behind him. “Yeah — all bets are off.”
“Thanks.”
McCloskey left some silver on the bar, tucked the rolled up newspaper under his arm, and headed out. He had parked the Light Six over on Goyeau Street, away from the pool hall. He had no idea what he’d do if he ran into the Lieutenant, or for that matter what the Lieutenant might do if he ran into him, so he thought he’d steer clear for the time being. He opened the car door and climbed in. The Light Six was reassuring and familiar. Everything fit just right.
Heading up Goyeau he considered the homes that lined the street. They looked safe, quiet, and predictable, nothing like his home growing up. Maybe they were more like his home on the inside. Somehow he doubted it. He couldn’t imagine the police stopping by to settle a domestic dispute or drop off children that were picked up for stealing from the general store.
Had he not seen their bodies with his own eyes he probably wouldn’t have believed it. His pa and Billy had lived through so much, it seemed as though they’d be alive forever. It had been a family of men, much like his pa’s. His mother, however, came from a family of women — a pious, Irish Catholic family that she escaped by marrying a city boy. Frank McCloskey was the youngest son of a Scottish merchant. He was rebellious and out to make a name for himself as a contraband smuggler. Mary Callaghan loved the idea of Frank McCloskey but not the man. She gave him sons, did the chores, and attended church alone on Sundays. Her dying wish was for her husband to let a priest into the house. The moment she died, Frank McCloskey threw the priest, his manual, and his holy water across the front porch.
McCloskey was still trying to get past the idea that if he had he arrived in Ojibway only minutes earlier he could have saved them. If he had got out of the train station quicker, if he got Sophie there sooner, if they hadn’t messed around, if they hadn’t met, if he hadn’t let himself get sent to Hamilton in the first place, if he hadn’t taken up with the Lieutenant, if he had just stayed home after the war and worked things out with his pa and Billy. If only he could learn to stop torturing himself.
He paused for traffic at Park and looked over at the new police headquarters. He had to wonder what their orders were. Again he got the feeling that he was exactly where someone wanted him and he hated it. He didn’t believe what Jigsaw said about the Lieutenant. He remembered the day he got shipped off to Hamilton and the look in the Lieutenant’s eyes. Was his old boss being pushed aside? Was it Jigsaw’s play or was the Captain playing Jigsaw off the Lieutenant? A long time ago the Lieutenant had asked for McCloskey’s help in building an empire. Was he really all business? McCloskey had to find out for himself and there was no better place to confront the situation than at a crowded racetrack.
He’d go see Clara, beg her to put him in touch with Henry again, get the lowdown on Gabrese, and then plan to run into the Lieutenant at Kenilworth.
— Chapter 16 —
POISON IVY
Vera Maude was flipping through an old copy of the Star in the ladies’ room when something on The Women’s Page caught her eye. It was an article describing a garden party she had attended earlier in the summer.
… held by the Music, Literature, and Art Club of Windsor at the lovely home of Dr. and Mrs. Raymond D. Menard, Riverside, on Saturday. From the time it was announced last month it had been arousing no little interest in local social circles. Plans were extensive and many of the details were kept secret until the last moment. The event was well-attended and according to reports it was one of the most delightful of M., L., and A. affairs.
It was amusing to read the Star’s version of the event. The writer made it sound so charming and convivial. Vera Maude remembered it being anything but.
Most of the fifty-odd club members and their guests spent the afternoon playing bridge on the lawn behind the house. Vera Maude didn’t like her odds against these teetotalling cardsharps so instead she lingered in the sunroom, sipped lemonade, and pondered the garden — a nightmare of allergic proportions. When the afternoon tea was served she was waved outside. She had taken a seat at a table under the willow tree, just a stone’s throw from the water’s edge. Daphne and another one of the Daughters of the Empire joined her.
‘Maudie, I’d like you to meet Isabelle.’
Isabelle handed Vera Maude four clammy fingers.
‘Pleased to meet you, Isabelle.’
‘Likewise.’
(Vera Maude remembered hating her instantly.)
‘I’ll pour,’ said Daphne.
Isabelle passed the sugar to Vera Maude.
‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘May I have the lemon instead?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Maudie works at the library too,’ said Daphne.
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ said Vera Maude. ‘Do you work, Isabelle?’
‘No,’ replied Isabelle. ‘Daddy won’t have it.’
No, of course not.
‘I don’t plan on staying on at the library forever.’
Thanks, Daphne.
‘As soon as I’ve married I plan to leave. Who knows, maybe Clive will be the one to rescue me.’
This was news to Vera Maude.
‘What about you, Maudie?’ asked Isabelle.
‘Yes, Maudie, what are your plans?’
They were both staring at her.
You bitch, Daphne.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking of becoming an opium addict. Or maybe a switchboard operator. I haven’t decided.’
Vera Maude always hated going to those things but she knew if she stopped getting invited it would be a sign of worse things to come. The library would eventually let her go and then the doors in the cultural community would start closing. And then what? It wasn’t a big city. Teach? Go to business college? Become a sales clerk at Bartlet, Macdonald, & Gow? Daphne on the other hand was a full member of the club. Whenever Vera Maude got to go to an M.L. & A. event it was as her invited guest and with the approval of Miss Lancefield, who was on the club executive. Vera Maude figured the only reason Daphne kept inviting her was to help her feel superior among the other members. Why else would someone like Daphne have anything to do with someone like her?
It occurred to Vera Maude that she still hadn’t received her formal invitation to the next meeting. Perhaps the garden party had been the last straw. Maybe the first door had already closed. She folded up the paper and tossed it on the floor.
“Maudie, are you in there?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Do you mind if I go for lunch first?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Goody — Clive is here and he’s taking me to the Prince Eddie.”
“Tell
