It’s simply … well, I am sixty-four and I suppose, age and one thing or another, I got the sexual blahs. Didn’t care about it. Didn’t think about it. And so, consequently, Ian and I never got around to having it.”
“Uh-huh, sure, but how did that sit with Ian?”
“He understood.” Alex gave a look that dared me to question his answer.
“Right.”
“Oh, Ian made little jokes sometimes about madam and her bedtime migraines. But as you observed, we stayed as close as we’d always been.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Closer.”
“Sure.”
“Ian understood,” Alex said. “We shared the same bed, as usual. We just didn’t romp in it.”
“Okay, I got it.”
We resumed the walk up Beverley. Neither of us spoke another word until we reached the sidewalk in front of the house.
“Ian understood,” Alex said. He was facing me. “That’s what I always assumed. In fact, it was beyond assumption. Sex went out of my head. I never dwelt on it, and I assumed — this is rather in retrospect, looking back now — Ian understood.”
I nodded my head.
“But —” Alex’s voice might have been close to breaking. “— But one time, I realize, he mustn’t have understood and it cost him his life.”
We went into the house.
Chapter Four
Genet was my excuse for stepping into Alex’s quarters. I was supposed to feed the mutt. I had no excuse for what else I intended to do. I intended to conduct a search of the premises.
There was a tin half full of dog food in the refrigerator. I peeled off the Saran wrap covering the top and scooped the meat into Genet’s bowl.
“Yuck, this stuff smells terrible,” I said to the dog.
Genet sniffed the bowl and turned his head up to me.
“You think it stinks, too?”
I looked at my watch.
“Or maybe it’s the hour? Too early for dinner?”
It was four thirty, Saturday afternoon.
“See, Genet, I’m a tad keen to get on with the search.…”
What was I doing? Explaining to a dog!
Genet blinked his rheumy eyes and focused on the bowl’s contents.
“Think of it as high tea,” I said to the top of his head.
On the refrigerator door, a pair of silver magnets pinned a New Yorker cartoon done by the guy who draws in dots. It showed a doctor examining a patient’s arm and saying, “Well, Bob, it looks like a paper cut, but just to make sure, let’s do lots of tests.” Two more silver magnets held up a list of things to do: “Cancel Globe till May 19”; “Join Winston Churchill Tennis Club”; and “Book window washer.” The list was in Alex’s handwriting. None of the items said: “Advise Crang where to find Ian’s killer.”
I walked down the hall to the living room at the front of the house. Behind me, Genet slurped his protein. I sat at the elegant little Biedermeier desk and looked at the small oil painting over it, an Albert Franck of a downtown Toronto backyard. It didn’t tell me anything except that it was a clear, evocative, tough-minded piece of art. Genet padded into the room and fixed a gaze on me.
“Don’t even mention it.” My voice was on the loud side. “I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s for a good cause, okay?”
Genet whimpered.
Alex kept orderly desk drawers. Receipts clipped together — Bell Canada, Imperial Oil, Visa, the University Club. There was a file marked “Income Tax” and another labelled “Ian’s Estate.” A bundle of fat documents with many official seals had to do with the ownership of the Key West cottage. I fingered through every scrap of paper and found nothing that revealed where Alex might have gone digging for the guy who gave Ian the disease.
There was a black box beside the phone. It was a memory machine — an electronic gizmo that automatically recorded the number of anyone who dialed Alex’s place. I fiddled around until I located the button that lit up the machine’s screen. It showed three numbers.
I dialed the first.
“You have reached the Ontario Ministry of Education,” a recorded female voice said. “The offices are closed today, but if you call Monday after eight thirty in morning, we will be happy to assist you.”
It was Alex’s business number. He’d been provincial deputy minister of education for as long as he and Ian had lived in the house.
I dialed the second number on the memory screen.
No answer. I let the phone ring a dozen times. Definitely no answer.
I dialed the third number.
“Purple Zinnia,” a pleasant male voice said. “Good afternoon.”
“Have I got a flower shop?”
“No, we’re still a restaurant.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve heard the flower shop line?”
“Twice before,” the voice said, still pleasant, “and that’s just today.”
“I’ll call back later when I think of something more original.”
“If you want a reservation, we don’t take them. But tonight, get here before, oh, seven fifteen, and you should be okey-doke.”
“Thanks.”
I spent another half hour in the apartment. Genet kept me company, silent and observing. The closest I came to a clue was a ceramic bowl that held a collection of matchbooks. Maybe one from a place where Ian had met the bad guy? Where Alex had traced the same bad guy? Most of the matchbooks advertised upscale restaurants. Cibo. Centro. Bistro 990. No particular leads there. When it came to dining out, Ian and Alex had always treated themselves. I opened each matchbook, about twenty-five or thirty of them, and checked for anything jotted in handwriting on the inside. All were clean.
I ended up at the Biedermeier desk. So did Genet. I dialed the second number on the memory screen. Still no answer. I used the weighty gold pen on the desk to jot the number on the top sheet of Alex’s memo pad. I tore off the sheet, folded it into my wallet, and phoned Annie at her office.
“Flicks.” It was Annie’s voice.
“I’m striking out so far.”
“Oh, hi.” Annie sounded pumped up. “I just put down the phone from calling your place.”
“I’m
