and tug the line, so that the child could reel the line back in, having “caught” a toy. However, it became immediately clear that once Mrs. Flewelling began talking, she forgot every task in front of her. 

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Flewelling, while Bea stuck a paper bag into a clothespin. “Tuesday afternoon? Let me see. The Everhart-Johnsons were having their door re-painted. Bill Everhart-Johnson always goes for the cheapest option, you know, and the paint started peeling something terrible this summer. There was a big package delivered for Mrs. Pickering. And the mailman was late. Now, do you suppose that was because of Mrs. Pickering’s package? The Donovan children were particularly rowdy coming home from school—” 

Another clothespin-laden fishing line came over the top of the stall and nearly hit Bea in the face. Rowdy children, indeed. 

“Fascinating, Mrs. Flewelling. But I was wondering about the Mackinnons?” 

“Oh, the Mackinnons,” said Mrs. Flewelling. “Well, let me see now.” 

Mrs. Flewelling was a wisp of a woman, short and slight, with thin grey hair and large, pale eyes that seemed to take up an inordinate amount of space on her small face. Her clothes were well-made but worn. A childless widow, Bea thought. Exactly the kind of woman who became invisible. Exactly the kind of woman whose greatest excitement was watching her neighbours through the blinds and cataloguing the small moments of their lives. 

“The Mackinnons,” Mrs. Flewelling said again, and Bea caught a clothespin before it could hit her head. “Of course, that was the day of the murder. Although we didn’t know that then, did we? Charles left at eight, as usual, and the housekeeper arrived at ten. Marilyn went out around noon—for lunch, I assume, although who would have lunch with her in public? Everyone has been talking about the divorce for months. I didn’t see her come home—I like to rest my eyes and listen to the radio after lunch. And then Mrs. Ralph Peterson arrived a little past three, and left a little past four.” 

“A little past four,” Bea repeated. “You saw her leave? Mrs. Peterson?” 

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Flewelling. “Heard her, too. The Petersons have two cars, you see, and Mr. Peterson drives the good one and his wife is stuck with the one that has a bad muffler. You should hear that thing rattle!” 

So if one of the Petersons had come back later in the night, it would have been in his car, not hers, or it would have woken up the neighbourhood. Bea filed this information away. 

“What happened after Mrs. Peterson left?” 

“The Donovan children—“

“I mean at the Mackinnon house. Did you see what time the housekeeper left? What time Mr. Mackinnon came home?” 

“I didn’t see the housekeeper leave. I told you, the Donovan children were being rowdier than usual, and normally she stays until six, but I heard that police detective talking about it the other day and he told the other officer that the housekeeper left before five, at Marilyn’s request. Fancy that!” 

“Did you see Mr. Mackinnon come home?” 

Mrs. Flewelling shook her head. “He sometimes arrives home around six, and that’s when I eat my dinner, so I wouldn’t have seen. He certainly didn’t come between seven and ten, because I was at the window. I don’t recall seeing anyone go into or out of the Mackinnon house. And I was watching, because that tramp was out there again.” 

Bea was instantly alert. “Tramp? What tramp?” 

“Oh, Mrs. Pickering thinks it’s just a loitering teenager. But I say, can’t a loitering teenager still be a tramp?” 

“I suppose,” Bea said, attaching another paper bag to a clothespin and tugging the line for a soon-to-be-teenager. 

“It’s been…” Mrs. Flewelling paused as though counting in her head. “Six weeks now. These past six weeks, I’ve seen this tramp, every few evenings, walking up and down the street and looking at the houses. Especially mine, I think. I tried to shoo him off, and I called the police, and I even asked Bill Everhart-Johnson if he might go out and intimidate him. Bill doesn’t have a shotgun, but he looks like the type who might have a shotgun, if you know what I mean. But the police only told me to call back if I saw this tramp engaging in actual criminal behaviour—apparently walking slowly through the neighbourhood looking through all our windows like he’s cataloguing our valuables doesn’t count. And Bill thinks I’m imagining things.” 

“Did you ever mention him to the Mackinnons, this loiterer?” 

“Ha! Marilyn laughed it off, and Charles never listens to me anyhow.” 

Bea nodded, trying to assimilate this new information. A stranger… ‘casing the joint’, as Stirling might say… she liked this better than the police’s current theory. 

“Knock knock, Dorcas!” A cheerful head poked around from the front of the booth. “Your relief is here. Oh, Miss Miller, what a delightful surprise!” 

Bea blinked at the somewhat familiar face before her. 

“Oh, Violet, are you manning this booth next?” 

“I am,” said the new arrival brightly, helping Mrs. Flewelling to her feet. 

Violet —  the name clicked now. They’d met at the gala. She was the one who was a bit too happy about other people’s marriages ending. 

“It’s nice to meet you again,” Bea said politely. “I’ve just been helping Mrs. Flewelling out.” 

Violet squeezed Bea’s hand before lowering herself to the pile of paper bags. Even absent the floral theme, she was dressed girlishly today, in a frilly dress the same blue as her eyes. “Well, I hope you’re sticking around afterward. I’d love to talk to you. We single gals need to stick together, don’t we?” 

“Of course,” Bea murmured, and followed Mrs. Flewelling toward the refreshments. 

While they fixed their tea, Mrs. Flewelling said, “Violet Cooper, there’s an interesting one.” 

“She certainly seems to be very interested in my divorce work.” 

“Oh—yes. She does like to see a marriage end. Lost her reputation quite young and was never able to marry herself. Of course the men of that generation had so much choice of wives, since we lost so many of them, you understand. But she might hide her bitterness better. You know,  just last month she told Ethel Towers that she was better off a widow than married to Joe Towers—at Joe’s funeral.”

“My goodness!” 

“Of course,” Mrs. Flewelling continued amiably, “she wasn’t the only one to think such a thing—we all knew that Joe was a terrible drunk—but there are some things one doesn’t say. At least not at a funeral.” 

“I don’t mean to be indelicate,” said Bea, although Mrs. Flewelling had already said or implied several indelicate things. “But I must ask. If everyone knew that Joe Towers was a drunk—did everyone know that Charles Mackinnon was a philanderer?” 

“Well, of course,” said Mrs. Flewelling. “He’s been seeing other women for years. Although none of us ever thought Marilyn would ever do anything about it. I have been wondering what pushed her over that edge.” 

It was things like this that made Bea want to set all of Forest Hill on fire, and all the neighbourhoods like it. Violet Cooper did something that ruined her reputation and could never marry and was talked about in pitying tones. Charles Mackinnon was married and committed flagrant sexual indiscretions for years, and it was his wife who was gossiped about when she finally decided to put a stop to it. 

Mrs. Flewelling was still speculating on what might have caused Marilyn Mackinnon to finally seek Bea out. “—but Janet Everhart-Johnson thinks Marilyn must have caught him in the act, or found the evidence that he was bringing his lovers to the marital bed.” 

“Was he?” Bea asked, startled. “Bringing other women to the bed he shared with his wife?” 

“Oh yes. I saw them sometimes, sneaking in through the back gate while Marilyn was at the Humane Society meeting.” 

“Do you know any of their identities?” 

“Wellllll,” Mrs. Flewelling equivocated. “I couldn’t see their faces when they were sneaking in the back gate, you know. But I have my suspicions. The youngest Donovan boy does have a bit of the look of Charles Mackinnon about him. If you can believe such things of Olivia Donovan.” 

Her dark tone implied that she fully believed such things of Olivia Donovan. Bea filed the name away even as she shook her head. It was a weak tie at best. 

“Do you think Mrs. Donovan would have wanted to hurt Mr. Mackinnon for that? Or Mr. Donovan, for that matter.” 

Mrs. Flewelling shook her head. “Peaceful people, the both of them. And Charles wasn’t the friendliest man, but I can’t think of anyone who would have wanted to kill him!” 

“Do you have a spare key to their house? Or do you know who does?” 

“Probably the Mackinnons—Charles’s parents, that is—and maybe the Petersons.” 

“What happened on Wednesday morning? When the murder was discovered.” 

“Ah, the murder!” Mrs. Flewelling’s eyes seemed to glow at the phrase, almost as much as Violet Cooper’s had at the garden club gala. “I did notice that Charles didn’t leave at eight, as he normally does. I thought maybe he was ill. The housekeeper arrived at ten, on schedule. And then, the screaming! I could hear it clean from my house. I thought about going over there, but they were inside, so I thought it was probably a private affair. And then the police arrived, and what excitement that was! The housekeeper was sobbing, and they brought Marilyn out in her housecoat and carpet slippers and put her right into the police car. There was a very handsome detective—Detective King, if I recall correctly—who asked me all sorts of questions. Not as interesting questions as you did, though.” 

“I’m glad I’m diverting,” Bea said drily. She had no idea what to do with the description of Detective King as handsome. “I wonder what Mrs. Peterson and Mrs. Mackinnon talked about. The afternoon before the murder.” 

“They’ve always been close,” said Mrs. Flewelling. “Although of course Mrs. Peterson has kept her distance since it came out that Marilyn was looking for a divorce. It’s a bit scandalous, isn’t it? I’m sure Mr. Peterson wouldn’t like her being trained by scandal.” 

“He’s a domineering husband, is he?” 

“Oh, no, just the opposite!” exclaimed Mrs. Flewelling. “Ralph and Agatha Peterson are really very sweet together. The perfect couple. They started going steady—is that what they call it these days?—when they were fifteen, and they’re still devoted to one another. It gives you faith in marriage, really, compared to some other couples.” 

“Hmm,” said Bea noncommittally. The Mackinnons had been together from a very early age as well. It was no guarantee of happiness. Life was long, 15 was young, and people changed—sometimes in ways that complemented one another, and sometimes not. 

Mrs. Flewelling excused herself and Bea wandered around the hall looking for Mrs. Peterson. After an unsuccessful half-hour she made her way over to the bake sale table. Violet Cooper was manning the cash—she must have finished her shift at the fishing booth. Bea almost turned around, not ready for Violet’s unsettling enthusiasm, but then she saw who was currently assembling a plate of baked goods, and decided she had to go over to save the other woman. 

“Miss Cooper,” she said, stopping alongside them, and much chillier, “Mr. Peterson. What a lovely event, isn’t it?” 

 Ralph Peterson looked her over warily. “Are you haunting me, lady lawyer?” 

“Please call me Violet,” Violet gushed. “Miss Miller, I’m such an admirer. I absolutely adored that profile of you. ‘The Angel of Divorce’! What a clever name!” 

“Christ,” muttered Mr. Peterson. 

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain inside the church hall?” Bea asked slyly. 

Mr. Peterson stuffed a rum ball in his mouth and walked away. 

“I don’t think he likes me very much,” Bea said to Violet. 

She giggled. “He doesn’t like very many people, so that doesn’t surprise me.” 

“Have you seen Mrs. Peterson lately? I had a question for her, and it will probably be easier to ask while her husband is occupied.” 

“In the back by the secondhand furniture, I think,” said Violet. “Won’t you take something to eat before you go?” 

Bea bought a plate with a brownie, a butter tart, and a few rum balls and headed toward the back, munching as she went. She felt much less conspicuous in this crowd than she had at the gala earlier in the week. People were distracted by the wares and their children, and they weren’t talking quite as much about the murder anymore—and therefore about her role as ‘angel of divorce’. That cursed sobriquet, once again. 

She had just finished her plate when she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Peterson, who seemed to be heading for the back exit. Well, it was loud and a bit close in the church hall. Bea put down her plate and followed. 

She’d been carrying her coat over her arm, but she put it on when the cool October air hit her face. It was refreshing. Mrs. Peterson was leaning against the wall, looking pale, the big dark circles under her eyes marring the delicate porcelain of her face. 

“Mrs. Peterson, are you alright?” 

The small woman started. “Oh! Miss Miller, was it? I’m fine, I just needed some air. So warm in there, you know.” 

“It is,” Bea agreed. “But a packed hall means a successful event, don’t you think?” 

“Oh, well, yes, I suppose,” said Mrs. Peterson. “I don’t know how many people they were expecting. It seems busier than last year.” 

Bea let silence fall for a minute, trying to figure out how to work around to her topic. And then Mrs. Peterson made as if to leave and Bea blurted out, “Oh—wait—actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.” 

Mrs. Peterson blinked. “You? Talk? To me?” 

“Well, yes, if it’s not a bother.” 

A brief moment of hesitation before she said, “Not a bother. I suppose this is about Marilyn.” 

“Yes. I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about what happened on Tuesday afternoon.” 

Another brief hesitation. “What did Marilyn say happened on Tuesday afternoon?” 

Bea changed tack slightly. “I know you went to visit her. I just want to know what time you came, what time you left, if anyone else was around, that sort of thing.” 

“Oh. Well.” Mrs. Peterson nodded, looking slightly less pale. “I suppose it was three or so that I arrived. I sat with Marilyn for an hour. Her housekeeper brought tea. And then I left. So that must have been around four.” 

“Was anyone else in the house, other than Mrs. Mackinnon and the housekeeper?” 

“No, or not that I knew of. I don’t know who else would have been there. It was a Tuesday, so Charles was at work. And any other guests would have had tea with us.” 

“Did you notice anything unusual? Or anyone unusual, maybe hanging around the house?” 

“No, I’m sorry, Miss Miller. It seemed like a perfectly ordinary, average day.” 

Except that Bea knew Mrs. Peterson was lying. 

“What happened during your time with Mrs. Mackinnon that upset her so much?” 

Mrs. Peterson blinked her blue china-doll eyes. “What?” 

“After you left, Marilyn was so upset that she sent the housekeeper home, took a sedative and went to bed. That’s why she didn’t hear anything of her husband getting murdered—“

Mrs. Peterson flinched with her entire body when Bea said those words. 

“—so I don’t think it was a perfectly ordinary, average visit that you had with your friend.” 

“Well.” Mrs. Peterson looked ill again. “I suppose we—had words. But that’s not so far out of the ordinary. Every friendship has its ups and downs.” 

“How often do you normally visit with Mrs. Mackinnon?” 

“We used to visit almost every day, at either my house or hers.” 

“But not anymore,” said Bea. “Your visits slowed down.” 

Mrs. Peterson’s eyes widened. “Well, we—well, you know. One gets so terribly busy sometimes. And then—I suppose sometimes we can get tired of one another—“

“Really? Mrs. Flewelling thought it was because of the divorce.” 

“The—divorce?” 

“That you didn’t want to be caught up in the scandal.” 

‘The scandal?” 

“Of your friend getting a divorce. People might start rumours about the state of your own marriage.” 

“Oh, my friend getting a divorce!” Mrs. Peterson sounded almost relieved. “Of course. That was it. Don’t want to be tarred with the same brush, and all that.” 

It rung so false that Bea had to let it sit for a moment. Mrs. Peterson’s pale face was now flushing. 

“Are you considering divorce yourself?” Bea asked as delicately as she could. 

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Peterson, and Bea found herself believing her. “Ralph and I are very happy.” 

Bea still couldn’t imagine the surly and sarcastic Ralph Peterson making any woman happy, but that wouldn’t be a productive line of questioning. 

“Do you think Mrs. Mackinnon killed her husband?” 

“No, of course not! Marilyn would never.” 

“Can you think of anyone else who would have wanted to hurt him?” 

“I don’t see how anyone could have hurt Charlie,” she said, face pinking again. “He’s never been anything but good.” 

An interesting comment from his wife’s closest friend, given that his infidelities were apparently both prolific and public. And interesting that she used a nickname for him. And very interesting that she seemed to be blushing. 

A suspicion was beginning to coalesce in Bea’s mind, so suddenly that she was almost light-headed. 

“Mrs. Peterson,” Bea said slowly. “You know that the reason the Mackinnons were seeking a divorce was because Mr. Mackinnon was an adulterer.” 

“I know.” She wouldn’t meet Bea’s eyes now. 

“And you don’t think that anyone involved might have taken exception to that?” 

“Well, obviously Marilyn took exception. But she didn’t hurt him. She went to find you. An appropriate consequence.” 

Bea put a hand out against the wall to keep still and steady for the next thing she knew she had to ask. “Mrs. Peterson. Were you and Mr. Mackinnon lovers?” 

Mrs. Peterson blushed bright red. “Well. Yes.” 

Bea’s head swam. “Did you kill him?” 

“No!” Mrs. Peterson seemed to be genuinely shocked. “Why would I do such a thing?” 

“Does Marilyn know?” 

Mrs. Peterson pursed her lips. “She does now.” 

Well. This was not looking particularly good for Marilyn’s case. Bea closed her eyes momentarily against a wave of dizziness. “Does your husband?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Do you think he could have killed Charles Mackinnon?” 

“Ralph could never do something like that!” Mrs. Peterson sounded offended that Bea had even asked the question. “Besides, he was in bed beside me the whole night. With the obvious corollary that I was in bed beside him the whole night. If he had left to kill Charlie, do you think I would lie for him? And if I had left to kill Charlie, do you think he would lie for me? They were friends!” 

Actually, Bea believed both Petersons equally willing to lie for one another. She just wasn’t quite sure of Mrs. Peterson’s skill at lying. 

“Maybe your husband found out and was furious so Mackinnon broke it off, and then you were furious at him. And one or the other of you went over there and stabbed him in the back.” 

Mrs. Peterson shook her said. “No,” she said, with more certainty than anything else she had said all afternoon. 

It didn’t seem likely that this tiny porcelain doll of a woman would stab a man—her lover, no less. But Bea could believe just about anything of Ralph Peterson. 

Mrs. Peterson wrapped her arms around her middle. “I don’t know what I can say to make you believe me, Miss Miller. But I didn’t hurt Charles, and I don’t know who did. And now I would like to go back inside.” 

She would like to go back inside? Did she think she needed Bea’s permission?  

Suddenly exhausted, Bea leaned against the wall. “Thank you for answering my questions, Mrs. Peterson. I hope you have a pleasant evening.” 

Mrs. Peterson looked at her suspiciously but went back into the church hall, leaving Bea alone with her thoughts. 

So, there was one piece of the mystery solved. Something in her conversation with her closest friend had angered Marilyn Mackinnon to the point that she could have dosed herself with Seconal and went to bed at five o’clock. Had it angered her to the point that she could have murdered her unfaithful husband? 

Bea was too tired to work through the implications. Her legs didn’t want to hold her upright. Her eyes didn’t want to stay open. She should go home, but she couldn’t summon the energy to make her way down to the streetcar…

“I heard you might be out here.” 

Bea jolted upright. Had she dozed off while standing up? 

She turned to the new arrival. “So you put in an appearance after all, did you?” 

Gil smiled ruefully. “Yes, but not with you, as requested. My mother’s roped me into helping with the tearing down and tidying up after the bazaar closes.” 

“Must be coming up to about that time.” 

“Another half hour, maybe. I’ve been here for about that length of time already, circulating inside and trying to subtly work the conversation around to who had a key to the Mackinnons’ house or who would have known their back door was sometimes unlocked, and no luck.” 

“Hmm.” Bea leaned back against the wall again, feeling Gil’s warmth along her right side. “I’ve had more luck than you there, then. It seems that Mackinnon himself left it open sometimes so his lovers could get in.” 

“His lovers,” Gil repeated. “Into his wife’s house?” 

“Into the marital bed, according to Mrs. Flewelling. That may be an exaggeration, but—“ she shrugged loosely. 

“I have to say, I like this man less and less the more I learn about him.” 

So did Bea. “He seems to have had numerous lovers. But you may or may not be surprised to learn that one of them was Mrs. Ralph Peterson.” 

“Good gravy,” said Gil after a short pause. “Does Peterson know?”

“She says not.” 

“But would she know, if he found out, killed Mackinnon, and then considered it over? This story just keeps getting more bizarre.” 

The reminder that Gil was in this for the story made Bea’s head swim unpleasantly. She turned to look at him too quickly and got dizzy. He was already watching her, hazel eyes serious. “Did you see them inside? The Petersons?” 

“I didn’t. But how do you feel about paying a visit to Peterson’s office on Monday?” 

Bea nodded, and when that made her feel lightheaded, leaned her head back against the wall again. It didn’t escape Gil’s notice. 

“Bea. Are you alright?” 

She laughed, despite herself. How did their encounters always seem to end this way? 

“It’s been a long week, I suppose.” 

“I can take you home, if you’d like.” 

“Don’t you have to help take everything down?” 

“I have time to run you home first. Please, Bea, I’m starting to get worried about you.” 

She wanted to object, but a wave of exhaustion overtook her. 

“Fine.” 

He led her to a Buick that was roughly the size of a barge. Bea felt sluggish, every step a fight. When Gil held the car door open she dropped into the seat clumsily, and then had to slowly pull her legs up off the pavement and into the vehicle. Woozy as she was, she still didn’t miss the way Gil’s eyes stayed on them as she did. Well, she couldn’t blame him—she did, after all, have excellent legs. 

Gil closed her door for her once she’d managed to get all her limbs in order, which ordinarily she might have felt miffed about, but this afternoon she was too tired to mind. He crossed to the other side and slid into the driver’s side. As soon as his door closed, it seemed like half the air in the car had disappeared. 

In the close quarters of the car, the scent of his cologne was strong, something warm and woodsy, compelling and so autumnal that she wondered if he was the kind of man who changed his cologne with the seasons. And then she remembered who she was thinking about and instead wondered if his mother had selected it for him, if she switched the scents every season. 

The scent seemed to surround Bea, make it feel like Gil was surrounding her, even though there were a good few feet between them on the bench seat. Bea’s head felt heavy and she tilted it back so she wouldn’t be tempted to scoot over and lean into his comforting warmth. 

“Not a total waste of an afternoon, eh,” Gil remarked, sending a crooked little smile her way. 

Bea made an assenting noise but couldn’t summon the energy to verbalize her thoughts. It was good to remind herself that even though Gil was here mostly for the story, he’d still talk her into bed if he could. And if he kept being around when she wasn’t quite herself, eventually she’d forget it was a horrible idea and forget that it went against every rule she had for herself and let him do it. 

Her thoughts were meandering, the way they did before she drifted off to sleep, like a prelude to a dream. Gil and his mother, Marilyn Mackinnon and Agatha Peterson, Ralph Peterson’s ominous face superimposed over a shadowy figure watching the Mackinnons through a window, Mrs. Flewelling gossiping about poor Violet Cooper. 

The motion of the car didn’t help. A thick fog had rolled in from the lake, and as they drove down the hill on Bathurst it felt like they were descending into some unknown depth. 

Bea shook her head to clear her own foggy mind and forced herself to speak so she wouldn’t fall asleep. 

“Is this your mother’s car?” Her tongue felt heavy, clumsy, but the words came out clearly enough. 

Gil sighed. “You really do know just what to say to put a guy in his place.” 

Typical of him. When she tried to be cutting he was delighted, and when she intended no insult he decided to take offence. 

“Didn’t mean—that’s—it doesn’t seem like your style. A family car.” 

“Fair enough. It is my mother’s, in fact.” 

“I like your mother,” Bea forced out. “I think I want to be her when I grow up.” 

Gil made a strangled sound that Bea’s mind was too sluggish to interpret. “Just exactly what to say,” he muttered. 

Chapter Text

Ralph Peterson’s ad agency was, of course, located in the tallest building on the street. The long shadow it cast in the October morning sun had Bea thinking uncharitable thoughts about male anatomy. In his dark suit, Gil blended right in with the soberly-dressed men streaming into and out of the building. Also in a dark suit, Bea stuck out like a sore thumb among the brightly-coloured scarves and cardigans of the women. 

These were just a few of the reasons Bea was annoyed. There was also the morning’s newspaper, with its headline speculating luridly about the philandering man who’d been murdered and the arrest of the wife who was divorcing him. And the radio interview one Jack Reynolds had given wherein he waxed eloquent on the subject of divorce reform. 

And these weren’t the end of the morning’s annoyances. Once they got inside she found plenty more reasons to support her aggravation. The elevator was slow; the air smelled of stale cigarette smoke; the halls were filled with the echoes of male laughter spilling out of various offices. 

“This is not evidence, but the atmosphere here does make me feel murderous,” Bea muttered to Gil as they made their way down another hallway. 

“If Peterson winds up dead, I’ll kindly forget you said that.” 

The gatekeeper barring the door to Ralph Peterson’s office was a young woman, no more than 22 by Bea’s estimation, as well-coiffed and made up as a movie star posing for a magazine photographer. Her fall separates looked like something off a Paris runway, and the angle of her eyeliner was so exquisitely precise that Bea felt frumpy just looking at her. 

How did Ralph Peterson rate the pale, fragile beauty of his wife, compared to the gently flushing, fresh-faced vision that was his secretary? It was a shallow thought, and Bea immediately reprimanded herself for it. She, better than most, knew that marriages were not built on appearance alone, and infidelity was rarely the result of something as simple as beauty. And yet—she remembered Stirling’s sarcastic comment about Charles Mackinnon’s secretary being selected for her looks rather than her skills, and she wondered. 

As they approached, the secretary favoured them with a polite smile. “Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Peterson?” 

Gil smiled back, his most charming grin, and Bea felt, once again, unaccountably annoyed. 

“We don’t, actually, but I was hoping he might have some time in his schedule to fit us in.” 

The secretary’s smile remained polite, but not friendly. Not charmed by Gil, then—it wasn’t only Bea who could resist his charms. 

“I don’t think—“

“What’s this, Ellen?” The door behind the secretary’s desk opened, and the urbane figure of Ralph Peterson emerged. He was just as well turned-out as he had been at the fundraising gala, and at the church bazaar. The perfect black suit, the ruler-straight part of his dark hair, the cold shimmer of blue eyes—all impeccable. Like his secretary, he, too, looked like he could be posing for a magazine. 

The secretary turned to Peterson with a much warmer smile than she’d had for Bea and Gil. “Visitors, Mr. Peterson. I was just explaining that they don’t have an appointment, and you’re a busy man.” 

“Peterson,” Gil said, trying his charming grin again. “We just wanted a few minutes of your time.” 

Peterson looked coldly amused. Or maybe contemptuous was a more accurate description. “Ford—and Miss Miller? My, my, I can’t think of the last time I merited a personal visit from an angel.” 

Bea held back a scowl. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Peterson, I don’t think we need too much of your time. We just have a few questions.” 

“Well, this is sure to be entertaining.” Peterson gestured towards the open door behind him. “Ellen, if we’re longer than a half hour, you might need to bring me another coffee.” 

“I’ll make sure you’re undisturbed until then,” the secretary said confidently. 

“Thank you, my dear.” 

Bea couldn’t contain an eye roll this time. And then she got her first good look at Peterson’s office and totally forgot to reproach his behaviour.  

She hadn’t formed any particular expectations for what Ralph Peterson’s office might look like, but if she had, she would have been expecting it to align with the subdued tidiness of his person. Nothing like the chaotic mess that she encountered. 

The small room was crammed with an oversized desk, a grouping of mismatched, over-stuffed arm chairs, several tall filing cabinets, and a large floor lamp with a stained-glass shade. But Bea wasn’t sure what might be in those filing cabinets, because several years’ worth of documents appeared to have colonized the desk, several chairs, and even the walls, where posters and magazine ads had been tacked up in a cacophony of clashing colours and patterns. Scattered among the papers on the desk, four different coffee cups, two ash trays, and a paperweight provided an additional array of colour. It was an Aladdin’s den of files and documents and flotsam and jetsam. Bea didn’t know where to look. It made her dizzy. Or maybe that was the overwhelming scent of Peterson’s cologne, punctuated by stale coffee and smoke from the still-lit cigarette smouldering in one of the ash trays. 

Peterson picked up a file from a brown leather arm chair and dropped it on the floor. Sitting gracefully, he gestured to the other chairs. Bea perched cautiously. Gil settled right in like he’d been born to it. 

“How is Mrs. Peterson?” Bea asked solicitously, but Peterson was not in a mood to be distracted by small talk. 

“The same as she was when you talked to her two days ago, I imagine. So what exactly have I done to merit a visit from the angel of death herself? Oh—excuse me—it was the angel of divorce, wasn’t it? My apologies.” 

Gil opened his mouth to say something—whether to defend Bea or bring the subject back around to the matter at hand, Bea didn’t know and didn’t particularly want to discover. So instead she said bluntly, “We’re trying to figure out who killed Charles Mackinnon.” 

Peterson started, blue eyes extra brilliant in the morning light. “Is that so.” 

“Yes, and as his friend, we thought you might know something.” 

“Is that so?” Peterson said again, leaning back in his chair and crossing his ankles. “You think the police have it wrong with Marilyn, then? Can’t say I disagree. Meek little thing, isn’t she. Wouldn’t have thought she’d be clever enough to orchestrate a thing like that.” 

It wasn’t anything that Bea herself hadn’t thought about her client, yet hearing the words from Peterson’s mouth made her bristle. 

Gil cleared his throat. “Well, then, I suppose that leads us to the first question. Do you know of anyone else who might have wanted Mackinnon dead?” 

“Not particularly, no.” 

“He was in the process of divorce,” Bea pointed out. “What about his lover? Or his lover’s husband?” 

Peterson sighed and rose from his chair. “Well, if we’re going to talk about this—“ 

He strode across to his desk and bent over to open a drawer. After a minute of rummaging, during which Bea tried not to exchange any suspicious looks with Gil, he emerged with a cut-glass decanter. 

At ten in the morning. 

“Toast?” he offered, tilting the decanter towards them. 

They both declined. Obviously. It was, after all, ten in the morning. 

Peterson shrugged. “Suit yourselves.” He unearthed a glass from somewhere among the piles of paper on his desk and poured a generous measure. Scotch, Bea thought, from the colour and the scent. 

He raised the glass, and the morning sunlight streaming through the window glinted off it. “For  Charles. Damn it, Charlie, old boy, you left us too soon.” 

He drained the contents of the glass in one long swallow. At ten in the morning. Bea pursed her lips. 

“Mr. Peterson,” she said, once she judged that he’d had a long enough moment of silence to commemorate his murdered friend. 

“Right. You wanted to know about Charles’s lovers?” 

Gil’s gaze sharpened on Peterson. “Lovers, plural?” 

“‘Lovers, plural’,” mimicked Peterson. “You’re almost shockingly quaint, the both of you. Yes, of course, lovers plural. They were married for, what, ten years? God knows how many lovers Charles had in that time. Although he was very circumspect, until maybe two years ago. I suppose that’s what sent Marilyn over the edge, in the end.” 

“Any instance of adultery is technically grounds for divorce,” Bea felt compelled to point out. 

This time Peterson actually laughed. “Oh, Miss Miller, you are too precious. Do you really believe the system works that way?” 

Of course it didn’t. Everyone knew that some couples colluded in order to divorce when no adultery had occurred. And even with clear evidence of adultery, only people who were willing to endure a long, expensive, and embarrassing process were able to pursue divorce in the court. Still—Bea resisted Peterson’s implication, that the system didn’t work because any marriage that was long enough would inevitably include infidelity. 

“The fact is,” Peterson continued, “monogamy is not a natural state. Is any animal in nature monogamous? No. Monogamy is an invention of society to try to control the human animal.” 

That sounded like some kind of excuse, to Bea. Some kind of abdication of responsibility. Monogamy was no panacea but it seemed to work well enough for most people. And if it ‘controlled’ men like Peterson, it did so by providing a legal framework to force them be responsible for the children they sired.  

Gil made a little noise that Bea couldn’t interpret. “Philosophy, Peterson? Or experience?” 

“Both?” Peterson shrugged. “My philosophy has been developed from years of my own experience.” 

“So you haven’t kept your wedding vows,” Bea stated, as baldly as she could. Not a surprise—and her suspicions about the secretary grew stronger—but still. She thought of Agatha Peterson looking pale and exhausted outside the church hall, and wondered if this was what had driven her into Charles Mackinnon’s arms. 

Peterson snorted. “Really. A single gal like you? A little lady making her name in the divorce court? And still such a traditional view?” 

“I believe in marriage,” Bea said, irritated. “I feel so strongly about divorce because I believe in marriage. If people who no longer want to be married are forced to remain that way, it undermines the entire institution.” He wasn’t the first to misunderstand her views. To a certain kind of person, an unmarried woman supporting divorce could mean nothing but an old maid with a case of sour grapes, on par with Violet Cooper saying inappropriate things to a widow at her husband’s funeral. 

“And what does wanting to remain married have to do with adultery?” Peterson reclined lazily in his chair. “No—don’t answer that—it’s too early in the morning for your Victorian moralizing.” 

“Mr. Peterson—“

“Really, Miss Miller, if you’ve come here to go trawling for new clients I’ll have to tell you that you’ve wasted your morning. How did we get onto the subject of my marriage, after all that? Weren’t we talking about Charles?” 

“Well--“ Gil started, but Bea cut right across him. 

“Would it surprise you, Mr. Peterson, if I told you that actually, Charles Mackinnon is directly relevant to your marriage?” 

Peterson blinked, and Bea felt victorious. It felt like they were finally getting somewhere, like cross-examining a witness. She would get up and pace the floor if she weren’t so afraid of bumping into furniture or tripping over a stack of files. 

“Would it surprise you, Mr. Peterson, if I told you that actually, one of Charles Mackinnon’s lovers was your very own wife?” 

Her voice rose on the end of that rhetorical flourish, triumphant, accusing, but Peterson did not appear to be moved. 

“Is that so? Well, that does solve one mystery for me. Aggie has been very low this past week.” 

Bea blinked. “You—she—what?” 

Peterson raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Oh, I apologize, Miss Miller. Did you think I espoused one view of marriage for myself and another for my wife? How hypocritical of you.” 

“You—“

“You asked about my wedding vows,” Peterson continued. “Since you remain unmarried yourself, Miss Miller, you may not be familiar with the contents of such. But wedding vows are, in fact, quite lengthy. Quite a lot in there about loving and honouring and sickness and health. My wife and I very happily keep all of those promises. But the one you’re stuck on—forsaking all others—I’m afraid that is one vow we haven’t respected since our honeymoon.” 

He had that coldly disdainful look about him again, like he was mocking her, like he found her some silly, naive thing beneath his contempt. Bea felt her jaw clench. 

“You mean to say,” she ground out, “that your wife is aware of your infidelities and doesn’t mind.” 

“Precisely.” 

“And that, furthermore, you are aware that she is unfaithful as well, and it doesn’t bother you at all.” 

“What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.” 

“That’s—“ Bea could find no words for what it was. 

“That’s just sex, if you’ll forgive the crude language.” 

Gil made a sound that Bea now knew meant that he objected to the improper language. Really, he would not survive long in a divorce court. Peterson plowed on. 

“I know that divorce courts are very narrow-minded about this, so I don’t expect an unmarried divorce lawyer to understand. But there’s much more to a marriage than just that, and believe me, Aggie and I are very happy in ours.” 

That one almost hit. Jack Reynolds had used that same logic, in that god-forsaken inescapable profile. There are no broken marriages littering Beatrice Miller’s past, nor broken engagements, nor even a single rejected proposal. It does seem hypocritical that with so little personal knowledge of marriage, a lady should be so set against the institution. It had managed to misrepresent her stance on marriage, while making her sound like some undesirable hag with sour grapes, and implying that a woman could not possibly hold an opinion on something she had never experienced, all at the same time. 

Also, she had not realized until she’d read the published article that Jack had considered the conversation about her relationship history to be “on the record.” 

Bea crossed her arms, irritation flaring. “So it doesn’t bother you that your wife slept with your friend. Or, put another way, it doesn’t bother you that your friend slept with your wife.” 

This got more of a reaction out of Peterson than anything else she’d said. Unfortunately, that reaction was mainly shock. “Wait a minute. Are you saying—do you think that I killed Charles? In some fit of anger about him and Aggie?” 

Gil cast a worried look at Bea, apparently correctly gaging her level of irritability. “We’re eliminating the possibility,” he said smoothly. 

“That’s why you came to talk to me today?” Peterson shook his head. “Unbelievable!” 

Gil cleared his throat. “Well, we wanted to mention it. Although we’re mainly here to find other suspects. Anyone you know who might have a grudge against him. Anyone he might have, uh, known biblically, who has a less… accommodating husband.” 

“Known biblically,” muttered Peterson in clear disdain. He had slumped down into his chair, no longer looking quite so neat and elegant without the perfect posture. Sun glinted off his watch when he lifted a hand to rub at his temple. “Christ, Ford, have you always been such a prude? Don’t answer that. The fact is, I don’t know much of Charles’s conquests lately. When we were younger and wilder he liked to brag. Sometimes we would compare—if I can mention both of us sleeping with the same woman without putting some kind of horrified look on your prim little faces.” 

Bea risked a glance at Gil, and he did indeed look appalled at this turn in the conversation. 

“But with age and maturity come discretion, I suppose. So, no, I can’t give you any information on his recent lovers, much less their husbands. And I really have no idea who else might hold a grudge.” 

“You used the word conquests,” Bea noted. 

“Ah, yes. Well, Charles always did like a chase. More than I do. I know what you think of me by now, Miss Miller, but I’m not a villain. I think variety is the spice of life, but I take what’s on offer, I’m not going around seducing women just for fun. But Charles—I think Charles liked the feeling of winning.” 

“Maybe one of these women resented being won in such a way,” Bea muttered. 

Peterson shrugged. “Who knows? All I know is that he was less subtle the last few years. Enough so that there were rumours. But I don’t know any more than that.” 

“What rumours?” Bea demanded. 

Peterson’s blue eyes sized her up. They weren’t as cold as they’d been earlier—but just as scornful. “You sure you don’t want a drink before I say any more? Wouldn’t want you to faint from the shock.” 

Before Bea could formulate a retort, a knock sounded at the door and the stylish secretary poked her head inside. 

“Your coffee, Mr. Peterson.” 

The change in Peterson was immediate. His back snapped straight into perfect posture, and his expression returned to cool contempt. “Thanks Ellen, you’re a sweetheart. Well, well, half an hour already? I’m afraid your time is up, Miss Miller. Ford.” 

“But—“ 

“I won’t say it was good to see you,” Peterson interrupted Bea’s interjection. “It was not good at all.” 

“Mr. —“

But Ellen, who despite her model-like appearance seemed to be more ‘efficient’ than ‘sweetheart’, was ushering them out despite all of Bea’s objections. 

“Thank you for coming,” Ellen said with practiced politeness, closing the door to Peterson’s office and shutting off their view of him. “Next time, please do make an appointment. Mr. Peterson is very busy.” 

“I’m sure,” Bea muttered, but it wasn’t Ellen’s fault that her boss was so aggravating, so she managed to smile as she thanked the secretary and turned to leave. 

At least they were outside of the claustrophobic confines of Peterson’s office. She felt she could breathe again. 

Bea fumed the whole way outside and on to the streetcar. Gil remained silent until they boarded, but as he sprawled into a seat he grinned up at her. “It just kills you that you didn’t manage to get the last word, doesn’t it?” 

Bea scowled, and stayed standing instead of sitting down next to him in protest. “I don’t always need the last word.” 

“Come on, Bea, just say some mean things to me and you’ll feel better.” 

She had no intention of following his suggestion—but he looked so smug sitting there, grinning at her, hazel eyes twinkling, and his hair was sticking up all over the place, again. Really, she couldn’t help herself. “For heaven’s sake, do you even own a comb?” 

His grin spread impossibly farther across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “There we go. Now you’re back on track.” 

Bea narrowed her eyes at this reaction. “I’m beginning to suspect that you enjoy it when I’m mean to you.” 

“Beginning to suspect? And here I thought you took one look at me back at that awful gala and somehow divined all my deepest, darkest secrets.” 

“I don’t believe you have any deep, dark secrets.” 

“Everyone has secrets,” he said, “and everyone has some darkness to them.” 

With his grinning face and twinkling eyes, with the golden sun of an autumn morning illuminating his messy hair, he didn’t look like someone who could have any darkness to him at all, let alone secrets. He just looked—

Bea looked away. 

“Aw, come on, you can make more comments about my appearance, and I promise I won’t enjoy it. Do you want to insult my clothes?” 

They had passed into the shadow of a tall building, so he was no longer lit so brilliantly. 

“There’s nothing wrong with your clothes. Your mother does an excellent job of picking them out for you.” 

“Ouch,” said Gil. “See? I definitely didn’t enjoy that one.” 

The streetcar was slowing down to stop, throwing Bea off balance, and she gave in and sat down, elbowing Gil until he shifted toward the window and gave her enough space on the seat. 

“Do you believe him?” she asked. 

“Which part?” 

“I don’t know. That he didn’t know about his wife and Mackinnon. That he doesn’t care about his wife and Mackinnon. That he doesn’t know anything else.” 

“I don’t know. And isn’t that a lot of not knowing?” He sighed and ran a hand through his disordered hair. “I am inclined to believe him, I think, that he doesn’t mind being run around by his wife. He’d have come up with a better lie if he’d done something he wanted to hide. As to whether he knows something more that—it is possible that he does know something that he didn’t want to tell us because he doesn’t seem to like us very much—“

“He certainly doesn’t like me very much. Although the feeling is mutual.” 

“He doesn’t particularly like me either,” Gil muttered, and Bea wondered if he was smarting over that ‘prude’ comment. 

“You know, before he died I thought Mackinnon was a bad husband but not necessarily a bad person. But now, the more I learn about him—maybe it’s because he’s already dead, but I find it more and more understandable that someone wanted to murder him.” 

Gil made a noncommittal noise. 

For the next half-dozen blocks they rode in silence. Bea turned over the events of the morning in her head. 

The plain and simple truth, of course, was that she was out of her element. It made her uncertain, and Bea hated feeling uncertain. The law was not always a certain and solid thing—there was always room for interpretation, loopholes if one could find them, grey areas, always leeway for human judgement. But she knew where the solid parts stood and how to navigate the marshy ones. Unlike this—this entirely uncharted swamp of human motivation. Bea knew how to take facts and convince a judge of a person’s infidelities, but how could she translate that into determining what would bring someone to murder? 

“Do you think this is a waste?” 

Gil started. “Excuse me?” 

“Us investigating,” Bea clarified. “Maybe we should be leaving it to Stirling, as a professional. The kinds of situations I’m used to—and I’m sure you as well—they’re not like this. I wonder if we should sit back and let him do the rest.” 

Another half a block of silence, and then he sighed. “I don’t know, Bea. I think we’re both out of our depth.” 

Chapter Text

For the next several days, Bea really did try to leave the detective work to Stirling. It helped that her actual job kept her busy. One of the newspapers had apparently reported that she was Marilyn Mackinnon’s divorce lawyer, and Dottie was fielding inquiries from dozens of potential new clients. Bea went into her office early, stayed late, and brought home briefs and files to read in the evening. Jules raised her eyebrows over Bea’s overflowing briefcases, but said nothing. 

On Wednesday, Bea arrived home to find that she recognized the client emerging from Jules’s studio. 

“Beatrice!” exclaimed Violet Cooper. “Oh, how lovely to see you!” 

Bea forced a smile. “Violet. A pleasure. You’re here for a portrait?” 

She obviously was. Violet was clad in a dress of white frills that wouldn’t look out of place in some sentimental pastoral scene. A shepherdess, or a milkmaid, perhaps. Jules was just tidying away her camera. 

“Yes! I’d been meaning to have a portrait done for a while. For, for my mother. My father wouldn’t have cared—he wasn’t sentimental like that—fathers, you know. But mothers! What mother wouldn’t want a nice picture of her child? So when I was talking about you with Mrs. Ford, she happened to mention that your cousin was a photographer, and—and, well, it all sounded too perfect!” 

Violet had discovered Jules from Mrs. Ford? Had Gil had told his mother about Jules, or had Mrs. Ford made inquiries of her own? Bea wasn’t sure which option was preferable. 

“It’s so charming,” Violet continued, in a tone so bright it made Bea’s head hurt. “Two spinster cousins keeping house together? What an advertisement for your legal practice! Proof positive of the power of feminine independence. You know, I’ve been reading all of the papers, what they say about poor Marilyn. Did you see that they mentioned you? You’re famous! Well, I suppose you were already famous.” 

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Bea muttered, thinking dark thoughts about Jack Reynolds. 

Violet appeared not to notice. “Is it true that you’re trying to free Marilyn?” 

“Trying,” Bea said. “She didn’t kill her husband, and I’m trying to prevent a miscarriage of justice.” 

“Do you think you know who did it?” Violet’s voice was breathless now, eyes wide. 

“We haven’t been making much progress,” Bea admitted. “Do you know who would want to hurt him?” 

Violet just giggled and reached for her coat. “Well, I hope you do find something, Beatrice. Marilyn doesn’t deserve this. And I do like the idea of a woman detective!” 

On Thursday morning, Bea rose from her desk and went to greet another potential client. Mrs. Celeste Houghton had arrived 15 minutes early and was now sitting in the waiting area frowning at an issue of Chatelaine while a cup of tea provided by the always-solicitous Dottie steamed at her elbow. 

“Mrs. Houghton? I’m Bea Miller,” Bea said, and watched the petite woman jump. She looked young to be speaking to divorce lawyers—she looked young to be married, period, with her wide blue eyes and loose blonde curls and full, rosy cheeks. 

Mrs. Houghton put down the magazine and came to shake Bea’s hand. “How do you do, Miss Miller. Thank you so much for seeing me on short notice.” 

The impression of youth and innocence didn’t leave as they made their way into Bea’s office. Mrs. Houghton’s eyes seemed to widen even further as she took in the cherry wood desk, the upholstered chairs, the wall of books. It was almost enough to make Bea uncomfortable. 

“How can I help you, Mrs. Houghton?” she asked once they’d both been seated, and Dottie had brought over a pot of tea and departed. 

Mrs. Houghton didn’t respond right away. Instead, she looked around the room again, at Bea’s framed law degree on the wall, and back down at her tea. 

She was so young. Was she even 21? She looked about 15. 

Bea got up out of her chair and went to sit beside her client. Sometimes, this was easier for the women who came to see her—confiding in another woman over a pot of tea, instead of talking to a lawyer on the other side of an intimidating desk. 

“Mrs. Houghton?” 

“Oh. Yes.” Mrs. Houghton took a cup of tea and settled into her seat. “This is a lovely office you have, Miss Miller. My father’s an attorney too but his office is more… well, bland. Grand, but bland.” 

“Well, thank you. I try to make it a comfortable space.” 

Mrs. Houghton nodded, picked up her tea, put it down without drinking any, and nodded again. “Miss Miller, I came here to see if you could help me. You see, I hope to get my marriage annulled.” 

Bea sat back in her chair. “There are some specific requirements for annulment.” 

“So you can’t have my marriage annulled?” 

“A judge would have to rule over the matter in any case. But tell me why you think your marriage should be annulled.” 

Mrs. Houghton looked back down into her teacup. “My husband is not the man I thought he was when we married.” 

When nothing else seemed to be forthcoming, Bea prompted, “Literally? Did he marry you under false pretences? That is a strong case for annulment.” 

“No…” Mrs. Houghton hedged. “That is, I don’t think he lied. He just isn’t the sort of husband I expected. Do you take my meaning?” 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.” 

Mrs. Houghton hesitated for another moment. “Before we married, he was always so sweet and considerate. He still can be, sometimes. But he expects to be the centre of his universe, and he gets awful cross when I don’t do something exactly as he wants it.” 

“How cross?” Bea asked gently. 

“Say—last Sunday I burnt the roast. Not too badly—I could cut off the burned bits and the rest of it was fine to eat, only tasted a bit charred. But he was so disappointed in me. Wouldn’t stop talking about how much money a cut of meat like that costs, and I was embarrassing him in front of his parents, and couldn’t I do anything right, that sort of thing.” 

“Do his parents live with you?” Bea inquired. This annoying Mr. Houghton was hardly the most egregious husband she’d heard of, but family interference rarely improved marital strife. 

“No, just across the street. They bought the house for us as a wedding gift. But my mother-in-law and I have been trading off hosting Sunday dinner and I’m nowhere near the cook she is.” 

“I’m sure—“

“I’m not a bad cook,” Mrs. Houghton said earnestly. “Or, not normally. I had gotten distracted by something on the radio. But it’s not just that. He grumbles if dinner is late, or if I’m in the middle of cleaning the floor when he gets home and it’s still wet. That used to happen an awful lot when I was still studying. I thought I could keep taking classes at Victoria College part-time until we had children, but then I was always behind with dinner or housework and he hated that so I stopped.” 

“What were you studying at Victoria College?” 

“Literature. Oh, Miss Miller, my friends keep telling me I’m lucky, and I know that it could be worse. He doesn’t drink or gamble and he’s never hit me. But I don’t know if I can go on like this.” 

“He doesn’t sound like a very good husband,” Bea agreed, “even if there are some who are worse. But unfortunately, Mrs. Houghton, none of this sounds like grounds for an annulment to me.” 

“Are you sure? I thought it might—we were both under 21 when we married, and I still am. Does that have any impact on the legalities?” 

“Not if your parents agreed to the marriage. How long have you been married?” 

“Just over a year. I didn’t want to ask, but if an annulment isn’t possible, maybe divorce…?” 

Bea shook her head. “The only grounds for divorce is adultery. Do you think—“

“No,” Mrs. Houghton said glumly. “I almost wish he would go elsewhere. The whole thing is so awkward and embarrassing. I never know what he wants me to do.” 

“Not to be indelicate,” said Bea, “but he doesn’t mind telling you how to cook or clean or study, and yet he can’t tell you what he wants in the, ah, marital bed?”  

Mrs. Houghton bit her lip. “To be honest, I think he finds it awkward and embarrassing too. He doesn’t try as often as he used to. That's probably my fault, too. I know I'm supposed to... to flower."

"To what?" 

"I wonder…” She shook her head and began again in a more firm voice, “I wonder, would it work if I was the adulterous one?” 

“Your husband could bring divorce proceedings against you, yes,” Bea said. In fact, she suspected that a judge would be more likely to rule in favour of the husband than the wife in this case—but then she’d have to live with the stigma of adultery. 

“Well, that’s right out, then,” said Mrs. Houghton. “He doesn’t want a divorce.” 

Bea probably should have started with this question, but—“Does he even want an annulment?” 

“No! I could serve his father burnt roast and he’d still rather lecture me than imagine not being married anymore. I was hoping there was some legal way I could go over his head. Oh, Miss Miller, am I stuck forever?” 

“No,” said Bea bluntly. “Mrs. Houghton, this is a case where I think practical action needs to precede legal action. Is there any way you can go back to your parents’ house for a while? Maybe a sister or a friend?” 

Mrs. Houghton blinks. “I… I suppose. I suppose if I really did divorce him I’d have to go back, wouldn’t I? I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“I think you need to explain to your husband how unhappy you’ve been, and then go away for a while. Leave him to see to his own dinners and sweep his own floors. It doesn’t have to be permanent—but it could become permanent. Once you’ve been living apart for a while, you can call me and I will help you try to file for a legal separation. But the court may order you into mediation with a psychologist who will try to save your marriage.” 

Privately Bea wondered if a dose of the single life, and a reality check about his wife’s feelings, might not give the very young Mr. Houghton a reason to try to curb his temper. 

After she showed a much more thoughtful Celeste Houghton out of the office, Bea stopped by the waiting room table to pick up the Chatelaine Mrs. Houghton has been reading. 

“Well,” she said when she saw it had been left open to one of the most controversial articles of the year. 

Dottie jumped up from her desk to read over Bea’s shoulder. 

“‘Contrary to popular opinion, it is the woman and not the man who determines whether the act of love will enrich her life or curse it’,” Bea read. “Humph!” With Dottie just over her shoulder, she didn’t dare to read aloud, A man can feel kinship with the gods if his woman can make him believe he can cause a flowering within her. If she doesn't feel it, she must bend every effort to pretense. It's the worthiest duplicity on the face of the earth. I heartily recommend it to discontented wives. 

“I’m rethinking keeping Chatelaine in our waiting room,” Bea mused, dropping the magazine. 

“You are not! All the ladies ask for it. Besides, we’ve already cancelled the magazine I daren’t name. We can’t afford to lose another popular publication.” 

Bea narrowed her eyes. “There’s no need to be melodramatic, Dottie.” 

“I didn’t even say Maclean’s and you give me that look! No wonder I daren’t name it.” Dottie shook her head. “Anyway, I thought you said you liked Dr. Hilliard. Neither of us are married—maybe there’s something to this advice.” 

“Dr. Hilliard isn’t married either,” Bea pointed out. “Although I did like her article last month. ‘The married woman is fooled into believing that she can spend her whole life without acquiring a single skill…’ Alright, we won’t cancel Chatelaine, but if she writes something like that again I will make you take th scissors to it. The last thing my female clients need to read in my office is something that makes them feel like their marital problems are their fault.” 

Dottie took the Chatelaine and smoothed down the cover protectively.  

Bea’s next appointment of the morning was less easily resolved. Unlike Celeste Houghton’s husband, Winnifred Maxfield’s husband did hit her, and drink, and gamble. What he did not do was philander, which meant that Mrs. Maxfield’s prospects for divorce were slim. She thought that if she was unfaithful to him he would be more likely to beat her than to sue for divorce. Bea was hopeful that the gambling would lead to a strong case for a legal separation. The law was more easily used to protect Mrs. Maxfield’s assets from her husband’s poor decisions than to protect her body from his cruel rages. But even that could not be accomplished with Mrs. Maxfield still under his roof. Bea offered to contact Mrs. Maxfield’s parents and friends for her, since she was convinced that they would not be happy to hear from her. 

When Bea showed the anxious woman out, a man was leaning over Dottie’s desk. 

A handsome, charming, amusing man. 

An oily, deceptive, contemptible man. 

Bea glared at Dottie. She’d said the name of the magazine out loud, and like Macbeth, Maclean’s could apparently also summon bad luck. 

“Jack, why are you here?” 

Jack Reynolds straightened and favoured Bea with an enormous grin. “Bea! Just the gal I was looking for.” 

Bea crossed her arms. “I should hope so, since this is my office.” 

Jack chuckled. “Good one! Do you have a minute to talk? Or are you busy?” His eyes slid over to Mrs. Maxfield, who was trying to shrink behind Bea. 

“My office,” Bea said shortly, holding in a scowl. When he’d walked away, she apologized to Mrs. Maxfield and told her to organize her next appointment with Dottie. 

“What is this about, Jack?” she asked, once she was back in the inner office. 

Jack hadn’t taken a seat. He was standing with his hands behind his back, apparently admiring one of Jules’s photographs on the wall. 

“I heard that you changed your mind about giving an interview on the Mackinnons.” 

Uninterested in playing his games, Bea sat at her desk and opened the top file there. 

“No, I haven’t. Was that all?” 

“I heard you’ve been getting very cozy with Gil Ford.” 

Bea almost dropped her pen. “Where did you hear that?” 

When Jack turned to her with an almost predatory smile, Bea knew she’d made a tactical error somewhere. “Oh, I have my sources. I’m hurt, Bea. After all that time we spent together, I’d have thought that if you were going to do an interview about representing a murderess, you’d have chosen me.” 

“I’m not doing an article on representing a murderess.” It was true. Gil’s article was going to be about police injustice, and Bea wasn’t giving him a quote, anyway. “Gil and I are social acquaintances.” Also true, for the most part. 

Jack’s brows went up and his predatory grin turned into something more like a leer. “Acquaintances, eh?” 

“Are you so surprised? Aren’t you the one who implied that Prince Edward Island is so small it’s incestuous?” 

This, finally, took Jack aback. Bea tried not to let herself feel triumphant. 

“Ah,” she said. “So then you didn’t know that Gil’s mother is a Blythe of Glen St. Mary and his uncle is a senior judge in Charlottetown.” 

“Is that was this is then?” Jack asked. “Tribalism? It’s all a bit incestuous, isn’t it?” 

Bea hated him. Despised him. And, in that moment, herself. How on earth had she ever let him turn her head? 

“Go away, Jack,” she said, turning back to her files. “I have work to do.” 

“Oh, as a lawyer? Or are you a psychologist today? A social worker, a financial advisor, a real estate agent?” 

Bea couldn’t keep her shoulders from tensing. Yes, she’d been some of those things today. But Jack didn’t need to know that. “I’m not going to apologize for caring about my clients and making sure they’re taken care of. Good bye, Jack.” 

“You can put away your claws, Bea. I’m not your enemy.” He was gone before she could think of a response. 

Alone, she went to stand by the window. It was another grey day outside, and the sound of the raindrops hitting the glass was almost soothing after that confrontation. 

But she was too restless to stand by the window, and she didn’t want to think of Jack. She wanted to do what she did best—helping the women who came to her in need. 

“Dottie, do I have any more appointments this afternoon?” 

“None!” 

“Then I’m going out.” 

The rain had stopped when Bea stepped out onto the street. By the time she hopped off the streetcar, a shaft of sunlight pierced through the clouds. 

The Don Jail rose from the banks of the Don River, the ornate masonry of the Renaissance Revival facade belying the depressing nature of the interior. But Bea didn’t let it get her down. Now that she had decided to act, she was feeling downright cheerful. 

She bullied her way into a private meeting room—she was, after all, still technically Marilyn Mackinnon’s lawyer. 

Against the dingy walls, clad in a shapeless and colourless smock, Marilyn looked more worn and tired than she had the last time Bea had visited, but she brightened at the sight of the muffins and thermos of tea Bea had managed to secret in her briefcase. 

“Oh, Bea! I wasn’t expecting you!” 

Bea pushed the feast towards her client. “Well, you may not need my services anymore, but I am still at your service. Are you well?” 

“As well as I can be, I suppose. Mr. Gordon has been very sympathetic, although that terrible Detective King came nosing around again a few days ago. I do not like that man, or, I suppose I should say, he doesn’t like me.” 

“Have you had many other visitors?” 

Marilyn shook her head. “Only Mrs. Flewelling. And she seemed mostly interested in telling me that everyone thinks that I did it. That I—murdered him.” She burst into tears, and Bea hunted through her pockets until she found a handkerchief to offer. 

Bea made soothing sounds until the sobbing subsided. 

“My goodness,” Marilyn muttered, blowing her nose. Her face was red, her hair messy, and she suddenly looked less like the posh and put-together lady who had first walked into Bea’s office all those months ago, and instead more like every other exhausted middle-aged woman Bea had ever seen. “I’m so sorry, Bea. You didn’t come here to watch me weep. Mr. Gordon sent a telegram to my mother and she’s going to come see me. In my hour of need. So once she arrives, I won’t be so alone anymore. Although I have a terrible fear that she thinks I killed Charles, too. I didn’t, Bea, you know I didn’t!” 

“I know,” Bea repeated soothingly, worried the tears might reappear. “I know you didn’t. In fact I’m trying to find out who did, since the police don’t seem interested in a proper investigation.” 

Marilyn blinked a few times. “You are?” 

“Yes, well, in my line of work I know several private investigators, and I asked for some assistance. We’re just asking questions now.” 

“And have you found anyone yet?” 

Oh, goodness. Bea wished she’d consulted with Stirling over wether it was a good idea to tell Marilyn about their possible suspects. “We have some ideas,” she said vaguely. 

Marilyn’s fist clenched around the handkerchief. “Oh, Bea—!” 

“We’re trying to figure out who else may have had access to the house that night,” Bea continued quickly. 

The other woman paused. “Access to the house? There’s been a vagrant loitering in the neighbourhood. I thought I saw him paying special attention to our house, and I told Charles so, and he only laughed at me. I told Detective King about the vagrant and he didn’t even take note. Oh, Bea don’t you think it must be him?” 

“Mrs. Flewelling mentioned him too, I think, and we’re certainly keeping an eye out for him. But I was wondering maybe about friends?” 

“Friends?” Marilyn asked blankly. 

“I know one doesn’t like to suspect friends. But Stirling—that’s my detective friend—found out that your husband may have recommended some of his friends to invest in a venture that turned out badly.” 

“I wouldn’t know anything about that. Charles never spoke about finances with me.” 

Bea paused at the strain of bitterness in her voice. “Well, what about your friends? Mrs. Peterson was visiting that day, is that so? Do you think she could have come back later, or maybe her husband?” 

Marilyn’s face twisted. “Agatha? She wouldn’t have come back that day unless she knew I was off at a Humane Society meeting. That’s normally when she comes over, as it turns out.” 

Ah. “Then you know—“

“That Charles was sleeping with Agatha? Yes, of course. Silly girl. I thought she was smarter than that.” 

Bea licked her lips. “Is that what the two of you talked about that day? When she left in the afternoon and you were so upset you took some Seconal and went straight to bed?” 

Marilyn looked frankly shocked. “Did I tell you that?” 

“Yes—the day after you were arrested. You don’t remember?” 

She shook her head. “It’s all a blur. But I already knew about Charles and Agatha. Charles has been… less discreet, since I told him I was going to divorce him.” 

Bea was so absorbed in considering the implications of this, that she didn’t realize until Marilyn had been led away again and she was making her way out of the jail that the other woman had never actually said that they hadn’t talked about the affair—just that she’d already known about it. 

Nearly at the exit, she had the misfortune to run across one of the men they’d been discussing, leaning casually against a wall. “It’s you,” said Detective King in a resigned tone. 

Bea drew herself up to her fullest height. “Just visiting a client, Detective King. One whose case you have no interest in really investigating.” 

Detective King stroked his thumb along his scraggly little moustache, a gesture that emphasized the fact that his sleeves were a half-inch too short. 

“I don’t think you know enough about what a murder investigation entails to tell if I’m conducting one or not,” he remarked. 

“I know that it means looking at more than one suspect.” 

“Look here—“

“The longer you have an innocent woman locked up in here, the longer an actual murderer runs free! What if he kills again?” 

“Most murders are crimes of passion, and this was a particularly personal one. I am not overly worried about this murderer striking again.” 

“So it’s just about keeping a woman locked up when all the evidence against her is circumstantial at best.” 

Detective King had apparently reached the limits of patience, because he levered himself up from a lean to his full height. “And it’s so hard to believe that we might have evidence in police custody that you don’t know about, then? You should think on that. I’m not your enemy, Miss. Excuse me.” 

And he turned on his heel to march down the hall, leaving Bea to glare impotently in his wake. 

Outside, the sun had returned to full force, glinting aggressively off the wet asphalt. Bea winced against it and wondered what on earth the police had on Marilyn Mackinnon. 

And wondered why Marilyn didn’t want to tell her what she’d argued about with Mrs. Peterson. 

Chapter Text

On Friday, Bea arrived home to find that Stirling had beat her there. 

He was closed up in the darkroom with Jules, and when they finally made their way to the kitchen where Bea was cooking, he looked younger and happier than Bea had ever seen him. A friendship with Jules might actually be good for him—as long as he didn’t do something awful like fall in love with her. Stirling wasn’t the sort of man Bea would ordinarily describe as awful, but then, Jules had a certain way about her, a certain aloof confidence that some in Blair Water called Murray arrogance but that Bea thought was closer to swagger, and many people found it difficult to resist. 

It was a blustery day outside, the kind of wind that made a mockery of hairspray and caused hats to part company with heads. And it had been a long week of divorce cases. And yesterday she’d ended up in unintentional confrontations with both Jack Reynolds and Detective King. So, no, Bea was in no mood to be tolerant of male foibles. She wasn’t even in the mood for murder talk. 

She took her annoyance out by forcefully shaping the salmon croquettes while Jules and Stirling chatted amiably. 

“I made cake for after dinner!” Jules was saying, and Stirling’s eyes lit eagerly. 

“Don’t get too excited,” Bea grumbled, “it’s the kind that comes out of a box.” 

Stirling shot her a look, but didn’t lose his general sense of good-humour. “Cake is cake. I’ll take it.” 

Bea grumbled again, wishing she could kick Stirling out of her kitchen, out of her house, and spend the evening watching the Guy Lombardo show on the CBC instead of talking murder. But Stirling and Jules looked relaxed, leaning companionably back against the countertop drinking vodka martinis, and Gil was on his way, and it would really be too rude to cancel everything now. 

Jules rolled her eyes. “Have a drink, Bea, and shake off your week. You’ve been a grump for days.” 

Bea felt reflexively guilty for taking her mood out on her cousin. Before she could manage to scrape together the energy for an apology, the doorbell rang twice. Jules picked up her martini and grabbed Stirling’s arm. 

“That’ll be Betty. Come on, let’s go sit in the living room so we don’t get in Bea’s way.” 

“You’re not in my way,” Bea said to their retreating backs, but it didn’t sound very convincing even to her own ears. 

She finished cooking with the sounds of Jules’s and Betty’s giggles—and occasionally a rusty chuckle. Since no one else was home, she had to assume that chuckle belonged to Stirling, though she’d never actually heard him laugh before. The rustiness did match his ‘rundown gumshoe’ image. 

With supper finished, Bea lingered in the kitchen, unwilling to inflict her poor mood on Jules, or Betty—Stirling, she didn’t care about upsetting. Still. She was just considering whether she should go upstairs and keep her own company and let them eat and laugh in peace, when the doorbell rang again.  

Relieved, she went down to the front hall—surely that was what that feeling was, relief. She could snap at Gil all she wanted with only a minimal amount of guilt. 

She shouldn’t have been surprised to see that, despite the way that the wind had tossed his red-brown curls into tangled disarray, half-unwound his scarf, and turned up one of his collar points in an uneven mess, Gil was grinning. The golden light of the autumn evening caught him in a burnished glow. Bea scowled. 

“Evening, Bea. This weather is just wild, eh? That wind!” 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Come inside before we let all the heat out.” 

He complied, laughing as he unwound his scarf the rest of the way. “Isn’t it invigorating, having a strong wind at your back?” 

“Unless you’re walking into it.” 

“Ah, but then you feel it on your face. Nothing makes me feel more alive.” 

He did seem a bit giddy, or maybe slaphappy. 

“Have you been drinking?” Bea asked as she took his coat. Even the gale-force wind outside wasn’t enough to dissipate the scent of his cologne. She hung the coat as quickly as she could and stepped away from it. 

Gil was running a hand carelessly through his hair, which wasn’t doing much to put it back in order but was doing some interesting things for the way his forest green sweater fit around the shoulders. 

“You don’t need to look so sour,” Gil tossed back. Bea realized she’d pursed her lips disapprovingly. “It’s not alcohol, just plain old joie de vivre. Although I wouldn’t mind a drink, if you’re offering.”  

The colour of his sweater brought out green flecks in his hazel eyes. And why was Bea standing close enough to notice that? 

Bea turned on her heel and headed up to the living room. “Vodka martini.” 

“Is that a question?” 

“It’s what we’re having. So it’s what you’re having if you want a drink.” 

“I’ll take it,” he chuckled. 

Jules seemed delighted to see Gil again, and Betty professed herself delighted to meet him for the first time, and Stirling smirked in the corner. And somehow, now that they were all in one room, talking and laughing and listening to the gusts of wind whistling around the old house, Bea felt herself unbending, softening. Well, the second vodka martini probably helped. 

They didn’t talk about murder during dinner. 

It was a strategic move. Partly because it would have had a repressive effect on their appetites; partly because no one wanted to bother Betty; partly because they wanted to give their full attention to the case later instead of being distracted by food. 

Instead, Jules and Gil chatted about a movie they’d both seen, and Bea nodded along as Betty described her day cataloguing in the basement of the university library. 

Just like the week before, Stirling downed the food like he hadn’t eaten all day. It occurred to Bea that maybe he hadn’t; that maybe the cheap, dirty clothes weren’t simply part of an affectation. When Gil had pointed out Stirling’s parents at the gala she hadn’t gotten the sense they were estranged. But was it possible that he’d been cut off from the Redfern money? Was he really trying to live on the wages of a seedy private eye? 

After they’d finished the salmon croquettes and the potatoes dauphine and the Jell-o salad, Jules and Betty escaped to the living room to listen to records, and Bea and the men repaired to the library to talk about murder. 

“I’ve been following this Peterson character,” Stirling said, accepting the cup of coffee Bea handed him. He drank it black and sugarless—a parody of a PI, Bea thought sullenly. 

“I don’t know if we’re on the right track with him,” Gil admitted, sitting back in his chair with his own coffee (cream, no sugar). “When we went to see him on Monday—I don’t know about you, Bea—but I believe him when he said he didn’t know about his wife and Mackinnon.” 

Bea pulled another chair up next to him, so the two of them sat on one side of the desk with Stirling on the other. In the glow of the lamp, with the howling wind outside making the old eaves creak, it felt almost cozy. Other than the subject matter. 

“Ah yes, innocence by mutual infidelity. A defence of sorts, I suppose. Or else he was bragging about all the women who are apparently dying to get into his bed.” 

“Do you think he was bragging?” Gil tapped his thumb against his lips thoughtfully, and Bea took an extra large sip of coffee and had to hunt for a serviette. “I suppose he could have been exaggerating. To make himself feel better about his wife.” 

Actually Bea thought it more likely that Peterson had exaggerated to try to make them uncomfortable—the spinster divorce lawyer and the prudish mama’s boy. But she wasn’t sure she could say that without offending Gil. 

“He may have been bragging,” Stirling interrupted, “but I don’t think he was exaggerating. I’ve been following him since last Friday, and in that time he’s gone to three different hotels to meet three different dames.” 

“He—really?” Bea supposed the man was well-dressed, even coldly handsome, but she hadn’t really expected many women to be able to get past his sneering attitude. 

“What do you think I was doing in Jules’s darkroom?” Stirling dropped a manilla envelope on the desk in a movement that was melodramatic enough to make Bea raise her eyebrows. “She gave me some tips on developing photos taken under poor lighting conditions.” 

“You got pictures of all three women with him?” Bea demanded, leaning forward. 

”No one told me a murder investigation would be so much of the same old grunt work as a divorce investigation.” 

“It’s all the same, isn’t it?” Gil commented. “People have something they want to hide, and you have to gather the evidence to prove it in a court of law. The hard proof, if you will.”

“If it’s not hard, there won’t be any proof,” Stirling muttered, and Gil glared at him.  

Discomifted, Bea asked, “You’re not still planning to take that tack in your article, are you?” 

Gil shrugged. “I haven’t really ruled it out. I do like the theme of deception, and shedding light on the truth.” 

“I wasn’t trying to compare murder and adultery,” Stirling drawled. “Let’s say I didn’t expect a murder case to involve tailing a cheating husband.” 

“Right. Three different women in one week,” Gil said flatly. 

“Saturday late at night, Tuesday over lunch, and yesterday evening. I don’t know if that’s a typical week for our man or if he’s trying to avoid being home right now. Maybe he’s more upset over his old lady being with Mackinnon than he let on, or maybe Mrs. P’s all cut up about it and not giving her husband the attention he wants.” 

“Why were you following Peterson, anyway? I told you on Monday he didn’t seem like a strong suspect anymore.” 

Oh, Gil was definitely put out by this turn of events. Bea sipped her coffee and said nothing. 

“You did tell me that,” Stirling agreed. “And then I found out that Peterson is one of the investors who lost money based on Mackinnon’s financial advice.” 

Bea set her coffee cup down heavily. “Oh, is he?” 

Gil furrowed his brow, more skeptical. “Is he?” 

“He is,” Stirling confirmed. “Last winter, Mackinnon recommended an investment in Sellers Trade Goods, a small import/export concern, to three friends. Each man put it around three thousand dollars, including Mackinnon. In August, the business went under, and the men lost everything they’d put into it.” 

Three thousand dollars. It didn’t seem like enough to kill over, to Bea, but maybe it was just the final straw. Maybe Peterson had been slowly building his bitterness against Mackinnon for years—hadn’t he sounded annoyed by the way Mackinnon conducted his affairs, as opposed to Peterson’s more civilized approach? Maybe the loss of the money had played into that. Maybe Peterson had realized his wife was attracted to his sometime-friend—even if he didn’t know about the actual affair—and that had added insult to injury and pushed him over the edge—

“Who were the other men?” Gil asked. Also a good question. 

“Joe Towers and Ted McNamara. But neither of them could have done it. McNamara resides in Montreal, and there’s no indication he was in Toronto the day of the murder. And Towers—“

“Killed in a car collision in September,” Gil supplied. “He was a drunk, had a habit of getting behind the wheel even when he shouldn’t.” 

Stirling nodded. “Exactly. I did speak briefly to his widow. For the record, she had no idea her late husband had ever invested money in Sellers. When I spoke to her she thought I was a financial adviser offering to help her out. I almost hated to disappoint her. She’s inherited his entire estate and doesn’t know what to do with money beyond her usual housekeeping budget.” 

“He probably never talked about investments when he was alive,” Bea said bitterly. “You wouldn’t believe how many men won’t even let their wives see bank statements. Of course I’m normally seeing divorces, and no one thinks their marriage will end that way, but what do these men think will happen to their wives if they die unexpectedly? Or even become seriously incapacitated? Everyone should have a basic understanding of one’s own household finances.” 

Both men were watching her with an expression that could best be described as ‘amused tolerance’. Men! Bea scowled at them and poured more coffee. 

“So we’re back to Ralph Peterson as a top suspect,” mulled Gil. 

“I’ve always thought he was the top suspect,” Bea complained. 

“Only because you don’t like him. You can’t honestly say you had any kind of idea of this as a potential motive.” 

“He was acting suspiciously at the gala that first evening, and he doesn’t seem to want to give us a straight answer to our questions. Isn’t that enough?” 

“For some people,” said Stirling. “Others just don’t like to answer personal questions. And still others are hiding something completely different from what you’re looking for. That’s the thing about poking around a major crime. You end up unearthing all kinds of secrets people would rather not reveal, most of which don’t end up having anything to do with the case.” He tapped one finger against the manilla envelope. “I recognized one of Peterson’s women. She was at the gala that night. Viola Cooper?” 

“Violet Cooper,” Bea corrected. “I remember, she was talking to both Petersons by the bar. And I saw her talking to him at the church bazaar last Sunday too. But I thought she didn’t like men—I heard she’s bitter that she never married.” 

Stirling leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Does she dislike men, or does she dislike their wives for having bested her by getting married?” 

“That’s so—“

“I’m not asking how you feel about married and unmarried women, I’m asking how she feels. In my experience, broads usually take these things out on other broads.” Stirling shrugged. “This is exactly the kind of thing I meant. If we hadn’t been investigating this murder, none of us would ever have known that Ralph Peterson met Violet Cooper at a motel in Aurora yesterday.” 

“In Aurora?” Bea asked, surprised. The town was a good twenty miles north of Toronto. In her experience, philanderers didn’t normally go that far out the way. 

“My guess is that it was her choice—he met the other ones much closer to home. Maybe she was afraid of being recognized.” 

“Maybe they were doing something they couldn’t stomach doing within the city limits of ‘Toronto the Good,’” Bea said ironically. She hadn’t taken Mrs. Flewelling very seriously when she’d said that Violet never married because she’d lost her reputation young, but now she wondered what exactly had happened to the other woman. 

“Did you recognize either of the other women?” Gil asked. 

“Was Tuesday lunch the secretary?” Bea chimed in. 

“No, and no. Here.” 

Stirling tipped the photos out of the envelope. Gil hesitated for a second, his arm blocking Bea from seeing them, until she exclaimed, “Oh, for heaven’s sake! I’m a divorce lawyer, Gil, I spend a great deal more time looking at PI photographs of infidelity than you do.” 

Slowly Gil lowered his arm. Stirling smirked at him as he tapped the first set of photos. 

“Saturday night. The King Edward hotel. They went in late, just before midnight.” 

The first few photos showed Peterson and a woman Bea didn’t recognize—well-dressed, light hair, maybe 50—entering the hotel together. Then one of Peterson emerging alone, looking much the same as he had going in, and the woman, looking slightly rumpled. Bea couldn’t tell from the sepia-toned photo if either of them were flushing. 

“How long?” she asked Stirling. 

“Forty minutes, give or take.”  

“I don’t recognize the lady,” Gil said stiffly. Bea shook her head as well. 

Stirling pushed a second set of photos over. “Tuesday, 1pm, the Gladstone Hotel.” 

These photos followed the same pattern, except that they showed a much younger woman, under 30 if Bea had to guess. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and seemed to be glancing around, as if she was afraid someone would recognize her. Once again, Peterson had departed first, jacket still undone and tie slightly askew. 

“Half an hour,” Stirling offered before Bea could ask. “But she stayed behind longer, I guess to put herself back together. Not a hair out of place by the time she left.” 

Bea nodded. “She’s married too, I’d guess.” 

“She is,” Gil confirmed, still sounding a pinch scandalized. “That’s Mary Finch. Her husband and his brothers are developers out in Scarborough.” 

“You know her?” 

“Not well. One of the brothers is friends with my brother-in-law.” 

Bea frowned. “I didn’t know you had a brother-in-law.” 

“You know, my sister’s been married to him for almost 20 years, and sometimes I forget too.” 

Had she known he had a sister? But this was a distraction. Bea shook her head as the wind rattled at the windows. 

“Never mind that. Peterson was up in Aurora last night?” 

Stirling silently pushed over the last set of photographs. Bea recognized Violet Cooper instantly, standing in a motel parking lot with a look of excited anticipation on her face. Ralph Peterson, stepping half outside the door to one of the rooms to gesture her in, looked more calm and cool. Well, understandable, if this was his third assignation of the week. 

Bea flipped to the next photo and raised her eyebrows. Gil made an offended noise. 

“Oh yes,” said Stirling. “They didn’t bother to draw the curtain all the way.” 

“Eager, were they?” Bea asked, as Gil continued to splutter. 

They hadn’t bothered to remove their clothes, either, which meant that the photographs really weren’t shocking enough to justify Gil’s indignation. Violet was bent over a dresser, skirt flipped up above her waist, while Peterson stood behind her, pants around his ankles. 

Gil cleared his throat. “Looks like they didn’t get more than a few sips into their drinks.” 

Of course he was focusing on the background instead of the main action. 

“That’s not surprising,” said Bea, “considering his other two encounters this week lasted less than forty minutes. Not much time to ease into it with a drink.” 

She flipped through the next few photos, to Gil’s dismay. 

“Why did you even take these?” he grumbled. 

Stirling shrugged. “If Peterson really is our murderer, I thought the missus might want to be free of him.” 

“That’s shockingly thoughtful,” Bea said, looking down at a photograph that left no doubt what the two of them were doing. 

The figures were slightly blurred, like they were moving too quickly to be captured on film, but some details came through clearly. Peterson’s hands gripped so tightly around Violet’s hips that his fingertips dented the skin. His face, spots of colour high on the cheeks. The tendons on his neck standing out in stark lines. One lock of hair had come free from his carefully coiffed style and flopped onto his forehead. Violet’s eyes, glittering. Bea could almost feel the heat, the urgency, coming off the photo—

Gil’s sleeve brushed hers, and she jerked away. 

To cover the instinctive, panicked motion, Bea stood swiftly. 

“I think we need more coffee. This is a two-pot of coffee conversation.” 

“It’s a seventeen-pot case so far,” said Stirling evenly, for which Bea was grateful. 

“I measure out my life in coffee spoons,” Gil muttered. It sounded familiar, but Bea couldn’t place it. 

“Do I need to start carrying Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations around if I’m spending time with you?” she asked his shoulder, since she couldn’t quite make herself look at his face. 

“Sorry. Prufrock again.” 

Bea clicked her tongue and went to make more coffee. Of course it was Prufrock again. That’s why the line sounded familiar. She’d read the poem a few times after he’d quoted it to her the first time, that night at the gala. Why had she felt compelled to do that? Curiosity, that was all. 

She breathed deeply as the coffee perked. She and Gil were both wearing wool sweaters. There must have been some kind of static shock when their arms brushed. That was what had made her jump, wasn’t it? 

This whole thing—murder, and Peterson’s casual affairs, and Jack Reynolds coming back into her life, and having men who weren’t quite colleagues and weren’t quite friends at her house—it was all getting to her. She wasn’t sleeping well, and these things were consuming her thoughts. That was all. That was all, damn it. 

When she brought the second pot of coffee back to the library, Gil accepted his cup from her cautiously, not letting his fingers brush hers. So much for the hope that her panic hadn’t been obvious. He’d shifted his chair away from hers, too, and kept a careful few inches between them when she sat down. 

“Here’s what we’ve learned,” began Stirling, who, thank God, was ignoring any possible byplay between her and Gil. “Mackinnon was screwing Peterson’s wife—although Peterson says he didn’t know about that. And intentionally or not, Mackinnon screwed Peterson over by recommending that investment.” 

Gil made the face he always made when he disapproved of someone’s language but didn’t want to say anything. Stirling ignored him. 

“And,” he continued, “we have no proof Peterson’s lied to us. So far his claims about his marriage seem to pan out. Has he said where he was the night of the murder?” 

“Not that I know of,” Bea said. “His wife said she was in bed beside him all night.” 

“If Peterson killed Mackinnon over her, she may not be inclined to lie for him—or, again, she may. But if he killed Mackinnon over money—she might even have been in on it.” 

Bea set her coffee cup down firmly. “You think Mrs. Peterson might have been involved?” 

“I haven’t discounted her as a suspect,” he said. “Have you? She was there that day. She was sleeping with the victim. He lost her and her husband money. Did she know about it?” 

“She doesn’t seem strong enough to murder him,” Bea pointed out. “She’s such a fragile little thing.” 

“Appearances can be deceiving. But the mister is still higher up on my list than the missus.” 

“Who else is on the list?” 

“I know you hate it, Bea, but Marilyn Mackinnon’s still got to be on there.” 

“The vagrant that’s been seen in the neighbourhood?” Bea suggested. “Marilyn told me that she’s seen him, too. Or any of the neighbours? Mrs. Flewelling suspects Mackinnon was having an affair with a Mrs. Donovan.” 

Stirling shook his head. “I did a basic canvass of the neighbourhood. The Donovans went to her mother’s house in Etobicoke for the evening, it went later than expected, and they ended up staying the night. Some idiot called Willy, or Ever Hard Johnson, or something—“

“Bill Everhart-Johnson,” Gil corrected, sounding scandalized again. 

“Right. Everhart, not Ever Hard. One of the kids was sick that night, so he and the wife were up and down all night. He didn’t see anything at the Mackinnons’, but remembers noticing that the Donovans’ car wasn’t in their drive. I can ask the mother if it comes to it, but I can’t see one of the Donovans coming all the way back, murdering someone, and then returning to Etobicoke, all in the dead of night.” 

“So where are we at, then?” 

“Peterson,” said Stirling. “Mrs. Peterson. This supposed vagrant. Mrs. Mackinnon. Other persons unknown. It would help if we had a better idea of when Mrs. Peterson left and when  Mackinnon came home.” 

They sat in silence for a minute. Then Gil set his cup down. “What’s our next step then, O Wise One?” 

“I want to talk to Ralph Peterson again,” said Bea. 

“I think the wise one is supposed to be me,” Stirling smirked. “But I agree. I’m coming with you this time, though.” 

“What, you don’t trust me to ask the right questions?” 

“You don’t like Peterson,” Stirling pointed out. “And he knows it, and he knows he can distract you from whatever you’re asking by saying something that annoys you.” 

Bea sighed. “Fine. We can go together, and maybe he’ll say something helpful for once.” 

“Do you think your lawyer friend can get us any more information from the police? They’d have to give him something to prepare for Mrs. Mackinnon’s defence.” 

“I’ll ask.” 

“Might want to talk to Mrs. Peterson again, too. Do you think she’d tell you, if she and her husband really do have the kind of agreement he mentioned?” 

“Oh, who knows?” Bea tilted her empty coffee cup to the side, watching the last few drops chase each other across the porcelain sides. “Women, ladies, of a certain class barely talk about… about bedroom activities with their own friends, let alone someone like me, coming around asking suspicious questions. Then again, I already know about her affair with her friend’s husband. So maybe the rest wouldn’t go down so badly.” 

“More likely that she’d talk to you than that she would talk to me,” Stirling said. “Isn’t that the whole point of the collaboration? That high society ladies aren’t about to tell all their secrets to some rundown gumshoe—especially not their secrets about who they’re screwing.” 

Gil, who’d been pretty quiet for the last few minutes, made some kind of disapproving harrumphing noise that Bea would have expected to come out of a maiden aunt. 

“Do you have something to add?” she asked him pointedly. 

“No. I just—can we please try to keep to civil language?” 

“What have we said that’s uncivil?” Bea demanded. 

“Not uncivil, exactly.” Gil wasn’t looking at her, but rather into his own empty coffee cup. Although—was he blushing? “But—improper.” 

“We’re talking about murder, and you’re quibbling over some slightly blue language?” 

“It’s just that—“ 

“Is it because I’m a woman?” Bea demanded. There was a definite pink tinge to Gil’s cheeks now. 

She barely noticed Stirling saying “Well, I’m out,” and scurrying from the room. 

“It’s not exactly—“ 

“You don’t want anyone to use indelicate language in mixed company? Is that it?” 

Gil finally turned to look at her. “I was raised to be polite! It doesn’t take much effort to use some gentler language.” 

“To cater to my poor innocent ears?” Bea shook her head. “I wish you wouldn’t. You might not think it takes much effort now, but I’ve seen this more than you have. Other lawyers not wanting to discuss a case with me because we’ll be touching on such indelicate issues as the details of an extramarital encounter. If they refuse to deal with me, they can put off the divorce my client wants. Do you think I haven’t heard much worse than what we’ve talked about today? Do you think I haven’t had to fight to let the conversation stay the same as it would if I were a man?” 

“I didn’t—“

“I know you think you’re being polite. But I wish you’d stop thinking of me as a lady and just think of me as a—a friend. A colleague.” 

Silence fell again, other than the wind howling around the corners of the house. 

This was the other flip side to that thing between them, wasn’t it—of being aware of each other, as man and woman. But now that she’d gotten that off her chest, Bea was feeling a bit calmer. And she’d managed to say, without really saying it, that Gil should give up any hopes that he had in that area. 

He was looking at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher. Finally he sighed. “That is not what I meant, that is not what I meant at all,” he muttered. 

“Pardon?” 

Gil shook his head. “Never mind. Of course I think of you as a friend, Bea.” 

“And a colleague?” 

“That too.” He grinned again, although it fell a touch short of his usual playfulness. “That’s what started this whole little adventure, isn’t it? Where do you think Stirling has got to?” 

They followed the trail of feminine giggles and orchestra music to the living room, and had to stop in the hall to take in the scene before them. 

If Bea had doubted that Stirling was in fact a Redfern, the foxtrot would have convinced her. He was leading Jules around the room with perfect form, while Betty looked on and tried to copy their steps. And then when Jules whacked his arm and said, “Okay, okay, my turn to lead now,” he shrugged and stepped neatly into the woman’s position, performing just as admirably. That seemed like the influence of some exclusive all-boys school—the only such influence she’d ever seen from him. 

“Honestly,” said Gil in an undertone, “I think this whole experience has been good for him.” 

Honestly, Bea wasn’t sure this whole experience was very good for her. 

The wind had brought in some heavy-looking clouds, threatening a storm, so the men left not long after that. Jules was about to bring a bottle of wine up to her room, where Betty had already vanished, when Bea stopped her with a hand on her arm. 

“Be careful there,” she said. “Stirling’s not falling in love with you, is he?” 

Jules shook her off impatiently. “No. Am I not allowed to be friends with your friends?” 

“Of course you are,” Bea said, stricken. “But he was here early and—“

“Unlike you, I don’t have to have rules to make sure my male friends stay just friends.” 

The bluntness was unlike Jules. Bea stared. Jules sighed. 

“I’m sorry, Bea, I didn’t mean it like that. I think Stirling’s been lonely, and I like having him around. But I wish you’d stop being so suspicious of your own friends.” 

“I’m not,” Bea objected. 

But Jules was already halfway up the stairs and didn’t respond. 

Chapter Text

On Sunday evening, Bea called her parents as she did every other weekend. Her mother wasted no time at all in asking after Gil Ford. Bea glared Jules’s way—clearly, her cousin had been telling tales. Yet there was never any opportunity for turnabout. The only secrets Jules kept from her own parents were not the sort to occasion casual teasing. 

“He’s barely even a colleague, Mother,” Bea insisted for the fifth time. “Not even a friend, and certainly not a—whatever you’re implying.” 

“Barely a colleague is good, isn’t it?” her mother countered. “You never did like your boy-friends to be too close.” 

Bea made a sour face at the phone. “Can you just put Dad on, please?” 

Her father got straight to the point. “Well, my Busy Bea, you are stirring the pot, aren’t you? Tell me about this murder you’re investigating.” 

Bea poured out the whole story to her father, who made encouraging sounds in the right places and occasionally repeated key bits of information in such a way that Bea could tell her mother was trying to listen in. She could just picture them—Perry Miller, at his ease in his study, with the still-lovely Ilse leaning over his desk and poking at his arm when she couldn’t hear well enough. The image made her feel more warm and mellow towards them than she had been at the beginning of the call. 

“Well, Bea,” her father said, once she’d finished an extended screed against the various sins of Ralph Peterson. “I admire your commitment to your clients. You know I always have. You care so much about improving their lives! If you want to think about running for office again—“

“No,” said Bea emphatically. 

“Fine, fine. You know I admire your commitment, but do you think this investigation is a good idea?” 

“No one else was going to help her! Although perhaps getting involved was a bit impulsive,” Bea admitted. 

“Well, you come by that honestly enough, twice over,” her father said ruefully. “I just don’t know if being involved in this murder business is good for you.” 

“Is this you talking, or Mum?” 

Perry chuckled. “Your mother would love nothing more than for you to continue on a course that keeps you in such close contact with the young Ford and the Redfern heir.” 

“I don’t care that he’s rich!” came Ilse’s distant voice. “Just that you like him! A private eye, that can be quite compelling, can’t it?” 

“Good lord.” 

“Although the money certainly doesn’t hurt!” her mother added. 

A scuffle over the line—her father must be waving her mother away. “Be that as it may,” he said sternly. “You’re only just started to sound like yourself again after that Maclean’s business. Reporters! They always take the worst possible interpretation of what you say, don’t they? Why, there was one fellow—” He distracted himself for a moment with an anecdote of some Parliament Hill reporter who had written a particularly unflattering column on a contentious Question Period, while Bea leaned back into her chair and closed her eyes. Finally, her father came back to the present conversation. “The thing is, Bea, I just want to make sure that you’re not going to let the notoriety around this case and all the grisly business of murder get into your head. Not after how low you were in the spring.” 

Ha! That was irony. “Are you telling me I’m too sensitive to public opinion to get into politics after all?” 

“Never that!” said her father. “Just—just take care of yourself, won’t you, honey-Bea?” 

Despite herself, Bea smiled. “You know, Dad, I think you just might be the only good man in the whole world.” 

“Never that,” he replied, in mock offence, and Bea felt warmed again. 

She carried that feeling over into the trip to Peterson’s office the next morning. This time she was accompanied by Stirling, who was much quieter and less effusive early in the morning than Gil. It had rained heavily overnight and dark clouds still gathered in the sky as they made their damp way through puddles to Peterson’s building. Altogether a more sombre affair than last Monday had been. 

Inside, upstairs, and down the hallway to Peterson’s office. The redoubtable Ellen, Peterson’s secretary, saw them coming and said coolly, “Miss Miller. Is this going to be a standing appointment, then?” 

Bea returned the aloof smile, realizing that she could absolutely see the calm and competent Ellen arranging a murder for her boss that would leave no incriminating clues behind. Something to think about later. “We were just hoping to find Mr. Peterson in for a few minutes. It’s about his financial affairs.” 

Ellen did not look convinced. “I’ll see if he’s available,” she said in an impassive tone, and neatly stepped into his office, shutting the door in their faces. 

“Do you think she could have helped him with the murder?” Bea whispered to Stirling. 

“I think she’s got more information in her than Mackinnon’s secretary did,” Stirling responded at a conversational volume. “Whether or not she’ll share it with us is an open question. Stop whispering. It draws attention.” 

Attention from whom? The other secretaries? Bea almost talked back to him, but reminded herself with some chagrin that he did, in fact, know more about detective work than she did, and she wouldn’t be very happy if he presumed to know anything about family law. 

The door opened again and Ellen said impassively, “You have ten minutes, Miss Miller.” 

This time the smell hit first and Bea couldn’t hold back a cough. Good grief, it was barely ten in the morning. How many cigarettes could he have gone through by now? Waving the smoke out of her face, Bea blinked and saw that the Aladdin’s den of Peterson’s office had somehow been straightened in the past week. The photographs and posters pinned to the walls were still a dizzying array of clashing colours and patterns, but the papers that had been scattered on every surface seemed to have been stacked neatly, in some cases even filed. Someone—maybe Ellen, who seemed organized enough for it—had even deigned to do some light dusting. In opposition to the improved appearance of his office, the man himself looked worse for the wear. Ralph Peterson’s grey suit was stylish as always, but the knot on his tie was crooked, a few strands of hair were out of place. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed. 

He didn’t bother to rise from his desk, just leaned back in his chair. “Miss Miller. And… guest. Well, well! So you’ve abandoned Gilbert Ford’s dull conversation and flaccid jokes, have you?” 

Bea couldn’t answer immediately, taken aback by the words and the bitter tone. 

Instead Stirling stepped forward. “Good morning. I’m an associate of Miss Miller’s.” 

Peterson sneered at the offered hand until Stirling withdrew it. Stirling didn’t seem bothered by the attitude. Bea wondered if he was always so unassuming. If it ever occurred to him to introduce himself as a Redfern and see people fall at his feet. 

“Well,” Peterson said, lighting another cigarette. “Which of my friends do you think I murdered this time? Or are you going to tell me who my wife is sleeping with this week?” 

Without waiting for an invitation that clearly wasn’t coming, Stirling made himself comfortable in a chair. Bea followed suit. 

“If any of your other friends have died under mysterious circumstances, we’d be happy to hear about it,” Stirling said blandly. 

Peterson just sneered again. 

“And if you want to know who’s screwing your wife, I charge very reasonable rates.” 

Peterson paused with his cigarette halfway to his mouth. 

“Mr. Stirling is a private investigator,” Bea informed him. 

“For God’s sake.” Peterson stamped out the cigarette in a second glass ashtray. “I’m not going to hire a private investigator to tail my own wife.” 

But while last week he’d sounded bored as he’d explained that he didn’t care if his wife took lovers, now he sounded exasperated. 

Stirling picked up on something too. “Do you think she needs to be tailed?” 

Peterson was watching him, eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. I’ve seen you before.” 

“Probably.” 

“You were in the lobby of the King Edward hotel last week.” 

“I could have been.” 

Peterson stared at Stirling another moment, and then groaned and ran a hand through his hair. More strands stuck up unevenly. 

It was the most human Bea had ever seen him. 

“Just get to the point, Miss Miller. Are you here about Charles’s murder, or in your professional capacity?” 

Well, this was certainly a different attitude than last week. “Why would I be here in my professional capacity? Didn’t you say that what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander?” 

“That’s always how it’s been. But this last week she’s—“ He shook his head, reached for his cigarette case, put it down again without taking one. “If Aggie hired you, and your private eye already caught me at the King Edward, then you’d already have what you need. I’d be getting papers, not a personal visit. Isn’t that so?” 

“Yes,” Bea admitted. In fact she could get in trouble for meeting with a client’s husband to try to talk him into confessing to his infidelity. 

“Right. So why are you here?” 

Stirling lit a cigarette of his own—a much cheaper brand than Peterson’s, and pulled from a tattered cardboard carton instead of a fancy case. “Ever hear of Sellers Trade Goods?” 

Peterson sat back in his chair, apparently puzzled. “Sellers? Yes, of course. What about it?” 

“You lost a few grand when they fell through.” 

Now Peterson’s eyebrows were nearing his hairline. “Not that much, I didn’t. What does this have to do with anything?” 

“Charles Mackinnon.” Stirling exhaled a cloud of rough smoke. “A good friend of yours, wasn’t he? It was on his recommendation that you invested—you, Towers, McNamara.” 

Peterson waved away the smoke—or the idea. “We’re friends. Or, we were friends. I suppose there’s only me and Ted left now. That’s a depressing thought, isn’t it? At any rate—Charles often gave us investment tips. Sometimes they panned out, and sometimes they didn’t.” 

“And when they didn’t?” 

“It’s an investment, my man,” Peterson drawled. “If you aren’t familiar with the concept, it always involves some level of risk. Investing in a new business, in particular. You never invest what you can’t afford to lose, even if you hope you’ve picked the next big thing.” 

Stirling took another pull from his cigarette, somehow looking completely at ease in the awkward seat, in this crowded office, with a wealthy ass being condescending to him. “What’s the most you’ve lost on a tip from a friend?” 

“Why do you care?” 

“Suspicious timing, with Joe Towers’s death coming so close to the company failing.” 

“So you are here to accuse me of murdering more of my friends.” 

“How does your wife feel about these risky investments?” 

“Right,” said Peterson. “Ellen!” 

His secretary appeared so instantly that Bea wondered if she’d been listening at the door. 

“Yes, Mr. Peterson.” 

“We’re done here, thank you.” 

“Yes, Mr. Peterson.” 

Ellen pulled Bea’s chair back in such an efficient move that she wondered if this was the first time the woman had been called upon to end an overlong meeting. She stood reluctantly, noting that Stirling was already on his feet. 

As Ellen hustled them back out of Peterson’s domain, Bea spotted a man waiting by Ellen’s desk. Bea only got the impression of neat brown hair and big brown eyes before he turned and ran. Stirling immediately took off after him. 

“This one is certainly less polite than your other friend,” Ellen commented, brows raised ever so slightly, as she slipped back into her chair. 

“Who was that?” 

There was no guarantee he was related to this case—he could be involved in any number of other things Stirling was looking into. Still, the coincidence— 

“The gentleman who ran away? He’s been in a few times, trying to see Mr. Peterson. Of course, Mr. Peterson is extremely busy.” She managed to convey in her tone that Bea should be honoured that Peterson had made time to see her more than once. 

“Yes, busy with his lunchtime assignations, I’m well aware,” Bea retorted, making Ellen’s lips narrow in displeasure. “Do you know that man’s name?” 

Apparently feeling no loyalty to an unknown man her employer didn’t think it was important to receive, Ellen opened a drawer and sifted through it until she found a card. “Here. He left this the last time he was here. Of course, since he wouldn’t tell me what he wanted to see Mr. Peterson about, Mr. Peterson never phoned him.” 

Bea took the card. Cheaply made, all it said were “R.B. Greene” and what looked like a Hamilton-area phone number. “Can I keep this?” 

“Mr. Peterson has no use for it,” said Ellen, which Bea interpreted as a yes and thanked her politely as Stirling came back up the hall, breathing heavily. 

“Lost him. Faster than me on the stairs.” 

Bea held out the card, which Stirling glanced over. “Greene, eh?” 

“Apparently so. What was that all about?” 

Stirling smirked at her. “Young, slight build but an upright bearing, about five foot ten, blue coat. Matches the description, however vague, of our nighttime vagabond. And then—tall, slim, brown hair and eyes, very neat—would you,” he asked, turning suddenly to Ellen, “call him handsome?” 

Ellen pursed her lips. “I am not in the business of assessing the attractiveness of visitors to Mr. Peterson’s office.” 

“Charles Mackinnon’s secretary mentioned a young man who came to see him, a few days before his death. Her physical description wasn’t very much to go on, but she did say she found him very handsome. Could you for a moment put yourself in the shoes of a slightly foolish twenty-year-old and tell me if that girl would find that man handsome.” 

“Well.” Ellen straightened her already immaculate cuffs, apparently pleased now to be asked to be an authority on such a weighty matter. “He’s a bit young, of course”—this with the great condescension of someone who was 23 at the very most—“but I suppose if I was younger and less professional I might be inclined to think him handsome.” 

“Thank you kindly,” Stirling said, and somehow managed to even sound kind about it rather than sarcastic, which Bea had not thought possible from him. Apparently he was able to change his interrogation style when he needed to. “Have you spoken much with our Mr. Greene?” 

“Very little,” Ellen replied. “He first came by perhaps two weeks ago, asked to make an appointment with Mr. Peterson, and left his card without explaining why he had come. Then last week he telephoned asking if Mr. Peterson was available, which of course he wasn’t, since he doesn’t have time to speak to someone who won’t even say what it’s about. And now today. He wasn’t there when Mr. Peterson called me in to fetch you, but I must assume he wants to try to make an appointment again.” 

“Do you know what day he came, two weeks ago?” 

“Let me check.” Ellen flipped through the agenda on her desk for a moment before clearly finding the right page. “It was the Tuesday. Late in the afternoon.” 

Bea jolted. “The day of the murder?” 

Stirling ignored her. “Ellen, your memory and organization have been extremely helpful. As you no doubt know by now, Miss Miller and I are investigating Charles Mackinnon’s murder, on behalf of his widow. That man—R.B. Greene, although this may be a pseudonym—is currently one of our suspects. If he comes by again, would you possibly be able to give us a call? It could be very important.” And he slipped his own card onto Ellen’s desk. From the somewhat self-satisfied expression on her face, Bea guessed that the younger woman liked having some sense of her own importance. 

“Of course,” she replied. “I’ll let Mr. Peterson know to watch out for this man as well, in case he tries to approach him elsewhere.” 

“Thank you, Ellen.” Stirling reached out to shake her hand. Bea’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “You have my gratitude.” 

“What was that?” Bea hissed as they got in the elevator. “I didn’t know you even knew how to be polite, let alone—whatever that was.” 

“That,” said Stirling in a more normal tone, “was sweet-talking a witness. And I know how to be polite. I just rarely choose to. Want a lift back downtown?” 

“Look at you, being polite even to me!” 

“It’s convenient. We’re both going in the same direction, and besides, we can discuss the case.” 

Stirling drove a dark-coloured sedan that was extremely unremarkable from the outside but extremely disorganized inside. The front seat was clear, but the back was a mess of paper serviettes, disposable coffee cups, empty cigarette cartons, and cheap paperback novels. Most of them looked like westerns or detective stories—although how he could still enjoy those when he was a detective himself was a mystery—but at least one looked like it had come straight from Jules’s collection. Bea wondered how We Walk Alone in Lesbos’ Lonely Groves compared to Say It With Bullets. 

“At least it’s starting to clear up out there,” she commented, looking up at the sky, where the night’s storm clouds were starting to recede. 

Stirling ignored the small talk, so Bea’s next conversational foray was on-topic. 

“What did you think of Ralph Peterson?” 

“I think,” said Stirling, “he’s more afraid of his wife leaving him than of a murder investigation. Either he’s got the best alibi I’ve ever seen or he’s not our guy. Now his old lady—why is she behaving oddly all of a sudden? She was screwing the murder victim, wasn’t she?” 

“That’s what she said. She was pretty broken up about it, too. I wonder if that’s why Peterson’s concerned—if his wife suddenly seems to care more about one of her lovers than him. Even if it’s a dead one.” 

“Or it’s guilt because she bumped him herself.” 

This gave Bea a jolt. “Agatha Peterson?” She pictured the small, slight woman as she’d seen her the night of the gala, less than twenty-four hours after the murder. Mrs. Peterson had spent the entire time looking like she was two steps away from fainting. Even at the church bazaar, she’d seemed frail and fragile. “She’s a tiny little thing. And so gentle. I don’t believe she could have stabbed Charles Mackinnon. And besides, why would she? She seems to have really cared for him.” 

“Maybe he told her he was going to break it off with her, or maybe he just did something to make her mad, or, here’s a radical idea: maybe she was lying to you.” 

Bea scowled over at Stirling. “Why would she lie about that?” 

“Because she murdered him and you’re asking too many questions? You’re quick to trust all the women in this equation and slow to trust all the men. Well, women are murderers too.” 

“But a stabbing? Don’t women usually poison?” 

Stirling shrugged. 

“And what about the new lead on this loiterer?” she demanded. “R.B. Greene, or whatever his real name is?” 

“I’ll be following up on that. That’s what you need me here for, remember? To do the actual detective work.” 

Bea sat back in her seat and tried not to be annoyed. It was true—that was why she had him here. She certainly didn’t know how to do this—to track someone on only a potentially false name, to get information out of people who might not want to talk to you. Stirling had played the cool Ellen so neatly she’d been practically been eating out of his hand, and even Peterson—

“Does it ever bother you?” she asked suddenly, remembering her earlier reflection. 

They had gotten stuck behind a streetcar. As it made another stop to let passengers on and off, Stirling glanced over at her. “What?” 

“The lack of respect you get from people like Peterson, when you know that if you introduced yourself as a Redfern he’d be falling all over himself.” 

Stirling snorted. “You think I’d get more useful information out of him that way? No.” 

“But the respect—“

“Fawning isn’t the same thing as respect, Bea. Haven’t you learned that yet?” 

This silenced Bea, as she remembered with a jolt the solicitousness with which Jack Reynolds had treated her, before that awful article came out. 

“Anyway,” Stirling continued, as traffic began to move forward again. “I lived as the heir apparent to the Redfern fortune for a long time. I know enough to know I don’t want that kind of life. At McGill girls would hear my name and start throwing themselves at me—“

“Throwing themselves at you?” 

Stirling let out a rusty chuckle. “Well may you be skeptical when you’ve only known me as I am now. But remember, I was the Redfern heir, and I looked the part. I assure you I was the object of female attention.” 

Bea looked him over critically, imagining the impact of a visit to a good tailor and a good barber, how his bearing would improve if he stood with proper posture instead of his usual slouch. He could, she supposed, be reasonably handsome under the right circumstances. Certainly the Redfern millions would go a long way to enhancing his natural appearance. 

“So you wanted to get away from women throwing themselves at you for your money and your name rather than yourself,” she said, testing the idea. She’d been wondering lately, hadn’t she, if this was some kind of Rebel Without a Cause campaign. 

“I wanted to get away from women throwing themselves at me, period,” Stirling said. Bea looked at him sharply, now considering his budding friendship with Jules in a new light, and he continued, “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably wrong.” 

Bea turned back to face the streetcar ahead of them, which was again disgorging passengers. “If you hate it all so much, why do you attend society events? Parental pressure?” 

“I don’t attend society events.” 

“Are you forgetting the garden club gala? Where this all began?” 

A woman dashed across the street to try to catch the streetcar, and Stirling stamped on the breaks, making Bea whip forward. 

“Sorry,” Stirling muttered, and cleared his throat. “I didn’t attend the gala because it was a society event. I attended it for my father.” 

“Your father, Dr. Redfern?” 

“That’s my grandfather. My father is John Foster.” 

Bea blinked. “Whom?” 

Stirling rolled is eyes. “You know. ‘Fear is the original sin. Almost all the evil in the world has its origin in the fact that some one is afraid of something.’” 

Though Bea wasn’t a huge reader, she had read The Magic of Wings in school and the quote did ring some bells. “But isn’t your father a Redfern?” 

“It’s a pen name, obviously,” said Stirling, sounding impatient now. 

Bea took a moment to absorb this new information. Maybe that was why Stirling and Gil were still friends, despite their myriad differences and the sometimes uneasy space between them—both grappling with the legacy of talented literary forbears. 

“So your father dealt with the pressure of the Redfern fortune by secretly becoming a nature writer, and you deal with it by becoming a low-budget gumshoe.” 

Stirling shrugged. “I tried to follow my father’s footsteps at first, to a certain extent. I had this vision of being a complete hermit out in the backwoods, just me and nature. But I’m not like my father—like either of my parents, who I think would happily live the rest of their lives up in the bush without seeing anyone but each other. I like the bustle of the city. And it turns out I’m more interested in human nature. That’s the attraction of detective work. I like to understand how people think. What makes them do the things they do.”

Bea had to laugh. “You make it sound so—intellectual.” 

“Well, it’s a little less glamorous than I expected. I didn’t know how much divorce work I’d end up doing. As much as I hate the dishonesty of the setups, at least it makes sense. Following a real cheating husband and waiting for him to act is both boring and confusing. Christ, who would have thought so many people do so many stupid things for sex?” 

“It’s sex,” said Bea, “isn’t that the whole idea?” At his skeptical grunt, she continued, “Don’t tell me you haven’t ever done something stupid for sex.” 

This time she got a full laugh out of him. “And have you? Bea Miller, so logical, so suspicious of the men in her life.” 

“Well.” It felt strange to broach this very personal subject with a colleague, especially without relying on the euphemisms and conventions that polite society so often did. But then any euphemism Stirling used was likely to be more crude than the word itself. “I’m a woman. It’s built-in, isn’t it? Anything a woman does for sex is stupid.” 

“How’s that?” 

“Sex with a man not one’s husband, one risks one’s reputation. Stupid. Getting married in order to have lawful and respectable sex—one has then signed over a good deal of control over one’s own person and property to a man, in a way that’s almost impossible to break. Also fairly stupid. And—“ because he was friends with Jules, because he had a receipt sticking out of the Lesbos book in the backseat like some kind of bookmark— “sex with a woman, even worse legal and reputational risk. So, stupid all around.” 

A grunt from Stirling. “All the more incentive to just not do it.” 

This time Bea was the one who laughed. Wasn’t that always the solution proposed to women? As if it were any real solution at all? “I wish it were that easy. But the body isn’t as rational as the mind, and in these matters the mind isn’t at its most rational anyway.” 

They were silent for a long time, stopped behind the streetcar as people streamed off and on. Bea thought of the things she hadn’t said, that she could never say to someone like Stirling. What it felt like to want something you didn’t want to want, when you knew that the having it would hurt you, when you knew just the wanting of it weakened you. Being afraid of your own body, not fully under your conscious control, afraid of desires that you wished you could stifle, that you knew you could never stifle. Knowing something was a bad idea but being unable to prevent yourself from doing it anyway. 

She was startled out of her thoughts when Stirling said, “I guess that explains Ford, then.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Come on, Bea. You must know that you’re the only reason Ford is still involved in this case.” 

“He’s here for the story,” Bea objected, and then at Stirling’s pointed silence added, “but ogling me is obviously a side benefit.” 

Stirling snorted. “Leaving his motivation aside, he has been coming on to you. And you haven’t given in to him but you also haven’t given him a firm set down. You just keep giving him just enough rope to hang himself with. I thought you were having some fun stringing him along but—that’s not it at all, is it? You’re at war with yourself. You want to give in but you think it would be stupid.” 

Bea froze in her seat. This would teach her to get into a personal conversation with a detective. 

“I’m right, aren’t I,” Stirling said, after a long minute passed without her response. 

“I think we’ve reached the limit of professional conversation between colleagues,” Bea said, and got out of the car a block early just to escape his smug expression. 

Chapter Text

Stirling’s words were still with Bea after lunch. She hadn’t thought herself so transparent, and yet—if Stirling could see so much, what could Gil see? What did Jules think of this whole situation? 

Her mind was in such a whirl she could barely focus on the briefs in front of her. It was a relief when Dottie knocked on her door with the message that Nick wanted to see her right away. Now here was a man who’d never pushed her boundaries in any way. 

This time, when she entered Nick’s office, there was a young woman behind the worn old reception desk, blonde and winsome. 

“Beatrice Miller to see Mr. Gordon,” Bea said, and the woman smiled and ducked into the back. 

Nick emerged into the waiting area with a tired, but genuine smile. “Bea! Thanks for coming.” 

If Bea must be cursed with an unwilling attraction to a colleague, she would have much preferred for it to be someone like Nick Gordon. For one thing, he was the most classically handsome man of her acquaintance; if not for the dark circles under his eyes, he would look like he’d just stepped off the silver screen. For another, she’d never had the slightest indication he thought of her that way, which meant she’d never be tempted to act upon any silly urges. 

And yet, she felt fully unmoved as he shook her hand warmly. “Have you met my cousin, Lina? She’s going to be working as my secretary for a while.” 

Bea nodded to the blonde woman, who had returned to the magazine sitting on her desk. 

“Wasn’t it your cousin Lina who was here over the summer?” Bea muttered as Nick led her to the back. 

“That was Pasqualina. This is Bortolina. Don’t mention the one to the other.” At Bea’s raised eyebrow, he sighed. “Yes, it’s ridiculous, and yes, my two aunts were furious with each other, and yes, it’s still an ordeal over twenty years later. We just ignore it.” 

There wasn’t much to say to that, and Nick waved her into his office. 

The gracious-looking older lady who had been seated inside stood at their entrance. “Mrs. Warren! May I introduce Beatrice Miller? Bea, Margaret Warren, Marilyn Mackinnon’s mother.” 

“Of course,” Mrs. Warren said, coming forward to shake Bea’s hand. “I’ve heard about you from my daughter. Thank you for working so tirelessly.” 

Mrs. Warren had a soft voice and a gentle English accent, and wore a sensible grey wool suit. She resembled her daughter a great deal, although her aspect was more reserved and her hair had silvered. Bea liked her instantly. 

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” she said, covering Mrs. Warren’s hand with her free one impulsively. “I’m so glad Marilyn has family to support her now.” 

“It is a terrible ordeal,” Mrs. Warren agreed. “Shall we?” 

Nick had pulled out chairs for both of them and made sure they were settled before he sat himself. This was another way Bea knew she wasn’t harbouring a secret tendre for him — the gentlemanly action didn’t annoy her. 

“The reason I wanted to meet with you both,” Nick said, shuffling papers around on his desk, “is that I’ve had some further reports from the police. I’ve already spoken about this with Marilyn, and she’s asked me to share it with you both. She’s… too distressed to talk to you herself.” 

Bea suppressed her eyebrow raise at the use of a client’s first name, and the concern for her emotional well-being. She used Marilyn’s first name, and was concerned over her emotional well-being, but that hadn’t come until they’d been working together for months. Bea knew that the type of criminal defence Nick did often led to him developing a high level of trust with his clients. Still, she had to wonder—Marilyn Mackinnon was the kind of woman who was a little helpless on her own. Would she attach herself to the tall, dark, handsome, kind and competent man who had swooped down to her rescue? Had she already done so? And if this all went down in flames, would it be Bea’s fault for connecting them? 

“That doesn’t sound like good news,” said Mrs. Warren, drawing Bea out of her train of thought. 

“It’s news,” Nick replied evenly. “We have the final coroner’s report on Charles Mackinnon’s body. Cause of death was the multiple stab wounds to his back—but he had enough secobarbital, more commonly known as Seconal, in his system that he was almost certainly unconscious when he was stabbed.” 

Mrs. Warren inhaled sharply. Bea frowned. 

“How much secobarbital? Was he in the habit of taking it regularly? Did he have a prescription?” 

“I don’t speak medical.” Nick sighed. Bea got the sense that if he were a different and less well-groomed man he might have run a hand through his hair. “A potentially fatal dose, and not that anyone seems to know of, and no. Marilyn thinks he was in the habit of taking her Seconal, sometimes, when he was having trouble sleeping, but she never kept track of her capsules so it’s hard to say.” 

Mrs. Warren shook her head. “I don’t understand. Did he take the Seconal himself or did someone dose him?” 

“That’s the other issue. When he was found, there was a tumbler on his desk with a few sips of scotch left in it. Presumably, he’d been drinking it before he died. The scotch was heavily doctored with secobarbital.” 

“But that doesn’t make sense!” Bea exclaimed. 

“Do they think it was Marilyn?” Mrs. Warren asked. 

Nick nodded. “As I said, she didn’t keep track of how many capsules she was using and how many she had left. Her bottle was almost empty, and she can’t prove it wasn’t her Seconal in that scotch.” 

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” huffed Mrs. Warren. “If she was going to poison him, why would she stab him too? What a way to arouse suspicion! She could have quietly dosed the drink and let everyone assume it was a heart attack that killed Charles—heaven knows he worked himself hard enough—or even quietly put it about that he took it himself. Accidentally, because he was having trouble sleeping—or intentionally, because, well, because. The Seconal is hardly a smoking gun, in this case!” 

Bea sat back, a little startled at how quickly and calmly these plans had occurred to Mrs. Warren. Hadn’t Mr. Warren died of a sudden heart attack, shortly after his only child was married and settled, enabling his widow to return to her homeland? 

“My understanding,” Nick said carefully, “is that the police believe the murderer was angry. The secobarbital may have been intended to immobilize the unfortunate Mr. Mackinnon so he couldn’t fight back when he was stabbed.” He cleared his throat. “It was not a clean, or particularly deep wound. The murderer stabbed Charles Mackinnon in the back at least sixteen times with a blunt dagger that he used as a letter opener, and then he slowly bled to death.” 

Bea grimaced. She hadn’t liked Charles Mackinnon much alive, and she’d found herself liking him less and less as she learned more about him after his death. But that was a gruesome way to go. 

Beside her, Mrs. Warren pursed her lips, and Bea could have sworn she muttered, “Amateurish.” 

It was amateurish—or at least, confusing. Bea leaned forward in her seat. “That still doesn’t make sense. Drugging her husband before stabbing him would seem to be a premeditated action. What could have made her so angry that she would do such violence, and yet rational enough to form an involved plan? And if she was rational enough to plan like that—wouldn’t she have considered one of the possibilities Mrs. Warren mentioned, or at least considered how close she was to being granted a divorce?” 

“I’m not quite sure,” Nick replied, once again in that careful tone, “if the police believe that a woman in the process of divorcing her adulterous husband is capable of being particularly logical where he is concerned.” 

“Oh, for the love of—that’s not evidence of anything other than Detective King being stuck in the nineteenth century,” Bea snapped. 

Mrs. Warren made a sound of agreement. “Is there anything else, Mr. Gordon? I’d like to visit my daughter before it gets too late.” 

Nick shook his head and rose to show Mrs. Warren out. When he returned, Bea said, “I cannot believe the police are being so obtuse. What’s wrong with them?” 

Nick sighed in a way he probably wouldn’t have allowed himself in front of Mrs. Warren. “Honestly? I know you’ve been asking around and doing your own investigating, but so far Detective King has been thoroughly uninterested in looking at any other suspects.” 

“But—“

Bea’s exasperation was interrupted by a knock and turned to see the secretary—the second Lina—stick her head around the door. 

“Nico? Do you mind if I leave early? Nonna just called—“

“I’m not going to second-guess Nonna.” Nick had a softer smile than Bea could ever recall seeing from him. “Go head, I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Thanks, Nico. Ciao!” 

“Ciao.” 

By the time Lina closed the door, Bea felt unsettled on top of her simmering frustration. It was easy, most of the time, ignoring Nick’s dark looks, to forget he was half-Italian. 

“Nico?” she asked, half-jokingly. 

“It is my name.” 

“Your name is Nico?” 

“Domenico.” 

His curt reply was probably a sign he didn’t want to talk about it, but Bea couldn’t help pushing. It felt wrong, somehow, that she’d known him for so long, that she considered him a friend, and she was unaware of whole tranches of his life. She’d always thought of herself as an observant person, and this new side of Nick, coming after this morning’s conversation with Stirling, made her feel… precarious. 

“Your name is Domenico? I thought it was—“ She paused. Good heavens, what had she thought his name was? She glanced quickly up at the framed degree on the wall behind him. “Dominic?” 

Nick looked up at the ceiling. The angle made the dark circles under his eyes more apparent. “It can’t be both? Look, Bea, I’m busy and I’m sure you are too. The fact is, the police are focused purely on Marilyn. All the evidence they have is circumstantial at best, but if they present it in the right way it’ll sure sound convincing.” 

“And you’ll sure give her the best defence you can,” she snapped without thinking. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Again, that guarded tone to his voice. 

If Nick were angry too, she might have felt bad for taking her fury at Detective King out on him. But instead he was wary. 

Even though it didn’t feel good, Bea couldn’t stop herself from saying, “It means that I wonder if the police reports have managed to convince you of Marilyn’s guilt, too.” 

“Really, Bea? Really?” Now he sounded fed up, and Bea felt worse. “You’re the one going around telling everyone how shocked you are that the police basically stopped investigating once they found a suspect they liked. I told you from the start that was naive. No, I’m not convinced by some circumstantial evidence with no compelling motive. And furthermore, it’s frankly insulting to suggest that I wouldn’t do my best for a client, even a client I thought was guilty. I defend guilty clients all the time, and I always do my best. That’s sort of the job, isn’t it?” 

“I just think,” Bea said, against the rising sense that she’d misstepped, “that maybe you should consider whether you’re letting your personal views colour your professional perception.” 

“What personal views?” 

“About divorce.” When he looked at her blankly, she continued, not quite so sure of herself now, “Aren’t you a Roman Catholic? It occurs to me you might have reservations about representing a client seeking divorce.” 

“I’m not representing a client seeking divorce, I’m representing an accused murderer,” he said incredulously. “Damn it, Bea. So that’s what you think of Catholics, then? That we have some kind of bizarre moral code where divorce is worse than murder?” 

Well, it did sound ridiculous when he put it like that. “That’s not what I—“

He held up a hand. “Just stop, Bea. I’m not arguing this with you.” 

After a tense moment, she said stiffly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just frustrated.” 

Nick was looking at something above her head, lines of annoyance and lines of exhaustion still plain on his face. “Well, it’s certainly been illuminating. I invited you down here to ask how your investigation is going. If you have anything I can use in my defence, to throw some reasonable doubt in the Crown’s case.” 

“Nothing strong enough for that, unfortunately.” In fact, now that Stirling had cooled on Ralph Peterson, they had precious little.  “We’ve found some others who might have motive, but can’t place them at the scene. So far we’re trying to determine the timeline of when Marilyn went to bed, when her friend left, and when Mackinnon came home.” 

“What did Mrs. Tomaszewski say?” 

“Mrs. Whom?” 

“Anna Tomaszewski,” Nick said. “The Mackinnons’ housekeeper?” 

“I haven’t spoken to her.” 

She was startled to see Nick spring up from his chair and pace towards the window. “Christ, Bea! You haven’t even spoken to the housekeeper? What kind of investigation are you running?” 

Uncertain again and hating the sensation, Bea shifted in her seat. “Well, maybe my detective did. I don’t know. He said he canvassed the neighbourhood.” 

“Who have you spoken to, then?” he asked, turning around to face her again. Backlit by the sun, he looked a bit dangerous. 

“Neighbours, business associates,” Bea replied defensively, crossing her arms. “A friend of Marilyn’s, who was also sleeping with Mackinnon, and her husband.” 

“So, all the rich people you claim to hate.” 

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” she demanded. 

Nick laughed and shook his head. “For all that you like to complain about rich Toronto society, Bea, you’re much more like them than you want to admit.” 

“That’s not—“

“Why do you do what you do?” he asked bluntly. 

“I’m helping people. Women who are stuck.” 

“Helping the kind of rich women who can afford your fees, you mean.” 

Bea opened her mouth but she had no snappy retort this time. Technically, that was true, even if it felt unfair. It wasn’t as though she was in a position to work for free. And she gave her clients a lot more help than they’d get from the kind of sleazy lawyer who did a divorce for $400. 

“Why do you think I do this?” he asked her now. 

“Because you care about justice?” she hazarded. 

“Because everyone deserves a strong defence. Because I can’t sit around and let someone be made a scapegoat just because their English isn’t very good, or they don’t understand what’s happening, or the police have simply taken against them. I know what happens to people who are different.” 

“I always forget that you’re half-Italian,” Bea offered. 

“Do you? I don’t.” Nick came back toward his desk but didn’t sit. Instead he leaned over the back of the chair. “And I’m not half-Italian, anyway. I’m all Italian.” 

Bea could only stare. “But—isn’t your father from Prince Edward Island?” 

It had been the wrong thing to say. Nick raised an eyebrow, looking more sarcastic than Bea had ever seen him. “Oh, are Italians not allowed there, now?” 

“But—Gordon?” 

“Yes.” Nick shrugged and turned back to the window. “My father was adopted by the Gordon family as a baby. Good Scots name, eh? The Gordons tried to raise him like their own. Presbyterian church. Potato farming. All that good old Island upbringing. But everyone knew he had Italian blood, and no one let him forget it. Anytime he lost his temper, well, that was the Italian blood coming through. When he wanted to court a local girl, well, she was just too fair and delicate, too English, for a rough Sicilian peasant. So he left.” 

Bea hated that she could see the outlines of the Island she loved in his story. And she hated that she’d started them down this path. 

“What happened?” she asked, an olive branch. 

Nick exhaled. “After the First World War he came here. He’d heard about the Italian army’s courage at the Piave line and it finally gave him some interest in his heritage. He moved to an Italian neighbourhood, married my mother, started to learn to speak Friulian. That’s where my mother came from.” Restless, bitter, he turned away from the window and back to Bea. “We were supposed to be the big hope for the family, you know? My brother was called Fortunato. The fortunate one. They saved up for our educations. We had no accent, no Italian last name holding us down, we were supposed to do just as well as the mangia-cakes.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t enough for Nat, but I’m not letting that gift go.” 

She didn’t ask what had happened to his brother. She could see them now—Nick and Nat Gordon, Domenico and Fortunato, young and idealistic, breaking against the worst. Against people like her. 

“I’m sorry.” Finding her voice rusty, she cleared her throat. “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to—” 

Nick sighed again. In the crisp fall light he looked exhausted—but still handsome, still perfectly groomed. “It doesn’t matter. Just let me know if you find anything that can help in Marilyn’s defence.” 

“Nick—“ 

“Don’t make me kick you out, Bea.” 

She left his office feeling discomfited, with the slithering sense that she was wrong, that she was in the wrong. 

“Have you ever heard of any Italians on PEI?” she asked Dottie when she got down to her office. 

Dottie paused in thought. “I don’t think so. Although my mother is from the branch of the Penhallows with some Spanish blood.” 

“I didn’t know that.” Bea hesitated. “Do you think you get treated differently?” 

Dottie shrugged philosophically. “Well, every time my mother does anything the clan considers strange they blame it on the Spanish blood. But my father does just as many things they consider strange, and they’ve decided he’s just eccentric, so who knows?” 

Bea retreated to her office, feeling more ignorant, more foolish, than she had since March. 

Til Death—or Divorce—do us part. 

That was how the article started—the one Jack had written—the one that had overturned Bea’s life. 

The young couple making their marriage vows expects to keep them in place until they are separated by the Angel of Death—that beautiful creature sent to end our suffering and bring our souls to their eternal rest. 

But there is one other way to end a marriage, and Toronto’s society divorcées know that this, too, can be guided by a creature sent to end suffering and lead to peace. But the Angel of Divorce is not quite the ethereal creature that the Angel of Death is. No, the Angel of Divorce is a flesh-and-blood woman, and an ordinary-looking one at that.  

It was likely a bad sign that Bea could remember so much of it verbatim. 

Some might hesitate to visit a female divorce lawyer, thinking it men’s work. But ladies of a certain class know that in delicate matters like these, there is no one better to visit than Beatrice Miller. Miss Miller is more than just a lawyer to her clients. With the tender-hearted sentiments common among her sex, she takes care of the ladies who come to her once they no longer have a husband to look after them. She has been known to teach a newly-divorced lady how to file her taxes or how to inspect an apartment-house before renting. Miss Miller herself, like many professional women, is almost terrifyingly independent. She and a cousin maintain a modest spinster household in Midtown Toronto. 

Something in her was actually glad to be called a spinster. She’d hoped that being old enough to be considered ‘on the shelf’ would make people take her more seriously, rather than treating her career like something she was doing while waiting for marriage. But she’d been 30 for several months now and no new level of respect seemed to be forthcoming. 

Miss Miller advocates strongly in favour of divorce reform. At minimum, she says, our courts should allow for divorce in cases of desertion and cruelty, as British courts do. On the more extreme end, she believes that any couple who wants a divorce should be allowed one, after a sufficient cooling off period. “Forcing a woman to remain married to a man she no longer wants to be married to, keeping his house, warming his bed, against her will—doesn’t it seem immoral to you?” she asks. 

That was the statement that had gotten her branded as both an extremist and a hussy. And yet, she’d read some venerable old Globe & Mail columnist express a similar sentiment in much stronger terms in Saturday’s paper, the Mackinnon murder case having revived interest in the public discourse on divorce reform. 

In a quaint turn, Miss Miller and her winsome secretary are both P.E. Islanders. Indeed, Miss Miller admits to trusting fellow Islanders over those of us unfortunate enough not to hail from that green and fertile island. In such a small province, there’s sure to be some family connection or other. Perhaps it’s no coincidence Miss Miller was drawn to laws of marriage and divorce; in P.E.I. it must be even more of a family affair. 

In retrospect, that was probably more of a dig at Dottie than at Bea. Had Bea told him the story of the Darks and the Penhallows, or had Dottie? 

This whole train of thought was unproductive, especially for Bea, who generally preferred action to contemplation. She pushed herself away from the window forcefully and turned on her heel. 

She might be an ignorant fool, who trusted men she shouldn’t and mistrusted men who didn’t deserve it. But she would not let it be said that let down the women who depended on her. 

Chapter Text

The Mackinnon residence was a neat brick house on a tidy scrap of lawn, tucked into a quiet, elm-lined street in Lawrence Park. Even with the ominous threat of grey clouds in the distance, it was difficult to reconcile the house’s peaceful facade to the fact that, not so long ago, a murder had taken place inside. 

Jules lifted up her camera to snap a picture. “Spooky,” she said. 

“I was just thinking the opposite,” Bea admitted. “It hardly looks like the site of a violent crime, does it?” 

“That’s what makes it all the more unsettling. Oh! Maybe that can be my next project. Photographs of mundane places where murders have happened.” 

Since Jules’s most recent project had been photos of nubile young women draped artistically in gauzy fabrics and posed as allegorical representations of such concepts as ‘Truth’ and ‘Justice’, Bea wasn’t sure why murder houses would appeal. But then, she didn’t have any artistic sensibility herself. 

She’d asked Jules along, firstly because she still felt unsettled from her conversations with Nick and Stirling today, and secondly because she wanted some company on the long journey. They’d taken the streetcar to the subway, the subway to the end of the line, and finally a bus to the Mackinnons’ street. After they  talked to the housekeeper, they’d do the whole thing again in reverse. 

Also, she hoped the housekeeper would allow Jules to photograph the scene of the crime—useless as that might be, nearly two weeks after the fact. 

“How many mundane places do you know of where murders have happened?” Bea asked. 

Jules lowered the camera and gave Bea a look. “We walk by one almost every day. It’s been forty years, but you know we only live a few blocks away from the site of the Massey murder.” 

Indeed, Bea hadn’t forgotten. Their own neighbourhood was one where, decades earlier, Charles Massey had been shot to death in his own front lawn by the maid he’d been taking advantage of. 

And now she was standing in the front lawn of another house where a well-off man had been murdered and she was about to speak to his housekeeper. 

Bea squared her shoulders and marched up the front steps. Jules followed behind her, muttering under her breath. “Murder: Mundane. The Mundanity of Murder. Most Murders Are Mundane. Murder: The Malevolent and the Mundane. Oh, I need a thesaurus…”

“Hush,” Bea hissed, and rang the doorbell. 

After about a minute, the door was opened by a woman of perhaps forty or fifty, small in stature, wearing a plain but tidy grey dress, hair tucked neatly back behind a scarf of the same colour. She took them in warily. 

“Yes?” 

“Anna Tomaszewski?” Bea asked, stumbling a bit over the pronunciation. 

Apparently it was close enough, because the woman again said, “Yes?”

“Mrs. Tomaszewski, I’m Beatrice Miller, one of Mrs. Mackinnon’s lawyers. I was wondering if I could take a few minutes of your time and ask you some questions.” 

Mrs. Tomaszewski looked back and forth between Bea and Jules. 

“It should only be a few minutes,” Bea stressed. “We can sit wherever you’re most comfortable. We can even speak while you work, if you’d prefer.” 

“You are the divorce lawyer?” 

“Family lawyer. Yes. But I’m helping with this case as well. The police are so convinced that Mrs. Mackinnon murdered her husband that they aren’t looking at any other suspects, so we are trying to investigate on our own.” 

Finally the housekeeper nodded. “Come. We’ll sit in the kitchen.” 

The interior of the house was even tidier than the exterior had been. Spotless—immaculate—sparkling, even. Bea wondered if it always looked this way, or if Mrs. Tomaszewski had been able to concentrate on this level of cleaning during the last few weeks because no one was in residence. Looking at this perfect cleanliness and knowing that a murder had happened upstairs, it was almost eerie—as if all signs of life had been eradicated. Bea wondered if Jules’ new art project idea might be fruitful after all. 

Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Tomaszewski pointed them to a table and chairs and went immediately to the stove. It gave Bea a moment to look around. Given the maturity of the trees in this neighbourhood, she would guess that the house had been built a few decades earlier. But the kitchen had been redone in a familiar layout, the “step-saver” efficiency model that was supposed to reduce the number of steps it took to perform the most common household tasks. All of the furnishings and appliances were modern and gleaming. Indeed, the room was almost as spotless as the rest of the house, but showed more signs of life: a fruit bowl piled high with apples, a canister of coffee beans, a pot simmering on the stove. In the corner, counter to the modern efficiency of the rest of the kitchen, there was a a faded armchair, a radio, and a pile of what looked like mending. 

Mrs. Tomaszewski had been putting the kettle on, and now she sat down at the table across from Bea and Jules. 

“What do you need to know?” 

“Let’s start with the basics. How long have you worked for the Mackinnons?” 

“Seven years.” 

“And have you been satisfied here?” 

The housekeeper hesitated. Bea reframed the question, “Is it a good job? Are there things you dislike?” 

“It is a good job.” Mrs. Tomaszewski folded her hands on the table, then unfolded them restlessly. “Easiest job I ever had.” 

“Can you explain?” 

Another moment of hesitation, and then she nodded. “Mr. and Mrs. Mac, they are tidy people. No children, not many guests. If Mrs. Mac would cook and clean her own dishes, they wouldn’t need me all the time. Only a maid to come in for the heavy work. But Mr. Mac likes to say he has a housekeeper, so I come every day. The wages are good, and always a tip in December, and Mrs. Mac is generous when I need time for my family. I am lucky to have a job this good.” 

At the whistling of the kettle she stood and moved to the stove. Now that the housekeeper was speaking more, Bea could hear her accent—Polish? She thought the name was Polish. And given her description it sounded as though the immaculate nature of the house might be the regular state of affairs. 

Mrs. Tomaszewski bustled around for a few more minutes, making the tea, stirring the pot on the stove, pulling plates from cupboards. When she came back to the table it was with a tea tray including what must be Mrs. Mackinnon’s good china, along with a plate of arrowroot cookies. 

“Thank you,” said Bea, even though she wasn’t sure if this meant they were being treated as guests rather than investigators. 

Jules moved aside her notebook—apparently she had been taking notes even though Bea hadn’t asked. “This looks excellent, thank you so much.” 

This provoked a small smile from Mrs. Tomaszewski. “The tea needs another minute, I think. You have more questions.” 

Nothing for it but to plunge in. “I wonder if you could take us through the day of the murder—that is, the day before—“

The housekeeper nodded. “I know which day. I told police, and I told Mr. Gordon.” 

“Yes?” Bea prompted. 

She folded and unfolded her hands a few more times. “I came at ten, as usual. Mr. Mac was at work, and Mrs. Mac was still in bed. I cleaned the dishes from the night before and from Mr. Mac’s breakfast. Just coffee and orange juice and toast. At 10:30 Mrs. Mac came down and I made her a coffee and toast. Then she went for a walk and I cleaned the kitchen and cleaned the bathroom and tidied up the main rooms. This I do every day. And then I warmed leftover meatloaf and mashed potato for Mrs. Mac’s lunch. At lunch she told me her friend Mrs. Peterson was coming over in the afternoon, so I made a batch of shortbread because that is what Mrs. Peterson likes. It was the day for dusting so I dusted the living room and the dining room while the shortbread was in the oven. After Mrs. Peterson arrived I made the tea and brought the tea and shortbread to the living room. Then I dusted the upstairs rooms and came back down to the kitchen to start supper. Mrs. Peterson left after four and Mrs. Mac came to tell me she had a headache and was going to bed without supper and I should go home. Normally I serve hot supper at six and then I go home, but since Mrs. Mac was sick I cleaned all the dishes and made a sandwich for Mr. Mac and laid everything out for breakfast and then I left at five. Tea?” 

A brief delay while she fixed them all their tea, but it turned out to be a good thing—Mrs. Tomaszewski looked much more comfortable with something in her hands. 

“Did anything seem unusual?” Bea asked. 

Mrs. Tomaszewski clutched her tea cup. “Mrs. Mac’s headache, maybe. She doesn’t get them usually, but she does sometimes.” 

“Did she seem upset after Mrs. Peterson left?” 

“Yes, but she had a headache.” 

“Did she seem upset before Mrs. Peterson arrived?” 

“No.” 

“Did you see Mrs. Peterson leave?” 

Mrs. Tomaszewski shook her head. “Not see. But heard. From the kitchen I could not hear what was said but their voices were raised. And then I heard Mrs. Peterson start up her car and drive away. And then Mrs. Mac came to say she had a headache.” 

“Did anyone else come to the house that day?” 

She rotated her teacup as she thought. “The mailman? But not inside.” 

“Okay. Can you take me through the next morning?” 

Mrs. Tomaszewski sighed and looked into her teacup. She had been moving it around, rotating it, grasping it, but still hadn’t taken a sip. “I came at ten, as usual. Mr. Mac’s car was still out front. That was strange. I wondered if he was sick. In the kitchen, I saw the plate where I left his sandwich was empty, but no breakfast dishes. I went upstairs to see if he needed anything. The door to his study was—almost closed.” She made a gesture with her hands, indicating that it had been slightly ajar. “Mr. Mac, he doesn’t like that. He says doors should be either open or closed, not like that. I know I left the door all the way open after I dusted. So I went to open the door all the way, and I saw him.” 

“And?” 

The housekeeper’s thumb worried at the handle of the teacup. “I have seen death before, Miss Miller. I knew he was dead. But I was still surprised, and so I screamed. Mrs. Mac came in and she said ‘Charlie?’. It was a long time since I heard her call him that. We stared at him for a long time, and then Mrs. Mac told me to call the police.” 

This all accorded, more or less, with Marilyn’s description of the events, although hers had been more frantic. 

“I know this is difficult, Mrs. Tomaszewski, but can you describe the scene?” 

“He was at the desk,” she began hesitantly. “Wearing a suit. Sitting—leaning over?” 

“Slumped?” 

“Yes. On the desk there were papers and books. Not like Mr. Mac to leave them lying around. He put them away as soon as he was done with them. I dusted the study the day before and there was nothing on the desk.” 

She glanced over at Jules, who was studiously noting down her words, and continued, “I knew he was dead. He was very still, very pale, eyes half open. I did not see the blood at first. But then I did. He had a knife he used to open letters. Always in the top drawer of his desk. And it was sticking from his back.” 

A few moments of silence as they all digested. 

“And Mrs. Mac? What did she do after she told you to call the police?” 

“Stood and stared,” said Mrs. Tomaszewski. “I think she was—not awake. Or in shock. And then she went to get her housecoat before the police arrived.” 

“You must know her pretty well. What is Mrs. Mac like normally?” 

Mrs. Tomaszewki hesitated for longer than she had before describing Mr. Mackinnon’s dead body, and then she said, “Bored.” 

It was not the answer Bea had been expecting. “How so?” 

“She sleeps late. She talks to me, listens to the radio, maybe watches some television. Some days she goes shopping or sees friends. Some days she doesn’t leave the house at all. Every day is almost the same. She has no—no deep meaning in life.” 

A moment of silence followed that as they all, presumably, thought about how sad it was. 

“She wasn’t always bored,” the housekeeper continued. “I think Mr. Mac was her deep meaning, once. When I first worked here, Mr. Mac came home in time for supper most nights, and Mrs. Mac, she was always looking forward to seeing him. And then he worked late more and more and Mrs. Mac was less and less happy to see him when he did come.” 

Ah yes, “working” late—but Bea could come back to that. “Did Mrs. Mac take any medicine?” 

Again that hesitation. Bea prompted, “Maybe something to help with her headaches or something to help her sleep?” 

Mrs. Tomaszewski nodded. “I think maybe for the sleep. I don’t know. I don’t clean inside the medicine cabinet.” 

“Alright,” said Bea, letting the rest slide for the moment. “And Mr. Mac? What was he like?” 

“I didn’t see him very much. He was at work most of the time. He liked things very clean and just so. But that is easy for me so no problems. He was always very polite.” 

“Did he ever—“ Bea tried to decide what language was most likely to elicit a response— “make you uncomfortable?” 

The housekeeper’s face clearly showed her confusion. 

“Did he—try to get fresh, maybe? Or say anything—“ 

“No.” She shook her head. “Nothing like that, with me. I am not the kind to attract his attention.” 

That, at least, sounded reasonable enough. Bea switched tack. “The police say that the house wasn’t broken into—that’s why they’re looking at Mrs. Mackinnon so closely. But they also say the back door was unlocked. I’m wondering who else would have had a key, or would have known where the spare key was hidden. Can you think of any? Mrs. Peterson, maybe?” 

Mrs. Tomaszewski moved the teacup around restlessly again. “I locked the back door before I left. Or, I think I did. Who has a key, just Mr. Mac and Mrs. Mac and me. There is a spare key to the back door hidden in the backyard. Mr. Mac’s parents know. Maybe Mrs. Peterson. And of course Mrs. Warren but she was in England.” 

“What about Mr. Mac’s lovers? Or former lovers.” 

The housekeeper shrugged. 

“I heard that he sometimes brought them here,” Bea said as neutrally as she could. 

Mrs. Tomaszewski didn’t pretend not to understand. “Only when Mrs. Mac visits her mother in England.” 

“Mrs. Flewelling, across the street, she said he brings them here when she’s at her humane society meetings.”

“He meets them here, sometimes. But they don’t—“ she made a vague gesture. “At least not in the bed. I change the sheets, I would know.” 

Bea accepted that for now. “Mrs. Flewelling also said there’s been a vagrant around—a man hanging around at night and maybe looking into windows. Have you seen anything like that?” 

Mrs. Tomaszewski shook her head. “But I leave at six o’clock.” 

“Is there anything else that you think we should know? People behaving strangely? Someone you think would want to hurt Mr. Mackinnon?” 

Another long pause, and then the housekeeper said, “The neighbours down the street. Donovan. Their little boy has eyes exactly like Mr. Mac. It could be a coincidence. But after Mrs. Mac saw, that is the most upset I have ever seen her. If Mr. Mac died that day…” she trailed off. “But instead she went to you, Miss Miller.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Tomaszewski. This has been very helpful. Can we look at the study before we go?” 

“If it’s quick. I need to finish supper before Mrs. Warren comes home.” 

Charles Mackinnon’s study was as orderly and as immaculate as the rest of the house. One wall was lined with bookshelves, while another held metal filing cabinets. The desk was in the centre of the room, a heavy piece made of a dark, rich wood that Bea couldn’t immediately identify. The surface was bare. 

Jules snapped a picture. 

“He kept his desk empty?” 

Mrs. Tomaszewski shook her head. “He had—“ she gestured with her hands, and Bea prompted, “a blotter?” 

“Yes. A blotter, and lamp and picture frame. But the police took them with everything else that was on the desk.” 

Bea frowned. “Can you remember what papers he had out?” 

“Business papers? I don’t know what they are. And one of these, too.” 

She pointed at the bookshelves, and Bea came over to look. 

“A yearbook?” 

Mrs. Tomaszewski was pointing at a set of high school yearbooks. The year 1939-40 was missing. She nodded. 

“Did he look at those often?” 

She shrugged. “He put everything away all the time. I don’t know what he looked at, or not.” 

A high school yearbook. So was this something going back to high school, then? Hadn’t he been friends with Ralph Peterson for that long? Or maybe it was a coincidence—maybe he’d just been reminiscing when the murderer had happened upon him. 

“Can I take the others?” Bea asked. She might as well see if there was anything else to learn from them. “I’ll bring them back once I look through them.” 

The housekeeper shrugged. They were the property of a dead man, after all. 

“Thank you,” Bea said sincerely. “You’ve been a great help, Mrs. Tomaszewski. I really think we can prove that Mrs. Mackinnon did not murder her husband.” 

The look that crossed the housekeeper’s face was more vulnerable than any Bea had seen the rest of the interview. “I hope so, Miss Miller. I hope so.” 

They were barely down the walkway, Charles Mackinnon’s old high school yearbooks tucked under Bea’s arm, when a noisy little car pulled up and Agatha Peterson stepped out. She did a double-take. 

“Miss Miller? What are you doing here?” 

“Mrs. Peterson, good evening. I was just speaking to Mrs. Tomaszewski.” 

“To Anna? Does that mean you’re not trying to pin this on my Ralph anymore?” 

Bea smiled. “I’m investigating different alternatives. What are you doing in the neighbourhood?” 

A slight hesitation on Mrs. Peterson’s part. She looked even more haggard than she had at the church bazaar last week. Her exhaustion sat heavily on her, making her look less like a porcelain doll and more like corpse. Bea shuddered away from that thought. 

“I’m hoping to see Mrs. Warren,” said Mrs. Peterson eventually. “It’s been a long time. She rarely returns to Canada.” 

Of course, she was one of Marilyn’s oldest friends, wasn’t she? Of course she would know her mother. And yet—Bea thought of Peterson’s panic—was it just this morning—about his wife’s odd behaviour. About how Stirling had turned his suspicion from the mister to the missus. About Mrs. Warren’s very definitive statements about Seconal and heart attacks. 

“Have you gone to visit Marilyn?” Bea inquired instead. 

Mrs. Peterson looked away. “I don’t think she’d want to see me.” 

“Because you fought, the afternoon before her husband and your lover was murdered.” 

Mrs. Peterson winced, her hand coming to her stomach over top of her trench coat. At first Bea thought she was feeling unwell, but the way that she was cupping her stomach—the almost protective air—

“Mrs. Peterson,” Bea said in surprise, and then when that elicited no reaction, “Agatha.” 

Mrs. Peterson looked up at her, pale blue eyes wide and guileless. “I know you don’t understand, Miss Miller. How my marriage can be a happy one when it doesn’t look like what a happy marriage is supposed to look like. But the fact is that we are happy. We have been happy. My husband and I love each other very much, and there’s no one else I’d ever want to spend my life with. The only thing that’s been missing in our lives is—children. A family. I always assumed that the problem was me, that I was barren. But now—How can I look my husband in the eye? It’s the one thing we’ve wanted, and it’s not his. We’ve always taken other lovers, but they’re only temporary. Asking him to raise another man’s child, as his own? That’s not exactly a temporary arrangement. What if he hates me?” 

She shook her head. “Maybe I was already going too far, with Charles. I thought we could be friends and temporary lovers. Marilyn had already started the divorce proceedings, and she didn’t mind about his love affairs anyway, as long as certain lines aren’t crossed. But then we crossed those lines. And—“

Her hands spread out on her stomach again. “He was my friend and my lover and the father of my child. And now he’s dead. And I don’t know what to think or how to feel and I can’t talk about it with my husband or with my dearest friend!” 

Bea felt a sudden and unexpected stab of sympathy for the other woman. 

“Did he know?” she asked. When Agatha blinked uncomprehendingly at her, she clarified, “Charles. Did he know about the baby?” 

She nodded. “He broke it off for good. And then he said he was going to tell Marilyn, unless I told her first.” 

Because he wanted to hurt her. Bea remember suddenly the only time she’d ever spoken to Charles Mackinnon where he’d seemed bitter or spiteful in the entire divorce proceeding, and that was when he’d made a comment about having children with his second wife. 

He’d wanted to throw his extramarital children in his wife’s face, and he’d known that it would be that much more of a betrayal from her closest friend. 

Bea wondered if he’d gone after Agatha Peterson in the first place for just that reason—to hurt his wife. 

“Did you tell her?” Bea asked. Or had she murdered Charles Mackinnon so Marilyn would never have to know? 

Mrs. Peterson nodded jerkily. “The afternoon before—“ 

“Ah.” 

There it was. The thing that had upset Marilyn Mackinnon so much she’d thrown out her best friend, taken Seconal and gone to bed at five in the afternoon. The thing that shamed her so much she didn’t want to admit it to police or to her own lawyers. 

Tears were gathering in Mrs. Peterson’s eyes now. “I never meant—“ 

“You should go inside and see if Mrs. Tomaszewski can make you a cup of tea,” Bea said, moving automatically to comforting mode now. “And, Mrs. Peterson, for what it’s worth? Your husband is worried about you. You might find him a more understanding listener than you expect.” 

Mrs. Peterson nodded and headed up the walk to the house. 

From beside Bea, Jules let out a low whistle. “What a melodrama.” 

As they made their way to the bus stop, Bea replayed what she’d learned today. The high school yearbooks under her arm could indicate the murder was related to an old score—or someone Charles Mackinnon had known since high school, which included his wife and both Petersons. Or, they could be a total coincidence. 

“I really hate to say it, Bea,” Jules said. “But it’s not looking great for your Mrs. Mackinnon.” 

“No?”

“Mrs. Tomaszewski just told us that the angriest she’d ever seen Mrs. Mackinnon was when she found out her husband had fathered a child with the neighbour. Now we learn that she found out her husband impregnated her closest friend—and she got everyone out of the house, and the next morning he was dead in his study? You have to admit, that does sound suspicious.” 

“I have to admit nothing,” said Bea, even though her mind had started to work its way around to the same thoughts. 

Hadn’t Nick said that the police thought it was a crime of rage? That the murderer had drugged Charles Mackinnon to make it easier to stab him? 

Bea no longer knew what to think. 

Chapter Text

Occupied by the urgent demands of a client in the midst of a legal separation case, Bea didn’t get a chance to take a closer look at the yearbooks until Wednesday afternoon. Her last appointment of the day completed, Bea shut the door against Dottie’s typing and opened her briefcase. 

St. Andrew’s College was a private boy’s preparatory school somewhere up north of the city. The only thing it had to recommend it, from Bea’s perspective, was that she hadn’t heard nearly as many stories of St. Andrew’s graduates being conceited nitwits as she had of Upper Canada College graduates. But then, she hadn’t met as many men who’d attended St. Andrew’s, whereas back during her legal studies it had seemed as if half the men at Osgoode Hall were just the sort of arrogant old UCC boys who had given Bea such a disdain for Toronto society in the first place. 

She started with the ’38-’39 yearbook—the previous volume to the one currently in police custody. St. Andrew’s seemed to have a Scottish bent, which did make Bea just a touch more forgiving towards it, from the old Scotch Burnley side of her soul. She leafed her way through the pages of smiling boys’ faces, pausing a moment in front of a 17-year-old Charles Mackinnon, and a moment longer in front of the young Ralph Peterson. There was a man whose growing-up had done him some favours. While Mackinnon looked about the same in these old photographs as he did in more recent ones, minus obvious signs of age, the young Peterson had been a scrawny, lanky thing, probably awkward in movements, with a spotty face even the poor quality and tiny size of the photograph couldn’t disguise. A far cry from the suave, well-groomed ladies’ man of today. 

There wasn’t too much to be gleaned from the unfamiliar faces of schoolboys, so Bea flipped to the extracurricular pages in search of more information on her quarry. The debate club—no—the Latin club—not likely—athletics, now here was a possibility. 

It was under the heading “Varsity Football” that Bea found something to shock her. 

Among the youthful faces, she immediately spotted Mackinnon and Peterson—and one other familiar face. Bea stared a moment, and then looked at the caption to confirm it. 

Second row, left to right: John Robertson, Arthur Finch, Ralph Peterson, Gilbert Ford, Joseph Towers… 

The bastard! 

Bea stared in disbelief. Gil Ford sure looked chummy with a murder suspect in this photograph. Peterson’s arm was even thrown companionably across Gil’s shoulders. And hadn’t Joe Towers been one of Mackinnon’s closest friends before his own recent death? 

She felt cold all over. What did she really know about Gil Ford, anyway? He worked for Jane Stuart’s father—his uncle was a Charlottetown judge—his mother was a very admirable lady, but one who perhaps kept him under her thumb—he liked to look at Bea’s legs—Stirling seemed to like him, or at least like making fun of him, but then Stirling’s judgement was not always the best in these circumstances. 

What did she really know of Gil, then? Had she truly believed that he’d been helping in this investigation because there was a story in it, and because he entertained some vague hope about talking her into bed? Now that she was thinking it through, this seemed flimsy at best. What on earth was his true motive? 

Bea flew out from behind her desk. “Dottie, where’s the city directory?” 

She found “FORD Gbrt. writer” soon enough—and she knew it must be the right Gilbert Ford because farther down the same page there was a “FORD Marilla Mrs” listed at the same address. Flipping to the street listing at the back of the directory, she found that the address was in a fashionable part of Forest Hill. Of course—wasn’t Mrs. Ford the president or vice-president or something of the Forest Hill Garden Club, and the Church Bazaar Organizing Committee, and probably the Rotary Club too? 

With a hasty and probably inarticulate explanation to Dottie, Bea was out the door. 

Two streetcars and a bus later, thoughts still whirling, she pounded on the Fords’ handsome oak door and was almost startled to find it answered by Mrs. Ford herself, dusting floury hands on her apron. 

Bea forced herself to smile and tried to calm her racing heart. “Mrs. Ford! I’m so sorry to drop in unannounced like this, but is Gil in?” 

Mrs. Ford shook her head and gave Bea a look that was somehow both amused and kindly. Bea did her best not to feel foolish. “I’m not expecting him for another hour or so. Won’t you come in and wait?” 

“I—I don’t meant to be a bother.” 

“No bother, as long as you don’t mind me leaving you alone a minute to finish something in the kitchen.” 

Bea let herself be led inside. It was the best way to find out more. And once Gil did arrive home, he’d be trapped. 

Mrs. Ford deposited her into a comfortable room and returned to the kitchen, and Bea took a moment to look around. 

It became obvious immediately that this was a den, or a family room, not the formal living room. The furnishings, while as nice as one would expect to find in Forest Hill, were worn, and interspersed with homey touches. The forest-green blanket folded along the back of the sofa must have been knit by hand, and the embroidery on the cushions also had the slightly pulled-apart look of an amateur’s work. Piles of books covered some of the surfaces, and a brown leather armchair facing the TV set sat next to a basket clearly containing more knitting. Framed family photographs crowded the mantel. 

Bea wondered what Gil had been telling his mother, or what conclusions she’d drawn from the time they spent together, that on showing up unannounced she was immediately taken into this informal family space. A squirmy, guilty sensation that she did not like started up in the pit of her stomach. But then she remembered that Gil Ford was a liar, and in a fit of righteousness marched over to the mantel to look at the photographs more closely, seeking further evidence of perfidy. 

There, that must be Mr. and Mrs. Ford’s wedding photo. Mrs. Ford was slimmer and much younger, with a girlish beauty and a laughing smile. The man that Bea had to assume was Mr. Ford looked more reserved, almost stern, an impression that was not helped by the large gash of a scar on his cheek. But even then, a corner of his mouth was turned up in a suggestion of a smile. 

Gil clearly took after his mother more than his father. She’d save that observation in case she ever really needed to annoy him. 

There were so many photos that Bea wondered if the Fords hired a maid just to dust. Most of the photos featured the family, some of them taken in locations she recognized in Toronto or in Charlottetown, others in what she imagined was Muskoka, still others she couldn’t place. She paused at another one of Gil, not so very much older than he’d been in that yearbook photo, but now instead of a football jersey he wore an RCAF dress uniform. It had never even occurred to Bea to wonder about his war service. Another gap in her knowledge of a man she’d decided, more or less, to trust. 

Her musings were interrupted when Mrs. Ford came back in bearing a tray with tea and apple tarts. Bea immediately moved to clear a place on the coffee table. 

“Oh, Mrs. Ford, you didn’t have to go to the trouble—“

“It’s no trouble. Good to remind myself to take a break anyway. Now, while the tea is steeping, what did you need to see Gil about so urgently? Anything I can help with?” 

Bea was about to say no, when something occurred to her. “Perhaps. I don’t know if Gil told you that we’re looking into Charles Mackinnon’s murder? I don’t believe that Marilyn killed him, but the police seem to have stopped investigating.” 

Did Mrs. Ford relax a fraction at that, or was it Bea’s imagination? “He did mention it to me, yes.” 

“Well, I’ve recently learned that Mr. Mackinnon may have been looking at the St. Andrew’s College yearbook for ’39-’40 right before his murder. It was lying open on the desk where his body was found, although I’m not sure what page it was open to. The police have obviously taken it into evidence, but I wondered if Gil might have a copy we could look at.” 

“You think there’s some clue there? That he and the murderer were reminiscing together before the fatal blow was struck?” Mrs. Ford asked. 

“I’m not sure, but I’m hoping it will tell us something.” 

Mrs. Ford nodded. “A great many of Gil’s school things are packed up in the attic, but if you’ll excuse me for a moment I can take a look.” 

While Mrs. Ford was gone Bea paced around the den again. There was a volume of T.S. Elliot on an end table, and she picked it up, unsurprised to see it fall open to a very obviously well-thumbed page: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. “Let us go then, you and I…” she muttered, scanning over the lines. Gil liked to quote it so much at will, she’d assumed he had it memorized. Or did he reread it fresh every morning just in case something should come up during the day that would involved a Prufrock quote? 

“Mixed success, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Ford said, coming back into the room, and Bea dropped the book. If Mrs. Ford noticed, she didn’t comment. “I couldn’t find any of Gil’s yearbooks, but I do have my daughter’s. Gertrude was at St. Agnes’s with Marilyn. I’m not sure if it would be of any help.” 

“Gilbert and Gertrude?” Bea asked, momentarily distracted. 

“Yes. If you ever have children, I would recommend against giving them the same initial. Makes things very confusing. Well, the tea should be ready by now. Milk? Sugar?” 

“Just milk, thank you,” said Bea, and felt that there was something of approval in Mrs. Ford’s gaze at that. She also took her tea with milk, no sugar. 

Bea picked up the St. Agnes’s yearbook for ’37-’38, more out of idle curiosity than any expectation it would tell her more about the murders. 

“There’s Gertie,” Mrs. Ford pointed out, as Bea paged through the book. 

From what Bea could see, the young woman had a handsome and reserved mien not unlike her father’s. Mrs. Ford was smiling slightly at the picture. 

“Oh, I wonder if I should leave these out for Owen to look at. He might get a kick out of it.” 

“Owen?” 

“My grandson. He’s seventeen.” 

This made Bea look up from the book. “You have a seventeen-year-old grandson?” 

Mrs. Ford laughed. “I’m vain enough to interpret that as surprise that I’m old enough to have a grandson that age.” 

“It is,” Bea assured her. 

“Well, I was married at 21 and my daughter was married even younger. It made me a grandmother very young.” 

Bea looked back at the yearbook and pondered the math. A boy of seventeen would have been born in—’39? Perhaps even late ’38. And Gertrude Ford had been in her second-to-last year of high school in ’37-’38. Marriage at quite such a young age wasn’t common even now, and had been less so before the war. Certain conclusions could be drawn there, but Bea was polite enough not to inquire. 

“It is always amusing to reminisce,” she said lightly, and turned the page. 

She went through the rest of the book with the occasional comment from Mrs. Ford, about her daughter’s friends or some other women she recognized. Bea stopped at a photograph with more familiar faces for a closer look. 

Marilyn Mackinnon—or, Marilyn Warren, as she had been—siting chummily with Agatha Peterson—Agatha Drummond—and Violet Cooper. Mrs. Ford bent over the photograph as well. “Oh, that must have been taken before,” she murmured. 

Bea looked up. “Before what?” 

Mrs. Ford pinched her lips together, seemingly uncomfortable. Bea softened her tone and tried again. “Mrs. Ford, at the gala you mentioned that Violet never married, and then at the church bazaar Mrs. Flewelling said that she’d lost her reputation and couldn’t marry. And clearly, Marilyn and Agatha have remained friends since their school days, but Violet seems to have fallen out with them. What happened?” 

“Well. It’s been such a long time now that I don’t suppose it could harm to tell you. It’s not exactly gossip. It was that year—the spring or the early summer of ’38. I remember, because it was the year before Gertie had to get married, and I remember being grateful about that at least.” Mrs. Ford shook her head. “Parenting! You do everything you can to do right by your children, and sometimes they still grow up and make decisions to baffle you. And you wonder, what have I done wrong? But Gertie’s boyfriend married her, so that turned out in the end. Violet—she didn’t have a boyfriend. And she already had a bit of a reputation. You know.” 

Bea nodded. If you didn’t have a steady boyfriend it was easy to get a reputation, even if you didn’t let boys do anything but take you to the movies. To borrow a crude phrase from Stirling—a man didn’t always have to screw you in order to screw you over. 

“She had to leave school early that spring,” Mrs. Ford continued. “But her parents didn’t take her out early enough. It was already quite obvious. Poor girl. She was such a small thing. And then in September she came back to St. Agatha as if nothing had happened. The rumours were vicious. It seems clear that whoever the father was, he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—marry her. All of her friends dropped her.” 

An awful thing for a teenage girl to have to go through. Although, after so many years, Bea was surprised that women like Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Flewelling still remembered all the details. 

“And it really was so bad that in all the years since no one would marry her?” 

At that Mrs. Ford frowned in thought. “Well, that was in ’38, and she was very young. Maybe she would have found someone after a few years, when she was a better age to be marrying. But by then all the young men were off to war, and she’d gone a bit strange. Bitter. The men who came home had their pick of women, and I think they wanted a wife who would make them comfortable, not Violet. She’s mellowed now, but she was quite unsettling during those years.” 

“And now?” Bea asked. “Now that she’s mellowed? She seems to be an attractive enough woman from a good family. Surely there’s some widower or lonely bachelor who would be pleased to take on a wife like her.” 

“That may well be. But while she has mellowed, she has also taken against the very idea marriage. Last year Carol Henderson tried to introduce Violet to her widowed nephew. Violet wouldn’t even meet him. She threw such a fuss that Mrs. Henderson won’t even speak to her anymore.” 

Bea thought abruptly of Violet’s overture of friendship, the way she’d praised the Angel of Death profile. The way she’d professed herself charmed by the two spinster cousins living together without a man, even though her tone had sounded overly cheerful. 

“She wouldn’t be so bitter about it if she hadn’t wanted it at some point,” she remarked. 

“That’s what I think, too.” Mrs. Ford set down her teacup with a clink against the saucer. “To be honest, I don’t spend much time ruminating over gossip from nearly twenty years ago. But last month, at Joe Towers’s funeral, Violet came up to Ethel, his widow, and told her she was better off widowed than with Joe as a husband. Her expression was vicious—totally inappropriate for a funeral. Ethel was quite shocked. But in that moment, I remembered a rumour I had heard, back in ’38—one that I hadn’t much credited then—that the young man who had left Violet in the family way and refused to take any responsibility was Joe Towers himself.” 

As Bea tried to digest this new information, Mrs. Ford reached for the teapot again. “I really don’t mean to gossip, and I’ll thank you not to repeat any of this.” 

“Of course. I do handle very sensitive legal matters, Mrs. Ford—you can trust in my discretion.” 

Mrs. Ford regarded her for a long moment and then nodded decisively. “Yes, I think I can.” 

“I know divorce lawyers can have a reputation for being—well, sleazy, or immoral—“

“People make such a fuss. Maybe it’s easy for those of us who are happily married to forget, sometimes, how many unhappy marriages can feel like a trap.” 

Bea was surprised but heartened by the vehemence of Mrs. Ford’s statement, and they drank the rest of their tea in silence. 

For an investigation into the murder of Charles Mackinnon, the story kept taking these turns into his old school friends, Peterson and Towers. The libertine and the drunkard. And what about Gil Ford? 

The man himself made an appearance another twenty minutes later, announcing himself with a jovial, “I’m home!” called up the stairs. 

“In here,” Mrs. Ford called back. “We have a guest.” 

As his footsteps sounded in the hall, Bea steeled herself to be impartial. To watch him closely for signs of treachery, without letting her own confused feelings cloud her observations. 

And then he was in the doorway, big and windblown, startled at first but quickly recovering with a pleased grin. 

“Bea! I didn’t expect to see you today.” 

Bea was still formulating a response when Mrs. Ford rose. “I’ll leave you two to it. My kitchen is calling to me.” 

Gil dropped into the seat his mother had just vacated an reached for an apple tart. He did really resemble her a great deal—the hazel eyes, the creamy skin, the reddish hair. 

“What brings you here?” he asked, when she still hadn’t spoken in the time it took him to eat a bite of the tart. 

Bea pulled the ’38-’39 yearbook out of her satchel. “You didn’t tell me you went to St. Andrew’s College.” 

No obvious reaction as he said, “Good old St. Andy’s. Family tradition, I guess. My father attended as well—although it was still in Rosedale then. That was before it moved to Aurora. And right now my nephew is a student. Is this important?” 

Opening the book to the incriminating photo, she put it down on the table in front of him. 

Gil took in the image with a little smile. “Well! Would you look at that.” A rueful glance down at his midsection. “Of course, I was a lot trimmer then. ‘I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled.’” 

This time Bea recognized the Prufrock quote right away. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Don’t you know any other poems?” 

“Am I not allowed to have a favourite?” 

“And is this really what you’re taking from this?” 

“What am I supposed to be taking?” 

She jabbed her finger at the image of Peterson’s arm around Gil’s shoulders. “This! You were friends with one of our suspects, and maybe even the murdered man himself, and you never thought to say anything?” 

Gil sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, suddenly cool. “Not friends. Being on that football team together at school was probably the closest we came. And even then we were more like friendly acquaintances.” 

“You went to school with—“

“You know that I knew them. From the very beginning. You knew that we moved in the same circles. Why does it matter now?” 

“I just find it suspicious that you would insert yourself into this investigation, knowing that your ties to both victim and suspect are so long-standing!” 

“I suggested the investigation!” 

“You did, and I wonder why. You said you wanted a story, but I don’t think this will be enough of a story for the amount of time you’re spending on it. Unless you know more than I do. For all I know, you murdered Charles Mackinnon. Or you know what made someone else murder him. For all I know, you could be the father of Violet Cooper’s baby!” 

The look he gave her took some of the wind of righteous indignation out of her sails. She didn’t really suspect him of that. 

When he spoke, his voice was full of anger cold enough to make Bea shiver. “Did it seem to you, when we were in Ralph Peterson’s office last week, that he was my friend?” 

“Not exactly,” said Bea slowly. There hadn’t been any warmth between the men, but now that she thought about it, they had seemed like people who had known one another for a long time. Peterson’s snide remarks had been easily able to hit home. 

“Do you really think I would murder someone over some old grudge?” 

“No.” He didn’t, if she was perfectly honest, seem like the type to hold grudges. 

“And if you think I could ever possibly—“ he cut himself off, face twisting. 

Bea had the disconcerting feeling that she had made a terrible mistake. Again. Confused, she started, “I shouldn’t have—“

“And here you are thinking I’ve been lying to you this whole time. What a fascinating opinion of my character you must have, Miss Miller.” 

He turned away from her so she was faced with the taut line of his shoulders. Somehow it cut to the quick. 

“You know I mistrust journalists and society folks.” And handsome men. And men who were a bit too charming. 

Gil didn’t respond. 

“I didn’t really think that—it was just—the shock of seeing this picture, in Charles Mackinnon’s book—but I didn’t mean—that is, I shouldn’t have said—” 

Well, damn, she really was out of practice at apologizing. 

“I’m sorry,” she managed, finally, with some amount of grace. 

Gil didn’t turn around, but after a long moment he said, in a neutral voice, “This is Mackinnon’s yearbook?” 

Bea exhaled with something approaching relief. She hadn’t, apparently, ruined everything. “Yes. According to his housekeeper, he had the next year’s book open on his desk when he was murdered. The police took it as evidence, but I asked to borrow his other yearbooks in the hope that their may be some clues.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Why would he have been looking at a yearbook? Did he take it out to reminisce with the murderer? Did the murderer bring it out to remind him of old grudges? Everyone says that Charles Mackinnon and Ralph Peterson were close as boys. Could this point to Peterson—or Mrs. Peterson?” 

“Hmm,” Gil said again. 

Maybe she wasn’t close to being forgiven, after all. “Not that things are looking great for Mrs. Mackinnon, either. I think I know what Mrs. Peterson told her, the afternoon of the murder, that upset her so much.” 

This, finally, made Gil turn. 

“She’s having Mackinnon’s baby,” said Bea, feeling relieved enough that she was afraid it came through in her voice. “Mrs. Peterson, that is. She hasn’t told her husband yet. But could he have found out some other way? If he was angry about the idea of raising another man’s child as his own—if he was content for his wife to sleep around until there was this kind of consequence—of he doesn’t want children at all—” 

“It’s funny that you mentioned the father of Violet Cooper’s baby,” Gil said. “Because I’d forgotten until Stirling’s pictures on Friday. But back then, one of the most persistent rumours was that Ralph Peterson was the man involved.” 

Bea considered this. “If he refused to marry her back then—why would she want any kind of relationship with him now?” 

Gil shrugged. 

“So, maybe Peterson doesn’t want children, even though Mrs. Peterson does,” Bea mused. “More of a reason to murder his pregnant wife than the man who impregnated her, I would guess—although I doubt it’s a rational act.” 

Still nothing from Gil. The mess of confusion and guilt coalescing in Bea’s stomach was far worse than it had been in Nick’s office on Monday. Why, oh why couldn’t she learn to govern her tongue? 

“I’m… sorry to barge into your home. And sorry I disrupted your peace like this.” At his raised eyebrow she continued, “and yes, I’m sorry too for not trusting you and flinging accusations at you.” 

Gil didn’t say anything, but his body language loosened. 

“You have an interesting family,” she tried. “I didn’t know you were in the Air Force.” 

He crossed his arms. “Do you require a complete biography of all your acquaintances, or will a CV suffice?” 

Bea winced. 

After a moment Gil continued, without venom but equally without warmth, “My uncle was a pilot in the First World War. Not exactly Billy Bishop or Wop May, but I always liked watching him fly.” 

She’d expected some easy, light response about adventure in the skies or the knights of the air. But apparently Gil was done putting on a charming and cheerful facade for her. She should be grateful to see the reality of him, shouldn’t she? 

“Gil—“

Anything she might have said—and what would she, what could she have said?—was forestalled by the return of Mrs. Ford. 

“Ah, Bea, you’re still here. Will you be joining us for supper? You’d be very welcome.” 

She looked to Gil for his reaction to that, expecting to see agitation there. But he gave a bland smile and said, “Of course, stay. You’re more than welcome.” 

Ah, that Island hospitality. She couldn’t help but think he badly wanted her gone, but if she stayed perhaps she could patch things over. 

“Thank you, I’d love to,” Bea said firmly, and directly to Mrs. Ford. “Can I be of any help?” 

After some negotiation, Bea was allowed into the kitchen to assist with the final dinner preparations. She couldn’t help but compare it to the gleaming and ultra-modern kitchen she’d visited just yesterday. The Ford kitchen was smaller, old-fashioned, and yet a kitchen that Bea felt immediately comfortable in. It felt not unlike her own Aunt Emily’s kitchen, with a cozy, homey feel, neat and tidy and yet with the sense that it was used daily, and with love. Besides, the smells coming from the oven made Bea’s mouth water. 

Mrs. Ford set Bea to slicing the bread while she tackled some of the dishes. Whoever had said that the only sure things in life were death and taxes, it must certainly have been a man, Bea reflected, reminded once again of Mrs. Tomaszewski’s recitation of her daily duties. Any woman can tell you that dishes predate taxes and dishes will outlive us all. 

“You bake your own bread?” 

Bea had been taught, under the strict supervision of Aunt Emily, how to bake bread. But with all the kneading and rising and kneading again, and since the pre-sliced stuff was inexpensive and perfect for sandwiches, it seemed like a lot of fuss for nothing. 

“Sometimes the old-fashioned ways are best,” replied Mrs. Ford. “At least, I feel that way more and more as I get older. Don’t think that I’m against modernity—but, as unlikely as I thought it as a girl, I do really love those small domestic touches that make a house a home.” 

“Well, you do have a lovely home,” Bea said earnestly. 

“Thank you. I may not have the education of some ladies, but I always strive to do my best in anything I do take on.” 

“Having seen you organize a church bazaar, I’d set you against any general.” 

Mrs. Ford looked pleased at that. “Well, I try, in my limited sphere.” 

“Limited sphere! You bake, cook, garden, manage the household, organize committees and clubs and charities—I think you knit the blanket in the den and I’m certain you’re responsible for the fact that both you and your son dress so fashionably—that’s much more than I could do.” 

“Well, as they say. Jack of all trades, master of none.” 

“Better than a master of one,” Bea completed the saying. 

“That’s kind of you to say.” Bea thought Mrs. Ford might look just as pleased to be complimented, as her son did to be disdained. 

“I do,” Bea said genuinely. “My father is an MP and my uncle is an artist, so I have a good idea what it takes to organize people and to inspire them. My mother is as indifferent housekeeper as my aunt is an efficient one, so I know exactly how difficult it is to keep a house as lovely and organized as this one. I know I certainly don’t have the time or the skill.” 

Mrs. Ford looked her up and down shrewdly before turning to take a pan out of the oven. “You know, when I was a girl, I was a bit of a lily of the field. ‘I toiled not, neither did I sew’. My parents would have sent me to college, if I’d had any interest in going. My father was a doctor, my mother a poet and a former teacher and principal. They valued education a great deal. I was the one who hadn’t the faintest idea what I’d do if I filled my head with Latin verb declensions or trigonometric calculations. And then—and then things got difficult, and I grew up, and I did what had to be done. You learn quickly enough, when you have to.” 

“I think that’s impressive.” 

“Things had to be done, so I did them. Is that so impressive?” 

“Yes,” said Bea, thinking of Marilyn blinking in confusion when Bea had asked her about her post-divorce living situation, Violet Cooper shrinking from the world with bitterness, the reported despair of Ethel Towers over her own household finances. “There are some people who won’t or can’t do things, even if they need to be done, if times are too difficult. It does take a great deal of strength.” 

Mrs. Ford had finished serving up the food, and was now surveying Bea with something that looked like interest. “Well, well,” was all she had to say on that. “Let’s bring this into the dining room before it gets cold.” 

Chapter Text

An unsmiling Gil offered to drive Bea home at the conclusion of the meal, and she accepted readily. He was still a bit cool towards her, and she wanted to make up for good. It had been hard to tell over dinner what his feelings were. He and his mother shared a kind of easy affection that Bea felt almost envious watching, and that made it difficult to tell if he was really softening about Bea’s transgressions or if it was his mother’s influence. 

The voyage began silently. Bea tried to choose her words while Gil drove with a closed kind of expression that suggested he did not want to talk. Within the confines of the car, she once again found herself assaulted by the autumnal scent of his cologne, which was a further distraction. And yet, when she turned to him he seemed a million miles away across the bench seat. It seemed almost impossible that the last time she’d been in this car with him he’d felt so close and so impossible to avoid, since he was doing such a good job avoiding her now. 

They turned onto Bathurst. No fog, today, but the rainfall earlier in the afternoon left a lingering dampness, and as they descended the hill Bea experienced a disturbing sense of deja-vu and sat bolt upright. 

“Gil! ’Like a patient etherized upon a table’!” 

Though startled, he obviously recognized the line from Prufrock right away, and gamely continued, “‘Let us go through certain half-deserted streets’—“

Oh, for heaven’s sake. The line she’d quoted was from the first stanza. She had to stop him before he recited the entire thing. 

“No, that’s—well, yes but—I’ve just realized something. We need to go to Stirling’s office, now. It’s on—” 

“I know where it is.” Despite the irritation in his tone, Gil didn’t turn onto Dupont towards Bea’s home but continued south, toward downtown. 

Bea’s mind was racing too much to care if she’d offended him again. Her grogginess the day of the church bazaar, how quickly she’d gotten overly intoxicated at the gala—could it be?

Chinatown was one of the few remaining neighbourhoods in what had once been known as The Ward, an immigrant-heavy area with buildings crowded in together. This time of night, this time of year, the streets were mostly empty. The colourful neon lights of downtown reflected eerily off the puddles as they drove, Gil once again silent. Once he’d parked the car, he finally said, “If I hadn’t driven you, would you have come without me?” 

Sensing she was about to receive some kind of patronizing opinion about the safety of a woman alone, but not wanting to aggravate him when he hadn’t forgiven her yet, she replied, “I knew you’d drive me when I asked, so the question is moot.” 

Gil sighed and followed her out of the car. 

Stirling’s office was located over a fruit stand that had been closed up for the night. Bea skirted the tables that would be packed with produce and flowers during the day and headed straight for the side entrance that would take her to Stirling’s lair. With Gil on her heels, she clambered up the stairs and knocked firmly at the door bearing his name. 

“Stirling! Are you in there? I need to speak with you immediately. It’s about the Mackinnon case.” 

The door opened roughly and the stench of stale cigarette smoke wafted into the hall. Gil coughed pointedly, but Bea had no time for politeness. 

“Ralph Peterson,” she said immediately. 

Stirling welcomed them in with a sarcastic wave. “Welcome to my humble abode, et cetera, and yes of course I’ve been well, how are you this fine evening?” 

“You answer your door like that?” Gil asked, looking askance at Stirling’s undershirt. Bea honestly hadn’t noticed his state of undress. 

Stirling shrugged. “Radiator’s on the fritz. Hot as hell in here. And when someone knocks in a civilized fashion, I answer the door in a civilized fashion. More or less.” 

He dropped back into his desk chair and gestured for the others to sit. Gil did, still looking slightly disdainful, and Stirling went back to devouring chow mein off a paper plate. Bea didn’t sit. She had too much energy coursing through her veins, too many thoughts jockeying for attention. Instead she paced up and down the office—past the dented steel desk and faded chairs and crooked bookcase, all the way to the door that led to what passed for a living area—a washbasin, hotplate, and what was probably a Murphy bed. It was hot in here—and musty, and very dusty. But Bea had no time to complain about that now. 

She took another circuit. Stirling watched her progress with detached amusement, and Gil looked on without the warmth in his gaze she’d come to expect, when he looked at her. 

But that was irrelevant. The matter at hand was murder. 

“Ralph Peterson,” she began. “The night of the gala, he saw me asking questions and told me to stay away from his wife. Later I came up behind him at the bar and he gave me a drink. I’ve lost track of much of what happened after that. At the time I thought it was the alcohol. But I’d been drinking slowly all evening, and this was a rapid decline in my mental functioning.” 

Stirling took another bite of chow mein. Gil crossed his arms. 

“The church bazaar,” Bea continued, whirling around to take another lap of the office. “I was asking more questions. I went to the bake sale and Peterson was there again. He knew I was asking questions and knew I was looking for his wife. He was holding a plate of rum balls, but he set it down when he saw me, and I took one. Not so long after I ate the rum ball, I once again started to feel unlike myself. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I thought it was perhaps exhaustion, or the weather.” 

“A feminine complaint?” Stirling, drolly. 

“The weather!” Gil, incredulously. 

Bea glared. “I don’t know what you think a feminine complaint is if you think they cause sleepiness.” Gil looked uncomfortable at this turn in the conversation, which was better than sullenly irritated and much better than cooly distant. 

“I still don’t see why this needed to interrupt my dinner,” Stirling complained, mouth full of said dinner. 

Pacing again, Bea continued laying out her argument. “The medical report on Charles Mackinnon’s death came in. He had a large amount of secobarbital—Seconal—in his system when he died—probably not enough to kill him, but it’s hard to tell for certain. The police think the murderer dosed him with secobarbital so that he wouldn’t fight back when he was stabbed.” 

“The police have been reading too many Agatha Christie novels,” was Gil’s opinion. 

Stirling’s was, “The police are ignoring the most obvious solution—two murderers. One of them attempts to poison him—probably the wife, since she has access to Seconal and access to his food and drink. Then a second, unknown person stabs him to death.” 

“I think you’ve been reading too many Agatha Christie novels,” said Gil. “Or is Mrs. Christie too highbrow for you now?” 

Stirling pushed his empty plate away and lit a cigarette. “It’s not that far-fetched. The man angered enough people that we have a good number of suspects.” 

“Gentlemen,” Bea interrupted. “Can we please return to the point?” 

“Which is?” 

“That Ralph Peterson didn’t like me asking questions so he slipped secobarbital into my drink at the gala and into the rum balls he put in front of me at the church bazaar.” 

Neither man looked convinced. 

“Seconal is in a capsule,” Stirling pointed out. “Do you think he managed to somehow split one open and pour the secobarbital inside on just the rum ball you were about to take? Or do you think he had an entire plate of doctored rum balls he was serving to people he found inconvenient? Awful complicated way to slip someone a Mickey Finn.” 

“I don’t think he touched your glass at the gala, Bea. The bartender put it down and he gestured towards it, but I don’t think he touched it.” 

Bea threw up her hands. “Well, I don’t know how he did it! Maybe it wasn’t Seconal—maybe he has access to a wide range of sedatives. It’s worth considering as a theory, isn’t it? Why else would I have become so dazed on those two occasions? He offered us a drink in his office, too, Gil, if you recall. Good thing we said no.” 

Stirling gestured with his cigarette, making Gil jump hastily away as the ashy end came too close to his sweater. “Fine, let’s review what we’ve learned. Bea, since it seems you have some insider knowledge, care to share?” 

Still frustrated, she sat on the last available chair and explained what she’d learned from Nick and from her visit to the Mackinnon household. Resolutely she kept her eyes away from Gil as she talked about the yearbooks. 

“Agatha Peterson.” Stirling tapped the ash off his cigarette into a mug with a broken-off handle. “Now that’s interesting.” 

“And Peterson doesn’t know?” Gil, skeptical. 

“I’d believe it based on his behaviour on Monday.” Stirling leaned back, the squeaky old chair creaking as he did. “He was frantic because his old lady was keeping her distance from him. This is the secret she’s been keeping. Either that, or he’s known for weeks so he assumes something else must be bothering her, other than this. Either way, this rockets them both back up to the top of the list of suspects.” 

“How’s this for a theory. He found out, he murdered Mackinnon, he forgot that his wife still thinks he doesn’t know, she’s started acting distant, he worries she’s discovered she’s married to a murderer.” 

Stirling pointed at her with his cigarette. “Good theory. How’s this: she told Mackinnon, his reaction wasn’t what she wanted, she murdered him, now she’s keeping two secrets from her husband.” 

Gil crossed his arms. “Sedating someone in order to stab him when he’s defenceless isn’t some crime of passion. That takes advance planning. Unless we go back to the two murderers theory.” 

“I still like that one,” Stirling admitted. “Okay, how’s this, then. Mrs. Peterson tells Mrs. Mackinnon about the pregnancy. Mrs. M uses her stash of Seconal to doctor his drink. Unaware of this, Mrs. P returns later that evening to stab Mackinnon. Or, alternatively: Mrs. M calls Peterson to let him know about the situation, and he comes over to stab Mackinnon, unaware of her intention to murder her husband.” 

Bea hated to admit that it sounded feasible. Even plausible. She still did not believe that Marilyn Mackinnon—that slightly lost, very passive, apparently depressed person—would try to murder her own husband. Not when divorcing him had taken so much out of her. Not when the divorce was right on the horizon! 

“Maybe Agatha Peterson drugged the scotch and Ralph Peterson did the stabbing,” she suggested half-heartedly. 

“Still not ruling out any possibilities.” 

Bea sat bolt upright. “If we’re not ruling out any possibilities—what about the vagrant theory? The man who’s been hanging around the Mackinnon’s street, who we think is the same man who visited both Mackinnon’s and Peterson’s offices. What about him?” 

“You’re not the only one who’s been busy.” Stubbing his cigarette out, Stirling reached down to rifle through a drawer. After a moment he emerged with plain brown file folder. “Here we go. R.B. Greene. A sailor of the HMCS Star, based in Hamilton. Originally hails from Cornwall, Ontario. He’s young, but driven. Wanted to join the Navy to get away from overbearing parents, it sounds like. Quiet, but determined. Good behaviour all around. Overall, doesn’t sound like someone who’d murder a man by stabbing him in the back seventeen times, does he? He’s taken a great deal of leave lately, for some personal reason his commanding officer won’t tell me over the phone. So I have an appointment on Saturday to go down to Hamilton and visit our sailor face to face.” 

“Hamilton,” said Gil. “Very nice. Are you going to make a day of it? Catch the Ti-Cats game?” 

Stirling gave him the stink-eye, then opened the folder to a grainy picture of a young man in naval uniform. It wasn’t the clearest, but to Bea he seemed to match the young man she’d so briefly spotted outside Peterson’s office. 

“In the Navy? Why on earth would a sailor from Cornwall be visiting Peterson and Mackinnon? A banker and an ad man?” 

“That,” said Stirling, “is a good question, and the main reason why I’m still pursuing Greene, despite the fact that the wife and the Petersons are looking so good for the actual murder. There’s some mystery here, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.” He looked more pleased at this idea than Bea had ever seen him. 

“You had better,” Bea told him. 

“Why? Because you’re still so convinced it couldn’t possibly be Marilyn Mackinnon?” Gil still hadn’t forgiven her, it seemed, and was growing increasingly grumpy. 

“Because from the police’s perspective, it couldn’t possibly be anyone but her! I can just imagine that odious Detective King, receiving the coroner’s report about the Seconal, deciding it’s an open and shut case. Everything else just a formality. While it still doesn’t, from our perspective, add up.” 

Face flushing, Gil sat back in his chair and held her gaze defiantly. “You have to at least entertain the possibility!” 

“Entertaining it, finding it unlikely!” 

“Because you don’t like to be wrong?” 

That hit its mark. 

Ignoring the sting, Bea whirled away from Gil and said, “I’m rarely wrong.” 

Stirling was smirking at them both. “I see that ‘not doing anything stupid’ is going real well for you.” 

“The great Beatrice Miller, do something stupid?” Gil muttered, with a vein of sarcasm Bea didn’t appreciate. She glared at both of them. 

“On that note,” Stirling said, “now that Mrs. P has told us what upset Mrs. M so much the day of the murder, I can see why she would lie about it. As a murder suspect it’s damning. I think she’s more canny about this than your initial impression, Bea.” 

Thinking of how easily Mrs. Warren had thrown murder theories around, Bea replied, “Maybe. She seems to have realized the seriousness of police suspicion by the time I was allowed to see her, at least. But don’t forget, this is also socially embarrassing for her. That may have been her motive in prevaricating.” 

“Have you spoken to her? What does she have to say about Mrs. P’s claims?” 

“I’ve been to busy to make it out to the jail, but Nick Gordon had an appointment with her this afternoon. He was going to ask about it for her defence. But I haven’t heard from him yet. I left the office earlier than expected.” 

A snort from Gil—who apparently had been raised too politely to leave it at that, and muttered immediately but with ill grace, “Excuse me.” 

Stirling’s brows had risen to his hairline. “You must be having an interesting evening if Ford’s at the point of being rude to a lady.” 

“Never mind that,” said Bea over Gil’s protesting squawk. “Can I use the phone? I don’t know if Nick will still be in his office, but I might as well try it.” 

She gave the number to the operator and waited as the phone rang. The two men in front of her were engaged in some kind of stare-off, Stirling smirking, Gil scowling.  

The phone kept ringing. Was every man in her life out to annoy her tonight?

On the seventh ring, she was startled to hear a brusque, masculine, “Yes?” 

Bea whirled around so she wouldn’t have to watch Stirling and Gil annoying one other. “Nick? It’s Bea. I’m glad I caught you. I didn’t know if you’d be in the office.” 

“Because I’m not dedicated enough to my clients’ cases?” 

Apparently Nick was still annoyed with her, too. Bea pinched the bridge of her nose. “Because it’s past nine o’clock.” 

“And you left at four.” 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” 

“I stopped by your office with an update and Dottie said you ran out in a rush.” 

Something in the way he said Dottie’s name roused Bea’s instincts. “Had a cozy chat, did you?” 

A pause on the other end of the line, and then Nick said, “Sorry, did you call to ask about the Mackinnon case or to berate me for having a conversation with an unmarried woman without a chaperone?” 

“Nick—“

“Or is this my father’s situation over again? The dark and temperamental Italian isn’t good enough for the sweet little Island girl?” 

“For heaven’s sake, Nick. You know I didn’t mean that.” Bea winced, remembering that she had in fact said some even ruder things directly to his face. “I’m sorry I questioned your professional integrity.” 

A long sigh carried down the line, but when Nick spoke again his voice had lost its sharpness. “Fine. And I’ve been careful with Dottie ever since you warned me she might take it seriously. The girl’s too young for me. I only ever flirted with her for fun.” 

Any relief she felt at resolving that particular problems was undercut by the sound of Gil’s chair creaking as he shifted. Another, maybe more pressing issue. She had made a muck of things this week, hadn’t she? “Glad we cleared that up. How’s Marilyn?” 

Nick’s tone shifted for the serious. “As well as can be expected. I asked her about Mrs. Peterson’s news.” 

“And?” 

“She confirmed it was what they discussed the afternoon of the murder, and it upset her so much she took to her bed. She didn’t want to talk about it because she found the topic upsetting, and she didn’t think it had any bearing on the case.” 

“Do you believe that?” 

“Honestly? I think she was in shock the first day. And I think she’s still having a bit of trouble facing up to reality. In her mind, her husband impregnating her friend might be a larger offence than his murder is.” 

“That’s not particularly exculpatory.” 

“Well, it’s not going in the official defence. Go easy on her, Bea. She’s had some hard blows, and the Don Jail is a pretty big change from her Lawrence Park lifestyle.” 

At least it sounded like Nick believed in Marilyn’s innocence. Bea wrapped up the call and relayed the pertinent information to the others. 

Sterling’s take was, as usual, darker than Nick’s. “If she thinks her husband impregnating her friend is such a big crime—would she consider it a capital offence?” 

Bea glared. 

“I’m just saying. Nothing we’ve talked about tonight has thrown any doubt on my two murderers theory. And if you’re going to be like that, you might as well head home and let me pull down my bed.” 

Bea threw a wary glance over at the other room. She’d thought that was a murphy bed. “I don’t know how you live like this.” 

“I’d take two rooms of my own and the occasional meal from Mrs. Wing downstairs when she feels sorry for me over a gilded cage any day.” 

Gil snorted at that, and Bea raised her eyebrows, but they both headed for the door. 

Outside, alone again, the tense silence of earlier fell over them once more. In an attempt to break it, Bea tried to pick up on their shared wariness of Stirling’s chosen living situation. 

“Unbelievable. He’s a Redfern and he’s sleeping in his office and eating his landlady’s leftovers. Could you live like that?” 

She’d miscalculated. Gil stopped with his hand on the handle of his car’s passenger door. “Is that another dig about my mother?” 

“What? No!” 

He walked around the car and got in the driver’s side without opening the passenger door. Bea had never in her life needed a man to open a door for her, but from this man, the refusal was almost as potent as a shout. For heaven’s sake, had she really injured him so badly? 

Feeling cross, she let herself in the car. Gil still wouldn’t look at her as he started the engine. 

“I only meant,” she tried to explain, “that I couldn’t live like that, and based on your reaction, I don’t think you’re made for two-room living either. I have no idea what that has to do with your mother.” 

“No? You think I haven’t heard those kind of comments before? You wouldn’t be the first to tell me I’m too tied to my mother’s apron strings.” 

Ah, so this was more about some imaginary Bea’s actions than the real Bea’s actual actions. She was simultaneously relieved and annoyed. Amused at the accusation and sad that someone clearly had hurt him this way. 

“I certainly wouldn’t be the first to tell you that, because I would never say something like that. It would be an unfair view of both you and your mother.” She shook her head. “Last week you were asking me to say more rude things to you, and this week you’re getting angry about words you put in my mouth.” 

But no, that wasn’t quite right, was it? Even when he was eyeing her legs he’d withdrawn when she’d asked if his mother chose his clothes. 

Gil was quiet for a long time. “Not about my mother.” 

“I would never say anything unkind about your mother. I think I like her better than I like you.” 

“You think, do you?” 

It was the friendliest tone she’d heard from him since accusing him of lying to her for the entirety of their acquaintance. Bea felt herself relax. She could almost enjoy the rare treat of a night drive through the city, brights lights in the darkness. 

“It’s nice that you’re so close,” she said, sidestepping the question of whether she could say she liked him. 

A long sigh from Gil. “It’s been only the two of us for a long time. My sister married young, and my father’s been gone… almost ten years now.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

A half-shrug, eyes still on the road. “Almost ten years. Hard to believe sometimes… it was a sudden thing. Right after—well. My parents were on their way to England to visit my aunt. He had some kind of fit, out there in the middle of the ocean. A stroke, maybe. There wasn’t much the ship’s doctor could do. He was dead before they reached port. And then it was just the two of us.” 

“My God,” Bea breathed. “Gil—“

He cut her off, which was fortunate, because she wasn’t sure what she would have said if she’d had to continue. 

“So you can see why I don’t take any comments about my mother lightly.” 

“And you shouldn’t. I just wish you’d be angry at me for the things I’ve actually said, instead of the things you imagine I might say, just because some other, less interesting woman has already said them.” 

“Less interesting, eh?” He sounded genuinely amused now, and she could picture the corners of his eyes crinkling. 

“A guess.” 

“I wish you’d extend me the same courtesy. I don’t know what Jack Reynolds said or did to you before he published that article, but Bea? It was a heck of a leap from twenty-year-old yearbook picture to assuming everything in the last few weeks has been a lie.” 

“I never thought it was all a lie,” Bea said petulantly. There were things that couldn’t be faked, and the fact that he wanted her in bed as one of them. 

He cut her a look, eyes glittering with temper and something else hot and potent. In the wake of his gaze she could feel every square inch of her skin. It chafed where it was cupped and moulded by soft fabrics, the cotton of her brassiere, the elastic satin of her girdle, the nylon of her stockings; and yet counter-intuitively, it prickled in the spots where it was barely brushed by rougher fabrics, the tweed of her skirt, the scratchy wool of her sweater. The car suddenly felt too small, confined. Would it give too much away if she rolled down the window? 

She turned toward the darkened window but didn’t touch it, instead focusing on the other part of Gil’s statement. She hadn’t, consciously, been thinking of Jack Reynolds. She had, actually, been trying to pretend that Reynolds’s actions were more of a professional annoyance than a deeply personal betrayal. 

When they pulled up in front of her house, she didn’t get out right away, looking up at the electric lights in the old Victorian bay windows. 

Her throat was dry when she said, “Is it any consolation to know you’re not the only innocent party who’s suffered for my bad mood this week?” 

Nothing from the driver’s seat. 

A bit daunted, she continued. “I am sorry. I saw that picture and worried you might be making a fool out of me. And instead of taking a minute to think or addressing it with you calmly, I flew into a temper. I wish I hadn’t—“ hurt you, she almost finished. But Gil had enough masculine pride he’d probably bluster more and become very annoying at the insinuation. So instead she managed “—attacked you like that.” 

“Bea…” 

When she didn’t turn toward him, Gil sighed. “Thanks, Bea. I’d better be getting home. My mother will think I’m dead in a ditch.” 

“Right. Goodnight, then. Thanks for the lift.” 

She got out of the car and walked up to the front door without looking back at him. After letting herself in, she stood in the foyer until she heard him start the car and drive off, not wanting to interrogate why it felt like such an unsatisfying end to the evening. 

Chapter Text

Saturday was sunny in a way that weekends in autumn very rarely have the decency to be, at least in Toronto, and it was widely considered to be the last good weekend to catch the fall colours before all the leaves finished falling. Bea went for lunch and a walk downtown with her friend Marigold, and tried not to think about the Mackinnon case or her confusing feelings or the mess she was making of her personal life. Instead, she listened as Marigold went on about the new wing at Women’s College Hospital. Marigold was even more painfully dedicated to her work than Bea was, which was probably why they were friends. 

After the high drama of the first three days of the week, the last two had been underwhelming. Bea had gone to visit Marilyn in jail, but Marilyn had been in a poor mood and not forthcoming about the Agatha Peterson situation. Nick seemed to be willing to let bygones be, but his manner towards her was still a bit more reserved than usual. She hadn’t heard from Gil at all. Both Dottie and Jules clearly thought she was an idiot, although Jules was more vocal about this opinion than Dottie was. She had had her quiet Friday evening at home watching Guy Lombardo the night before, and it hadn’t been nearly as relaxing as she’d imagined. 

Bea left Marigold in front of the hospital mid-afternoon. Restless now that she had only herself for company, Bea decided to walk through Queen’s Park on the way home. On this uncharacteristically sunny Saturday for October, it seemed like everyone else in Toronto had had the exact same thought. She wove by the groups chatting, laughing, smoking, passed around the slowly walking young couples with strollers and elderly couples with canes. The Argos were playing at Varsity Stadium, and the sounds of the crowd and the marching band drifted across the park. And then, almost all the way to the university campus, she head someone call her name. 

It took her a moment to place the middle-aged woman bearing down upon her. “Oh, Mrs. Flewelling! How do you do.” 

They spoke about the weather (fine), Mrs. Flewelling’s health (poor), and the crowds (beastly). And then Mrs. Flewelling said, “Well, Beatrice, I saw you visit the Mackinnon house earlier this week but you didn’t stop in for a cup of tea. Do you have any news there?” 

She’d forgotten Mrs. Flewelling liked to watch at windows… but maybe her gossipy nature could be turned to an advantage here. “My apologies, Mrs. Flewelling, I was in a bit of a hurry. Actually, may I ask how long you’ve known the Mackinnons?” 

“Most of their lives,” she replied promptly. “I was friends with Eunice Mackinnon before she decided she was too high in the instep for me.” 

“Maybe you can help me, then.” 

Mrs. Flewelling blossomed under the opportunity to be useful. “Of course!” 

“I recently learned that Charles Mackinnon was looking at his old high school year books when he was murdered. We’re speculating that maybe the murder had something to do with that. Some old grudge that’s festered for decades.” 

“St. Andrew’s then? That does take me back. Charles and Marilyn were going steady, even then. And Charles was such good friends with Ralph Peterson, and Joe Towers, now there’s a sad story, and Ted McNamara. The four of them were nigh on inseparable.” 

“Were they?” Bea had known the four had been friends as adults—hadn’t MacKinnon tried to recommend investments to the other three? But she hadn’t quite realized the friendship was of such long standing. 

“Oh, yes, always in one another’s pockets. Of course, that was before the war..." her voice trailed off for a moment before she brought it back. "Well, think of that if you will, Beatrice. Four young men, thick as thieves, they all survive the war only for two of them to be struck down in the prime of life. Within a handful of months! Not that poor Joe’s death can really be a surprise—he was already drinking himself to death. Although I don't know what can possibly have possessed him to drive all the way back from Aurora when he was so far gone —“

"Aurora?" Bea asked, startled. "What was he doing in Aurora?" 

She hadn't thought of the town much lately, but this was the second—no, the third time it had come up in the past week. Could it be a coincidence? 

Mrs. Flewelling apparently hadn't heard. "And Charles Mackinnon, now that is a real tragedy. Although once again—he had been behaving badly for some time. The more I see that Donovan boy, the more convinced I am he belongs to Charles. Those big brown eyes—so distinctive—like the colour of dark chocolate—“

Bea stopped. 

She'd only ever met with Charles Mackinnon across conference room tables, more focused on his lawyer than himself. Until his death, it had never occurred to her that she might want to remember any of his physical characteristics, and since his death, she'd become familiar with him through monochrome photographs. 

But now she realized, she had seen a pair of eyes like that very recently. Big brown eyes, the colour of dark chocolate. Distinctive, indeed. And the rest—

"Mrs. Flewelling," she said slowly. "I don't mean to dig up old scandals or embarrass anyone. But it just occurred to me to wonder—have there ever been any rumours about Charles Mackinnon and Violet Cooper?" 

"Oh, Violet Cooper." Mrs. Flewelling shook her head. "Such a sad case, that one. These days I don't hear rumours about her with any gentlemen. But—now that you mention it—since you've been asking about the old days—do you know, I think I did hear that Charles left her in a difficult situation back then. Or was it Ted McNamara? How long ago would that have been, now? Twenty years?" 

"Eighteen," said Bea. "Please excuse me, Mrs. Flewelling, and thank you for your help!" 

She made a mad dash towards the university, leaving a squawking Mrs. Flewelling in her wake. There was an unoccupied phone booth up ahead, and she ducked into it and extracted her address book from her handbag. 

She was still breathless when she gave the operator the address.

"Jane? It's Bea Miller. I'm so sorry to bother you on a Saturday but I have an urgent question." 

"By all means," Jane Stuart said placidly, not seeming bothered by Bea’s desperate breathlessness. 

"The children placed by the Children's Aid Society—babies given up by unwed mothers. What happens when they grow up?" 

"Babies surrendered in that way are normally adopted very quickly," said Jane. "It's the older children who linger in the orphanages." 

"I mean—do they know that they've been adopted? Do they ever ask about their origins?" 

Jane hummed thoughtfully. "If they're adopted as infants, we generally believe it's better for them not to know. Of course some children find out, or they are told when they are old enough. We do occasionally get requests from persons who were adopted as infants looking for their birth parents' identities. In fact, I've had some from your detective friend, there—Mr. Stirling?” 

"Do you give them that information?" 

"In the case of adoptees whose parents had died, yes. In the case of infants surrendered by unwed mothers, no. The mothers surrendered the infants because they didn't want them, didn't want to be tied to them, and it seems unlikely they would want that stain on their reputations now. We give them some expurgated information—age, religious denomination, city of residence, that sort of thing." 

"But you have the real information," said Bea. "The original birth certificate? The record of surrendering the child?" 

Jane paused. "We do keep records," she confirmed after a moment. "But unwed mothers almost never give the name of their baby's father, and not all the women in this circumstance use their own real names, even with us. And I don't think I've ever seen a case where we've given that kind of information to an adoptee. That’s where detectives like Stirling come in. Why? Bea, what's going on?" 

It was a long story and she was in a public phone booth with another call to make. "Too long a story for right now, Jane, I'm sorry. If you have time to meet for lunch next week I can fill you in. It may be nothing. Or it may be something." 

Her next call was to home. 

"Jules, do you have Violet Cooper's address?" 

The Cooper residence was on a quiet street in Forest Hill, only a few blocks from the Fords'. When Bea rang the bell, Violet herself answered, wearing a car coat and holding a pair of gloves. 

"Beatrice!" she exclaimed, smiling. "I didn't expect you to come by! In fact I'm just on my way out." 

"I only need a few minutes—I want to ask you some questions." 

Violet glanced over her shoulder. "Well, I am running a few minutes early, so I suppose I can spare them.” 

She let Bea in but didn't move beyond the small vestibule. 

Bea hesitated a moment. On the streetcar on the way here she'd formulated a theory but it still had plenty of holes. A young man discovering he was adopted and seeking out his birth parents—he'd been seen lurking at Charles Mackinnon's office and outside his house, and then at Ralph Peterson's office. Was he planning to kill all the men rumoured to be his father? Or had he recognized his own eyes in MacKinnon's face? But if so—why hang around Peterson's office after the fact? And how much did Violet know? 

"I have a question of a somewhat delicate nature," Bea said cautiously. 

Violet raised her eyebrows. "Oh, a delicate question! Well, don't be shy, Angel of Divorce. I'm sure you've handled many delicate questions in your day." 

Since that was true, Bea forged onward. "I was wondering if you had perhaps been contacted by a young man, an R.B. Greene —“

"Ah." Violet tapped her gloves against her palm. “So you've met Robbie.” 

“I—pardon?" Bea had expected hesitation, embarrassment, perhaps even an outright lie. But Violet smiled and replied very matter-of-factly.  

"Yes, to answer the delicate question you haven't actually asked, he is my—or he was—my baby. That is what you wanted to know, isn't it?" She laughed, and it sounded less girlish than her usual giggle. "How strange the world is sometimes. It's been so long, and so much has happened, that I had almost lost sight of it all. And then this summer Robbie came by. He's grown into a fine young man, hasn't he? Upstanding, handsome, strong. Miles away from the tiny, screaming infant I once held in my arms for an hour. Some other woman got to raise him, and I've spent my life resigned to—this." She waved a hand aimlessly at the house. Bea supposed the gesture was meant to encompass the idea of living with her parents, rather than in a home of her own, but it did more to draw attention to the fineness of the furnishings. Poor little rich girl. 

"You were upset to hear from him?" 

"No. I was happy about him. I was angry about me. Angry that I was put in that position. Angry that I'll never really be a mother." 

"You're still young," Bea said—Violet couldn't be more than 35. "There's still time—“

"They took it away from me. I spent the summer being so angry with them—and then I heard that Marilyn had hired you, the Angel of Divorce, and I read that article, and I knew. Divorce is too good for men like that--I knew what I would have to do." 

"Violet?" 

To say that this was not the revelation Bea had been expecting would be an understatement. 

Violet changed tack so suddenly Bea couldn't even follow through the implications of her words. "Do you know, until I looked at Robbie and saw Charles's eyes looking back at me, I really couldn't have told you which one of them it was? Oh yes—they say all kinds of awful things about me, and some of them are true. It could have been any of the four. I already had a reputation, you know, for being fast—for letting the boys kiss me, or get their hands under my skirt in the dark at the movies. Does it make me just as much of a slut as they call me if I say that it was fun? That it was exciting?" 

Bea’s throat was dry. She had to clear it before she could speak. “No, that’s—it's natural. It is exciting. Being young and discovering for the first time what your body is capable of feeling.”  

"I knew you'd understand," Violet continued with a smile that Bea wasn't sure she liked. "It wasn't just the petting. It was the fact that they sought me out. I wasn't pretty or popular but they made me feel special. But it's a dangerous line, isn't it? It was Charlie who talked me into 'going all the way', the first time, and he was a little mean about it. And then there was the party after the homecoming football game at St. Andrew's. Joe slipped me some booze he'd managed to sneak in, and brought me out into the woods. It was a celebration, he said—they deserved a reward for winning, he said. And of course I was the reward." 

Bea couldn't speak, the words stopped up inside. This was so much worse than she'd expected. 

"It sounds flattering, doesn't it? To be a reward? I suppose I was flattered. And Charlie reminded me that it was nothing I hadn't done before. In retrospect I was lucky it was only the four of them because between Charlie and Joe if they'd brought the whole football team in I'd probably have let them." 

"My God!" 

A little smirk from Violet. "Oh, not quite. Funny how they couldn't get enough that night but when I turned out to have a bun in the oven they all acted like they hadn't been there. I had a reputation, they said—it could have been anyone, they said—except for them, because they hadn't touched me. And their parents believed them, and my parents believed them! That I was some kind of seductress! I was sixteen! And all their girlfriends—my friends—turned their backs to me, and everyone was talking about it, and everyone knew!" 

"My God!" Bea cried again. She did not approve of murder but she was starting to understand why Violet wanted these men dead. 

“Well, and what else was I to expect?” Violet shook her head. “That’s what my own father said to me. My own, dearly departed father. Called me a whore to my face, told me he wasn’t about to ruin the life of a promising young man over my bad behaviour, and then never looked at me in the eye again until the day he died. It was a heart attack, they say. I saw him collapse. I suppose I could have called the doctor, the ambulance, but—“ she shrugged. “What else was he to expect from his whore of a daughter?” 

“Violet!” 

"Of course Joe had to die first. It was so easy, luring him out to meet me for a drink, and then doctoring it so he'd fall asleep at the wheel on his long drive home. I drove by the scene later that night, you know, saw the place where his car flipped over. I saw the destruction and I thought—I did that. That was me. You thought I was your reward but instead I'm your punishment." 

Well, good God damn. So Violet was a murderer. This wealthy, slightly awkward woman, with her girlish mannerisms and her flowery dresses—and her long-simmering bitterness. 

Bea felt unsteady. Was this really happening? 

“Ted came for the funeral," Violet was saying. "Easy enough to get him alone, but I couldn't make him take a doctored drink and I couldn't distract him with sex. He just wanted to cry and talk about Joe. I think he was more upset than the widow was. Apologized to me, actually," she added, as though as an afterthought. "Said he should have just married me back then. Easy enough to say, I suppose, since he hasn't found anyone else to marry. If he'd asked me to marry him now, I probably would have. If only to murder him more easily later. But he went back to Montreal. I expected he'd be back for Charlie's funeral, but who knows when that will be." 

"Oh yes, Charles. Did you stab him?" Bea asked, trying to find her way back to solid ground. "Or just doctor his drink and hope he'd die in an accident like Joe?” 

Violet's laugh, this time, held an edge of hysteria. "Charles, oh, Charles needed a special punishment. Don't you think? After all, it was him in the end. The man who—left me in a family way, as they say. And so convenient that he had an estranged wife to take the blame. Yes, Beatrice, I doctored his drink. At first I thought to suffocate him, but—well. I was just so angry. And his letter opener was right there, on the desk. And so I watched him die, and it was glorious." 

“And you left Marilyn to take the blame!” 

A laugh. “She dropped me, back then. But I didn’t hold her too much ill will, you know. I was happy enough you stayed on her side. Figured you could at least make sure she didn’t hang.” 

"What about Ralph Peterson?" 

"Oh, him." Violet shrugged. "Ralph was the nicest of the bunch about the whole incident, until I found out I was pregnant. And then he went straight to denial with the rest of them. I'd planned for him to have the same fate as Joe but he's been resistant. Every time I meet him he gets distracted by sex or by other people and doesn't take enough to fall asleep at the wheel. But now he's unravelling. His two closest friends are dead and his wife is acting oddly. I may even be able to convince him to take the pills on his own. A little note about how miserable he is—“ she shrugged. "Once again, I'm free and clear. Although perhaps not if I'm late. If you'll excuse me, Beatrice—“

"Late? You're going to meet him now?" 

Violet wrapped a scarf around her neck and pulled on her gloves. "That's exactly what I'm doing. Oh, I knew you'd understand, Beatrice." 

"I'm not—Violet, you murdered two men! You're about to murder another!" 

"I'm helping him to his death," she corrected. "Like I did with Joe. Although I suppose I really did murder Charles." She opened the front door and sped off down the walk. Bea raced after her. 

"Violet—“ 

"Oh, don't be so miss-ish, Angel of Divorce." Her tone was back to the ghoulish girlishness Bea remembered from the gala—was it only two weeks ago, now? "What are you going to do? Go to the police? I'll deny everything I just said. And who would think little old me, the bitter spinster, could stab a man?" 

She giggled as she opened the door to her car. Bea reached out a hand to try to stop her from closing it, but Violet was surprisingly strong, pushing her out of the way and slamming the door. 

"Wait—“ 

Violet started the engine, gave Bea a little wave, and began to drive. Bea tried to grab onto something, anything—door handle, rear bumper—but Violet sped up and she fell over onto the pavement as the car disappeared into the distance. 

Bea stared after her for a startled minute, and then she ran. 

Chapter Text

For the second time in less than a week, Bea pounded on the Fords’ front door. On Wednesday she’d thought she felt desperate, but in retrospect she’d barely been agitated. Today, she was breathlessly frantic. 

Mrs. Ford’s welcoming smile turned into a concerned frown when she noticed the state Bea was in. “Bea, my dear, are you alright?” 

Bea struggled for breath, and couldn’t manage a smile. “I’m so sorry to disturb you. Is Gil at home?” 

“No—he went into the office today. Something about a deadline. Can I get you some water?” 

Bea started to shake her head, desperately trying to calculate her next step. “Actually—Mrs. Ford, can I use your phone?” 

The line at Stirling’s rang eight times before she recalled that he was in Hamilton today. She tried Gil’s office next, but the secretary who answered the phone said he was out and took down her probably disjointed message. 

There was nothing else for it. Her next call was to the Peterson household. 

“Yes?” 

“Mrs. Peterson? This is Bea Miller.” 

Agatha Peterson’s voice took on a decidedly cool tone. “Miss Miller. If you’re calling about Monday evening—“

“That’s not it at all. Is your husband home?” 

A pause on the other end of the line. “Really? You don’t seem like the type he would go for, at all.” 

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Did the Petersons think of nothing but sex? 

“That’s not what I’m calling about. Please, Mrs. Peterson, it’s important.” 

Mrs. Peterson sounded snippy now. “Well, I’m afraid it will have to wait. Ralph is out for the afternoon.” 

Bea resisted the impulse to swear. Was she too late? “Do you know where he went? Or with whom?” 

“I don’t.” 

“Any chance he’s going to see Violet Cooper?” 

Another pause while Mrs. Peterson considered it. “It’s possible, I suppose. I didn’t think he would go there again.” 

“Again?” Did she know about last week, or was this about high school? 

“Old business, Miss Miller,” she answered coldly. “And bad business. If he is seeing Violet, it’s because of his grief over Charlie. Over Joe too, perhaps.” 

“Because they all knew her, back then.” 

“Yes.” 

“Because one of them fathered a child on her.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Peterson. “Not Ralph, it would appear.” 

Bea wondered if either of the Mackinnons had made the same connection, finding out about Mrs. Peterson’s pregnancy after all these years of marriage, the result of a liaison with a man not her husband. 

“Please, Mrs. Peterson, if you have any indication of your husband’s whereabouts, please tell me. I’m worried he’s in danger.” 

“From Violet?” 

“You admitted it yourself, a minute ago. They all knew her back then. And now Charles MacKinnon and Joe Towers are dead.” 

“Joe died in an auto accident,” Mrs. Peterson said, her voice rising now. “He was drunk. He drank too much, everyone knows that. I don’t think he managed to pass a full week sober since he came back from the war.” 

“Mrs. Peterson—“ 

“I don’t know where Ralph is. He just told me he was going out. I was feeling too ill this morning to ask anything further even if I’d been inclined to.” 

“So he could be—“

“I need to go,” said Mrs. Peterson, and then there was nothing but dead air. 

Flummoxed, Bea stared at the phone for a minute, trying to regroup and find her next move. 

Where would Violet have gone? She had been driving, so it could be anywhere. Perhaps the motel in Aurora—the one where she had met Peterson last time. Probably the same one where she had had the encounter with Towers, where she had drugged his drink and sent him to drive home. Bea knew the name of the motel, so it couldn’t be too difficult to find. But with Stirling in Hamilton, and Gil who knew where, and even Nick at a family wedding, who would be able to make it out there? Who could stop Violet? Who could save Ralph Peterson? 

One last chance. Bea fished a card from her pocketbook. 

“King,” came the answer, after just one ring. 

Of course he was at work on a Saturday. The man looked like he never slept. Probably never saw his family, either. She had to hope that his dedication to his job would work in her favour today. 

“Detective King, this is Beatrice Miller. I need your assistance urgently.” 

It took a long moment before he answered. “Miss Miller. You need my help? This is certainly an  unusual turn of events.” 

Bea closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I think I know who murdered Charles Mackinnon. She’s killed before, and I think she’s about to do it again.” 

“She? Not the husband of Mackinnon’s lover, not the mysterious vagabond you claim has been terrorizing the neighbourhood?” 

“The vagabond is real—well, I suppose he’s not really a vagabond, but we found the young man who had been spotted loitering in the area. That’s not important right now.” 

“Oh?” 

Bea summarized the situation for him as rapidly as she could. King gave the occasional grunt, of understanding or surprise, and when she finished said, “Well, that’s certainly an interesting theory. This Violet Cooper as an avenging angel.” 

“A theory! She practically admitted it to me! Detective, I have reason to believe that Violet is on her way to that motel in Aurora right now to meet with Ralph Peterson and try to kill him!” 

“And you think I can do something about it? Try the police in Aurora,” King recommended. “If you think you can get them to believe you.” 

Men! Useless, all of them. The thought was instinctive, and then Bea immediately felt guilty. It didn’t do anyone any good to paint everyone with so thick a brush, did it? She was, indeed, trying to save a man from a woman. Even though the fact that many men didn’t like to believe women made her life more difficult just at this moment. 

“Why don’t you call the police in Aurora? They’d believe you!” 

“I’ll take your opinion under advisement,” said Detective King, which meant he didn’t believe her and had no intention of doing anything. 

And then he hung up. The nerve! Bea set the receive down more gently and stared at it. 

Ralph Peterson was nowhere to be found, and Detective King apparently thought she was some sort of hysterical woman. Her usual male allies were unreachable and Peterson’s wife didn’t want to face the facts. Would the motel clerk believe her, enough to check on the well-being of the guests? 

“Bea? I came to bring you these—I found Gil’s old yearbooks. But I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Is it true?” 

Bea blinked uncomprehendingly at Mrs. Ford, who was standing in the doorway with a stack of books. 

“Is it true?” Mrs. Ford repeated. “About Violet, and Charlie Mackinnon, and Joe Towers. That Ralph Peterson is in danger.” 

“Yes,” said Bea simply. 

Mrs. Ford nodded, mouth tight. “I can’t believe it. Or—I can believe it, more than I can believe that Marilyn Mackinnon would hurt so much as a fly. Violet always had more darkness to her. And I knew she was damaged by her experiences as a girl. But murder! I’ve been socializing with a murderer!” 

Being so instantly believed gave Bea a second win of purpose, of confidence. “Well, we don’t know that for sure. The police don’t seem to be taking it very seriously.” 

And it rankled. 

There was, at the end of the day, nothing for it. None of the men were available to save one of their own, and so, Bea would have to do it. 

Decision made, she squared her shoulders. “Mrs. Ford, do you have the bus schedule? I need to get to Aurora as soon as possible. I need to stop Violet from killing again.” 

Mrs. Ford looked at her steadily, and then she said, “If you’re set on going to Aurora, I had better drive.” 

“Mrs. Ford!” 

“Come along, Bea. And if we’re doing this, you should call me Rilla.” 

Rilla Ford, as it turned out, had a cool head in a crisis and a heavy foot on the gas pedal. Bea spent half the drive explaining the whole sordid saga she’d uncovered, and the other half leafing through Gil’s old high school yearbooks. In the 1939-40 volume she found Charles Mackinnon’s portrait and stopped, arrested. It really did look very similar to the photograph of Greene that Stirling had found. Was this what he’d been looking at as he lay dying? Had Violet brought out the same picture, or had the young man in question—their son—been there, even? Had they forced Mackinnon to confront the reality of his paternity? 

“A bad business,” proclaimed Mrs. Ford—Rilla—when Bea got to the end of her tale. “Someone should have taken those boys in hand back then. I suppose they all claimed that they weren’t the father and there was no way to force the issue—or Herbert Cooper didn’t have the guts to. Charles and Marilyn were already going steady—although we didn’t use that phrase then. And if you’d asked me, I’d have said Ralph and Agatha only had eyes for each other. But one of the other two could probably have been convinced to marry her, if Herbert had applied the right pressure.” 

“Violet said that her father was reluctant to ‘ruin the lives’ of promising young men by forcing them into marriage.” 

Rilla’s aspect was grim. “As though he wasn’t ruining his own daughter’s life in the process!” 

“Well, she’s taken matters into her own hands now, and everyone involved is much worse off than if they’d all done the right thing from the beginning.” 

Rilla made a harrumphing sound that did not clarify how she felt about the situation, and they drove on in nerve-wracking silence. 

Luck was on their side; with only one stop to ask for directions, they found the motel where Stirling had spied on Violet and Peterson the week before. It was one of the shiny, plastic-looking new motels that had sprung up along major highways in the last couple of decades. Violet’s car and another, which Bea had to guess was Peterson’s, were parked at the far end, in front of the last room of the motel. Rilla pulled into a space closer to the rental office, so as not to arouse suspicion. Bea had expected Rilla to be scared, or anxious; but instead there was a hint of sparkle in her eyes. 

“This is the most exciting thing I’ve done since I jumped out of a train and broke into a stranger’s house,” she said as she turned off the ignition. 

Momentarily distracted, Bea turned to stare at her. “You jumped out of a train?” 

“It was going slowly at the time,” said Rilla, as if that were at all a reasonable response. 

They approached the last door to the last room cautiously. This time, the curtains had been properly closed—no gap for a PI’s camera lens, or for two women trying to save a life to get the lay of the land. 

There was nothing for it. Bea knocked firmly. 

“Violet! Violet, I know you’re in there. Violet! Peterson!” 

“Open this door at once!” Rilla cried. 

For a minute, nothing happened, and Bea was afraid they would have to run to the office and talk, bribe, or trick their way into spare key. 

And then the door opened and they found themselves facing Violet Cooper’s cold eyes. 

“Bea—and Mrs. Ford!” A smile that didn’t reach her cold eyes. 

“What?” Over Violet’s shoulder, Bea could see an annoyed Ralph Peterson struggling to sit up on the bed. He looked rumpled, shirt unbuttoned, hair disarrayed. “What the hell is going on?” 

“I think we’re reaching the climax of the evening quicker than expected,” said Violet. 

More movement from the bed, and Bea realized the reason Peterson was having trouble sitting up was that his wrists were lashed to the headboard. For the love of—what was Violet’s play here? 

“What are you talking about?” Peterson demanded. “For God’s sake, Vi, shut the door.” 

Bea blocked the doorway with her body. But she needn’t have worried. Violet didn’t have door-slamming in mind. Instead, she smiled again and reached into her coat pocket. 

And Bea found herself staring down the barrel of a pistol. 

Chapter Text

Behind Bea, a startled gasp and hands grabbing suddenly at her shoulders. Rila sounded more angry than frightened. “Violet Cooper! What do you think you’re doing with that thing?” 

But the gun wasn’t on them long. Violet laughed and turned it on the man she’d lashed to the bed. 

“You’re letting the cold air in, Beatrice. You might as well come in and shut the door behind you. I am sorry she got you caught up in this, Mrs. Ford.” 

With Violet’s attention on the bed, Bea pulled herself out of Rilla’s grasp and took a careful step into the room. She could tell when Peterson caught sight of the pistol, because he jerked against his bonds. “Jesus Christ! What are you playing at!” 

“Playing? Oh, how funny. I’m not playing at anything. Unlike some people, I know the lives of other people aren’t games. Or trophies. You really should have finished the drink I poured you last week, Ralph.” Violet shook her head, as though he was disappointing her. “Or the one at the gala, or the plate of rum balls I made especially for you. Rum balls were always your favourite, weren’t they?” 

Peterson stared at her in apparent incomprehension. 

“You could have gone out in a blaze of glory, like Joe. But—you know what?—turns out I liked watching Charlie suffer. And the Angel of Divorce here, who claims to want to protect women in this man’s world, well, she’s already on my case. Not much of a defender of women, when it comes down to it, are you, Beatrice?” 

Bea had been creeping further into the room, but paused when Violet’s attention returned to her. “I never claimed to support all women in all circumstances. It’s true that I support women when the deck is stacked against them. But if you have to draw the line somewhere, I think cold-blooded murder is a good place to do it.” 

“Hang on, hang on,” said Peterson, and Violet’s gaze, and her pistol, swung back towards him. “Vi, what are you talking about? Joe? Charlie?” 

Violet raised her eyebrow and raised the gun, giggling when he shrank back from her. 

A look of horrified realization crept across Peterson’s face. “Vi?” 

“You thought you got off scot free, all of you, all those years ago. You really thought you could have your fun and ruin my life and just walk away!” 

“What? That’s not—that’s not even what happened!” 

“Oh, isn’t it?” 

“And your life seems perfectly fine to me!” 

That made Violet stop and stare, and then she burst out laughing. Bea wondered if that might be an opening to get in and grab the gun from her, but as soon as she moved Violet cut off the laughter and swung the pistol up menacingly. 

“Don’t even think about it, Angel.” 

“Do you even know how to fire that thing?” Peterson yelled from the bed. 

It was exactly the wrong thing to say to an angry woman. A man who had been married for as long as Peterson had  should have known that. And yet! 

Violet whirled and fired. 

The sound of the gunshot startled Bea, and she froze completely until she heard Peterson’s anguished howl. Turning to the bed, she could see him writhe in agony, wrists straining as he pulled against their bindings. There was blood on the bedspread, but she couldn’t immediately see where he’d been hit. 

Violet, when Bea turned back to her, was staring at Peterson too, with an expression like satisfaction, but colder. 

“Is this your plan, then? Torture?” 

Violet gave a little girlish giggle that seemed totally out of character with the silver pistol still in her hands. “Oh, Beatrice. Aren’t you clever.” 

“Is your revenge plot worth hanging over?” 

“Who says I’ll hang?” A hint of a smirk at that one. “I do admire you, you know. I’d hate to have to hurt you.” 

She raised the gun in Bea’s direction. 

“Violet!” cried Rilla, and Violet jumped. Another gunshot, this one smashing the window. 

Bea’s heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might pound right out of her chest. She hadn’t realized Rilla was still in the doorway, the door still open. Hadn’t she run for help yet? Would they have heard the gunshots from the rental office? 

Peterson picked that moment to make another animal noise of pain, and Violet swivelled her pistol back to the bed, concentration scattered. 

“I didn’t think you’d all make so much noise,” she said, and it had the tone of a whine. She raised her pistol at Bea. “I guess I had better shoot to kill this time, hadn’t I?” 

“I wouldn’t,” came a new male voice. 

And then another. “Violet?” 

Violet stumbled, expression turning to confusion, and the pistol lowered. 

“Almanzo, thank goodness,” said Rilla, and it took Bea a minute to remember that was Stirling’s given name. 

When Bea felt able to look away from Violet and the pistol, she saw the doorway was full of male figures. Stirling, who was supposed to be in Hamilton today—and a young man who looked familiar but Bea couldn’t place until she caught sight of his big, chocolate-brown eyes, wide and startled. 

R.B. Greene stared in shock at the woman who’d birthed him. “Violet? What’s going on?” 

Violet blinked at him, apparently unsure of her next steps after his unexpected appearance. 

“I thought you were in Hamilton,” Bea hissed at Stirling. “How did you know?” 

Gone was the PI’s usual slouch. Instead, Stirling stood tall and confident as he advanced into the room. Since he was, as always, unshaven and sloppily dressed, the contrast somehow made him look even more unkempt than usual. 

“Bea Miller, meet Bobby Greene,” said Stirling, in a voice Bea hadn’t heard from him before. He’d forgotten to put on his Sam Spade mannerisms, apparently. Was this the Redfern talking? “Bobby was all too happy to tell me his whole life story this afternoon. How he found out his blood type when he joined the navy and realized his parents weren’t really his parents. How he tracked down the woman who gave him up all those years ago. How he’s been trying to meet with the men whose names she gave him as potential fathers, without any success.” 

“Why would you do that?” Violet asked, lowering the pistol all the way down. Bea felt momentarily relieved. “Why would you ever want to know those—those villains?” 

“Villans? One of them is my father!” 

“One of them was your father,” Violet retorted, making her son rear back. 

“Ah yes,” said Stirling. “That was when the story really started to get interesting. How many of the men on that list have ended up dead.” 

“Well, really,” Bea couldn’t keep herself from interjecting. She wasn’t sure if she liked this Redfern version Stirling, after all. “Can you please stop talking about ‘the men’ this and ‘list’ that? You’re making it sound like Violet slept her way through an entire battalion.” 

“Thank you,” said Violet, and even Rilla made a noise that sounded like agreement. Stirling gave them all a dirty look. 

“Where the story really gets interesting,” he continued, advancing towards Violet pointedly, “is Bobby’s last letter from his newfound mother. The one saying that she’ll be heading out of town for a while. The one that specifically mentioned a visit to Aurora on Saturday. Obviously, we came as quickly as we could.” 

Violet had apparently recovered her composure. “Are you expecting applause? Beatrice put the pieces together with far less direct evidence.” 

“What’s happening?” Bobby Greene asked again. “What’s happened?” 

They all turned to him, standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking between them with big bewildered eyes. 

“It’s nothing for you to worry about, darling,” Violet told him, a soothing tone to her voice. “Just another man taking all the glory, at the expense of a woman.” 

And she once again raised her pistol, this time aimed directly at Stirling. 

Everything seemed to happen at once as Bea stood frozen, helpless, watching it all play out with a sense of impending doom. From the bed, Peterson let out another animal sound of anguish. In the doorway, Greene gave an aborted yelp and Rilla screamed. Stirling, looking undaunted, advanced on Violet, hands held out—to grasp her wrist? To knock away the gun? To see if she was bluffing? Whatever it was, it made Violet jump back, bringing up her other hand to steady the pistol. The sound of the gun cocking—

Before she knew what she was doing, Bea was rushing forward. She felt the shock of impact, Violet’s elbow to her chest, and then they were both on the floor, legs tangling, the pistol sailing through the air. Underneath Bea, Violet struggled—maybe trying to stand up, maybe trying to push Bea off, maybe just trying to fix her awkwardly-bent arm, Bea didn’t know and she didn’t want to wait to find out. Grunting in an entirely unladylike fashion, she pushed her forearms into Violet’s back, keeping the other woman subdued on the floor. 

“Well, well, Bea. A football tackle? Wouldn’t have expected it of you.” 

Bea glared at Stirling, who’d gone back to his usual slouching posture, although he held Violet’s pistol casually on the end of his finger. 

“Here.” Rilla was down on her knees besides them now. “I took the fastenings from the curtains so we can tie her up. How are your knots, Bea?” 

“Excellent. I was a Girl Guide.” 

“Oh, of course you were a Girl Guide,” Violet snarled, and Bea considered gagging her too. 

“Well.” A new voice from the still-open doorway. Greene jumped aside. “I see my services weren’t required after all.” 

Just like a man, Detective King had arrived after the hard work had already been done. 

Chapter Text

Whereas before everything had happened too quickly, for the rest of the day time slowed to a crawl. 

The local police had followed Detective King to the motel, but it seemed to take forever for them to come to the room and assess the scene. When they finally arrested Violet they had to drag her away kicking and screaming—quite literally. Both the girlish persona and the coldness underneath had disappeared, leaving a trapped and desperate woman, hair and clothes unkempt, fighting uselessly against her captors, ranting and raving incoherently about ruined lives and angels of death. It turned Bea’s stomach to watch the scene play out—at least until the officers pushed Violet into the back of their car and she stopped flailing for long enough to make it through the door safely before resuming. 

Bea raised her eyebrows, and thought she saw Violet wink back. Was this turn to the madwoman one last attempt at avoiding the noose? 

An ambulance was sent for to see to Peterson while Stirling cut him loose from the headboard. The very young Bobby Greene apparently knew something about field medicine, and since he seemed to want to focus on anything but his natural mother and the scene she was making, he started examining the gaping bullet hole in Peterson’s knee. Peterson stared at him while he did. 

“Am I delirious?” he murmured. “Or am I dead? Charlie?” 

Greene’s hands stilled. “Who’s Charlie?” 

“Who’s Charlie?” Peterson shook his head. “God damn, kid, you scared me for a minute there. I thought I was being visited by a ghost. Who’s Charlie? You’re the spitting image of him.” 

The kid stared at Peterson, bewildered. And he really was a kid. Eighteen years old, old enough to join the navy, but still just getting started in life in a lot of ways. Eighteen years old, and still older than his mother was when she birthed him. 

“Charles Mackinnon? He was on the list—Violet’s list—I tried to find him, but—“ 

“Too late, kid. Too late. He’s six feet under. Or, no—not even that yet, is he? Charlie’s still in the police morgue.” 

Because Violet had put him there. Something they were still working on wrapping their heads around. 

Greene stared at Peterson another moment, and then tore a strip off the bedsheets. Peterson gave another pained yell as Greene deftly tied a bandage around his wounded knee. 

“Damn it, kid!” 

“Hold still and it won’t hurt so much.” 

Bea had to suppress a smile. Maybe not such a kid, after all. 

Then there were the interviews, of course. Bea told Detective King everything, even though he interrupted her with a stern reminder to “stick to actual events, if you please, and not your own opinions” every time she pointedly mentioned a time he’d been wrong. 

Once she’d finished her tale, he put down the pencil he’d been using to take notes and looked at her dead on. 

“Is this where you admit I was right?” she demanded. 

“A broken clock is right twice a day, Miss Miller.” 

“That’s—“

“That’s about the shape of it. You had your instinct that Mrs. Mackinnon wasn’t a murderer, even though she had means, motive, and opportunity. That instinct ended up being the right one. But you couldn’t exactly pinpoint the real killer either. You stumbled onto Violet Cooper almost completely by accident.” 

Bea opened her mouth to object and realized there wasn’t much she could object to. That was, in fact, about the shape of it. Her questions had shaken loose the information she’d needed to get to Violet, but it had happened in a roundabout way. She hadn’t even really believed Violet was the murderer until she’d heard the confession with her own ears. 

“That’s what I thought,” said King. 

And then, most unexpectedly, “You know, I didn’t know who you were at first, until I realized who your father was. Blair Water, is that right? Nice place. Haven’t spent much time there, but I have family over in Carlisle.” 

This was really too much. “You’re an Islander?” 

“My great-grandfather was,” the detective said easily. “Isn’t it a small world?” 

It was, and Bea was thoroughly ready to give up her prejudice towards trusting folks from her home province. 

After that she had to repeat everything again for the Aurora police. They wanted to talk to Stirling, too, and Rilla, and even poor Bobby Greene, and Bea assumed that they’d be hounding Ralph Peterson just as soon as he was fully compos mentis. 

He was not quite lucid now. Whatever they’d given him for the pain had left him a little bit foggy-eyed. Bea could tell he wasn’t himself, because he seemed actually pleased to see her when she stepped into his hospital room. 

“Miss Miller, once again! You know, a fellow could get a certain idea, if a young lady such as yourself kept taking such pains to visit him.” 

Bea sat primly in the chair beside the bed. “The fella should maybe be more careful about getting certain ideas, since those ideas have gotten him shot in the knee before.” 

A considering look on Peterson’s face, and then he leaned back into the white hospital pillow, eyes a little bit clearer. “I’m still not fully sure what got me shot in the knee this time. Vi’s been flirting. Normally I wouldn’t, because we’ve some history. But last week Aggie started acting so distant, and I was desperate for a distraction.” 

“Why didn’t you marry her?” 

“What?” 

“Before, when you were young, when Violet got into trouble. Why didn’t you marry her then?” 

“Because I was going to marry Aggie,” Peterson said, slowly, as though Bea were a few cents short of a dollar. 

“Someone should have married her. She didn’t get herself into trouble. One of you should have stood up and taken responsibility.” 

“Oh. Is that what she was talking about at the motel, then? About her life being ruined? I thought she was trying to accuse me of being a vile seducer, which, of course, I was not. And am not.” An uncoordinated shake of his head. “Vile seducer. I’ve never used those words in my life. What’s happening to me? I sound like your friend Ford all of a sudden.” 

It was on the tip of Bea’s tongue to make a crack about men being unable to hear women talking to them. But that was a little unfair. It had been a chaotic scene, one he hadn’t been expecting, and the big revelations hadn’t started until after he’d been shot. So instead she repeated, “Why did none of you step up back then? Instead of letting her life get ruined?” 

Peterson sighed. “You tell me, Angel of Divorce. Would an unhappy marriage have made her life any less ruined? Becoming a mother at sixteen? Would the whole situation have hung over her less if she had the visible proof in front of her every day?” 

And visible proof of a child who looked so clearly like Charles Mackinnon. If she’d married one of the others… 

“It would have hung over the other half of the equation, as well,” Bea retorted. 

“She shot me, so I’m not sure why you’re making me out to be the villain.” 

There was no easy response to that. What had happened to Violet back then had been terrible, but murder was not a just consequence. 

It was true that all four of the boys who’d been the potential fathers of Violet’s baby had denied responsibility. But then, for three quarters of them, it really hadn’t been their responsibility. Like Dr. Schrodinger’s cat in its box, all four men had, in some ways, been both the father and not the father at the same time. But Violet had not set out upon her revenge scheme until the box had opened to reveal Bobby Greene, clearly of Mackinnon’s blood. And Violet had set out to punish all four just the same. 

The whole thing was making Bea’s head hurt. 

An uneasy silence had settled between them while Bea thought. Peterson finally broke it. “You know, I always wondered why her parents didn’t send her away sooner. If they had, the whole thing could probably have been hushed more easily. Yes, she had a reputation, and yes, leaving in the middle of the school year to ‘visit a sick relative’ or something would have caused gossip, but nothing definitive. Instead, they waited until the end of the school year, when it had become obvious. And then suddenly everyone remembered that Joe had taken her to the movies or that she’d left a dance early with Charlie or—other times, other boys.” 

And you? Bea wanted to ask. Instead she said, “So you’re not to blame, the parents were to blame?” 

He shrugged. “They were the adults in that scenario. We were sixteen, too.” 

“But—“

Bea was cut off by a commotion in the hall, and then a frantic-eyed Agatha Peterson was dashing into the room. 

“Oh, Ralphie!” 

She threw herself into his arms. “You’re alive—you’re alright? On the phone they just said you’d been shot, I’ve been so worried—“

“Were you?” Peterson’s arms had come up to encircle his wife, but his tone was cold. “I’ve started to wonder, lately, if you’ve been looking at Marilyn and Ethel and decided you’d be better off widowed, too.” 

A pause, and then Agatha drew back from him, red-eyed and frowning. “Ralph, what are you talking about? Of course I don’t want you to d-die, I love you.” 

They had both, apparently, forgotten Bea’s presence. She tried to stand up as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. 

“You’ve barely said two words to me in the past two weeks. What am I supposed to think? Are you going to divorce me? You know I’ve given you ample grounds to—“ 

“No! I—Ralphie.” Agatha took a deep breath. “Ralphie, I know I’ve been distant lately. But it’s not because I’m—angry—or anything. It’s that—it’s only that—“

Bea paused in her quiet shuffle for the door, holding her breath along with both Petersons. 

“—I’m pregnant,” Agatha finished weakly. 

Peterson stared at her blankly, for long enough that it became uncomfortable. And then a twist of emotions played out across his face. 

He had to know, he had to realize, as Agatha had feared, that the baby was unlikely to be his. But the lasting expression on his face, as he reached out to cup his wife’s cheek, was one of wonder. Almost of tenderness. 

“Aggie? Are you sure?” 

She nodded anxiously. 

“Oh, my darling,” said Ralph Peterson, drawing his wife into his arms, and from Bea’s spot in the doorway it looked like there were tears in his eyes. “A baby!” 

And now, Bea thought wryly as she ducked away, the scene was definitely too intimate for her taste. 

Chapter Text

The trees were bare and the grass had started to brown, but Charles Mackinnon’s final resting place was deep enough in Mount Pleasant Cemetery that even without the foliage it was peaceful. If Bea didn’t know better, she might have thought she was in the countryside, rather than a brisk walk from the bustle of Yonge Street and the rattle of the subway trains. 

In contract to the bleakness of the autumn landscape and the sombre colours of the mourners’ clothing, the sky was a clear blue, not a cloud in sight, and the rays of the sun fell happily across the representatives of Toronto society who had come to see a murdered man laid to rest. They were quiet now, listening to the minister, but how much gossip would there be this evening about this whole sordid story? 

Marilyn Mackinnon stood in the widow’s place of honour, all in black. What Bea could see of her face behind the half-veil of her hat looked pale but composed. She stood just far enough from her in-laws to be uncomfortable, bracketed by her mother and by Nick, who frankly looked a little self-conscious in this situation. Would that start another rumour? That Marilyn, charges dropped, had attended her husband’s funeral on the arm of her tall, dark, and handsome defence lawyer? The bonus she’d promised Nick, now that she would have access to her deceased husband’s funds, was so high that it was no wonder Nick had agreed to accompany her, no matter how uncomfortable he seemed. 

Bea had been offered a place with the family too, but had declined. She preferred to be at the back, watching everyone, instead of at the front, being watched. Even so, the occasional glance darted her way. She’d managed to keep out of the papers the fact that she was the one who had, in the end, found and subdued Charles Mackinnon’s murderer; but the gossip spread like wildfire anyhow. 

Bobby Greene was standing at the back of the crowd, too, half-hidden by Stirling. In an attempt to disguise his relationship to the dead man, he’d donned a pair of sunglasses. Paired with his dark suit, they made him look surprisingly suave, and Bea started to understand what the teenage Marilyn and the teenage Violet had both seen in his young father. Stirling, as usual, was slouching and sloppy, although he’d left off his customary smirk for the occasion. 

Rilla and Mrs. Flewelling stood together along with some other matrons. This was, if Bea had to guess, where the most gossip would ferment. While Rilla was watching the minister with a suitably sombre expression, the other ladies spent more time watching the mourners and whispering to one another. 

Ethel Towers stood on the edge of that group. She was here, just over a month after her husband’s funeral, to help bury his friend; but she did not look like the tragic figure of a woman widowed too soon. Probably she was, as Violet had said at that last funeral, better off without hard-living, heavy-drinking Joe Towers. Bea hoped the rumour mill would be kind to her. Although Mrs. Towers didn’t look too concerned about the gossip happening around her. In fact, Bea realized with some amusement, she was eyeing Nick up with a directness that seemed to make him nervous. 

The Petersons stood one tier closer to the family. The serious expressions on their faces as they watched Charles Mackinnon’s coffin disappear into the earth—the friend of one, the lover of the other—could not disguise the glow about them. Despite the fact that Ralph Peterson’s knee was still healing, that he was using a cane to help himself stay upright, he seemed to be very protective of his wife. Earlier Bea had witnessed him helping her out of the car, so loving and so solicitously attentive that she barely recognized the man she’d first encountered at that awful gala. As for Agatha, her expression when she looked up at her husband was one of complete devotion and of deep contentment. Bea still didn’t understand their marriage, how it could possibly work, but the evidence of her eyes told her that they were happy. 

On the other side of the Petersons stood a man she recognized as Ted McNamara. As far as Bea knew, his name hadn’t yet been publicly associated with Violet and her crimes, but the police must have told him how close he’d come to becoming another victim. He’d brought a friend with him from Montreal for moral support, while he’d been alone at Joe Towers’s funeral. Bea remembered Violet’s disgust when she described his tears after Towers’s funeral. Today McNamara didn’t look near to tears so much as near to a full-on hysterical breakdown; but then, knowing one had almost been murdered could do that to a person. The man beside him lifted a hand, in a movement that was quick, covert, and somehow tender, to stroke down McNamara’s arm and squeeze his hand. McNamara visibly bucked up at the furtive caress. Well then—Bea mentally revised her description of the other man as a friend. 

Another observer was standing across the way, far enough from the gathered mourners to indicate that he wasn’t really a funeral attendee. Detective King nodded in acknowledgement when Bea met his eyes. She wasn’t sure what he was doing here, dressed in the same kind of ill-fitting suit he normally wore to work. Paying his respects? Trying to see if there was even more to this murder than what Violet had confessed? 

Suddenly unsettled, Bea turned away from the crowd and walked further into the cemetery. It was a huge piece of land, parklike other than the headstones, mausoleums, family crypts. If she went south, she could hop over a fence and fumble her way down a hill and then she’d be in one of midtown’s ravines. If she went north, she could climb up the old train bridge and find herself on the belt line, which has once been a railway but now was abandoned to nature.

But she wasn’t seeking to lose herself in one of Toronto’s pitiful mimicries of the countryside. She just wanted some peace and quiet. So instead she walked until she found an isolated bench right across from a stone angel monument. Deciding to take that as a sign, she sat and closed her eyes and tipped her head back, warmed by the autumnal sun. 

“And here I thought I was the only one who was bored out of my mind.” 

Bea opened her eyes so she could frown at Gil. “I wasn’t bored. I wanted to be alone.” 

Apparently missing her hint, he sat down beside her, a large man in a charcoal suit that was somehow already rumpled, despite the fact that he’d presumably gone straight from home to the church to here. “Escaping the gossips, again?” 

Why had he followed her, anyway? There was still a distance, an awkwardness between them that hadn’t been there before she’d come into his home and accused him of lying to her. 

Taking a chance, keeping her eyes on the angel monument, she went with a truth this time. “I understand why she did it. I mean, I understand why she wanted them dead. I obviously don’t condone murder.” 

“And that’s bothering you?” 

How could she explain? “I can’t hate her, I can’t think she’s evil, the way that you would expect a murderer to be evil. I even—I even think about some of the men I’ve known who deserve to be punished. Not punished by murder, granted, but—but I understand why she ended up where she did. I’m relating to a murderer, Gil.” 

“Is that such a bad thing? Isn’t that how you were able to catch her? Because you understood her motivations in a way that Detective King never could—that Stirling or I never could.” 

She still wasn’t adequately expressing what had her unsettled. “Have you ever wondered what it would take to make you kill another person?” 

A pause, and then Gil let out a mirthless chuckle. It was so uncharacteristic that Bea turned to look at him, and found his cold gaze fixed on a memorial cross. 

“Bea,” he said, voice tinged with a kind of self-loathing she’d never expected of him, “I crewed a bomber. I’ve literally no idea how many people we killed.” 

Bea’s breath caught. She hadn’t known he’d had this buried wealth of pain, bitterness, guilt. 

“It’s not the same thing,” was the only thing she could think to say. 

“It’s not,” he agreed after another moment. “War and cold-blooded murder are… very different.” 

They were both quiet for a few minutes. There were too many thoughts whirling in Bea’s mind to articulate, thoughts about life and death, about feelings that could be repressed only to suddenly reassert themselves five, ten, twenty years later. About how one could be surprised by one’s feelings, by how they made one act. 

Overhead, a vee of Canada geese honked its way by, headed for warmer climes. 

Gil said, warmer now, “You know, I can’t write about this. Not that there isn’t a story here—but it’s not my story.” 

“I see.” 

“And Marilyn’s been vindicated, so she doesn’t need you anymore.” 

What was he getting at? A bit suspicious now, Bea replied, “Not technically, no.” 

“So now that it’s all behind us, would you still consider us to be colleagues?” 

He was starting to smile, and Bea hated that it made her breath come faster. 

“I think we might be friends,” she said, and watched the smile bloom the rest of the way across his face. “What is this about?” 

“Jules says you don’t get involved with colleagues.” 

“I don’t. It’s an ironclad rule. But I don’t normally get involved with friends, either—that one is more of a guideline.” 

“Right,” Gil said, and then he kissed her. 

Barely a peck, just a brush of lips and then he was back to his side of the bench looking smug. But Bea could feel the heat rising up her neck, over her cheeks. 

“What was that?” she demanded, trying to sound unaffected. 

“I was making a point.” 

She was tempted to ask what his point was, but that would only make him smugger. So instead she said, “Right,” and grabbed him by the chin. 

Her plan, such as it was, was to kiss him, not the fleeting peck he’d given her but a real stunner, and then sit back, unaffected, while he spluttered. It would make… some kind of point. 

But instead she got distracted. His lips were warm under hers, and a little chapped. Beneath her fingers she felt the softness of skin and the prickle of a spot he’d missed when shaving. This close, the woodsy smell of his cologne surrounded her, made her lightheaded. 

She’d forgotten. Was that possible? She’d forgotten how good this was, how much she liked it. She’d forgotten, with all the time she spent avoiding situations where it would be a possibility, that the very reason she had to avoid the possibility was because of how easily she could lose her head. 

Unnerved now, she retreated to her side of the bench before she could reveal too much to him. 

“There,” she said, staring hard at the stone angel and trying not to sound breathless. 

Gil let out an unsteady breath. “Of course. The great Bea Miller always has to have the last word, doesn’t she?” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Sure.” 

She was annoyed enough that it was safe to look back over at him. His colour was high and his mouth was marked by her lipstick and his eyes held that little gleam that meant he was enjoying teasing her. 

Resisting the urge to respond to his latest comment—which would only make his eyes gleam even more, maybe even make him smirk, and goodness knew what that might tempt her into—she reached into her handbag for her compact and set about fixing her lipstick. 

“You might want to make use of your handkerchief,” she told him. 

But when she finished neatening up, he hadn’t moved to clean himself up; he was still looking at her with that teasing expression on his face. “Bea Miller, always prepared for anything. Even necking in the cemetery.” 

“If you call that necking, I pity the women you date.” 

Instead of getting offended, he grinned. “Oh, yeah? Do you want a—“

She grasped his chin again, watched his eyes widen and smile fade. But this time, she picked up her handkerchief and went to wipe the lipstick off of him. 

It was, in some ways, even more intimate than the kisses had been. The way he stayed still and quiet under her attentions, the way her gaze kept darting between the intensity of his eyes and the evidence of her touch on his lips, the way she could feel his breath on her face and the working of his throat when he swallowed. 

“There,” she said, retreating to her side of the bench once again. “Good as new. It’s like nothing happened.” 

“Like nothing happened.” He sighed. “Right. Friends, then?” 

“Friends,” she agreed. 

He stood. “Farewell, then, friend. I’ll see you around.” 

“Next Saturday.” 

“Saturday?” 

“That’s likely to be the next time you see me. Your mother invited me over for tea.” 

She couldn’t read the expression on Gil’s face now. “Did she?” 

“Catching a murderer together is a good start to a friendship, don’t you think? And I happen to find all of Rilla’s volunteer and charity work very impressive.” 

“Right,” said Gil. “Right. Friends. You’re on a first-name basis with my mother. Right.” 

Bea stood too. “I’ll see you on Saturday, then?” 

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked toward the exit of the cemetery, feeling more balanced and steady than she had since Charles Mackinnon’s murder—since the Maclean’s profile. 

It was nice to put a man in his place for once.