Beautiful Lie the Dead (33 page)

“Then tell me the truth,” Green said.

Norah remained rigid, her hands gripping each other as she willed her tears not to fall. Reg took up the tale. “We adopted her, fair and square, but Meredith never knew. We should have told her years ago, but we could never find the right time or the right words. You read about adopted children never being happy, always wanting to find their natural parents, wanting to know why they were given up. Like they weren't lovable or worthy enough.”

Norah came alive, trembling with an emotion that had been pushed aside for thirty years. “Meredith
was
loved. We loved her like she was our flesh and blood, and we never wanted her to have that doubt. After awhile, we thought, why does she ever have to know?”

Because back in Montreal she had a mother who loved her and never forgot her, Green thought. And more practically, because nowadays people needed to know their genetic and medical legacy. But he stayed on track. “Who set up the adoption in Montreal?”

“It was done through a priest and a lawyer at the Good Shepherd's Mission. They were good people, there was never any money exchanged, just a small donation to the mission. In exchange they found homes for the babies who were brought there. Mostly abandoned. We were told Meredith was left in the church sanctuary.”

Convenient, Green thought. For the moment he forced his cynicism aside. “Were you given her birth certificate?”

Reg shook his head. “Just the record of her birth. A paper that said ‘Infant Female', her date of birth and a doctor's name. Not even a hospital. They said she'd been born at home. Back in those days in Quebec, civil registration of births was not mandatory. It was left to the priest or minister to keep a record of the baptism and send a duplicate to the government. Lots of room to fall through the cracks.”

Norah had recaptured her spirit. She thrust out her chin. “Priests had been quietly placing unwanted children with good, loving families for decades in Quebec just by a simple private agreement. Much better than when the bureaucrats start messing around.”

Reg smiled thinly. “We were getting the run-around at Social Services because Norah was Catholic and I wasn't. Father Fréchette was a godsend.”

“But I thought you said neither of you was religious. How did you even hear about him?”

Reg opened his mouth but Norah beat him to it. “Word gets around.”

Green took a stab in the dark. “You were working for the Montreal Police in 1980, isn't that right?”

She blinked. “What? I—I...yes, for a few months.”

“And you left when you adopted Meredith?”

“Yes, that was part of the agreement with Father Fréchette. I wouldn't work, and I would raise her Catholic.”

“Did your work bring you into contact with any police officers?”

She whipped her head back and forth. “I was just in the typing pool.”

Green opened his own notebook and pretended to consult his notes. “Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy, I can't help without knowing all the facts, and all the people involved. You weren't religious and you probably didn't know Father Frechette from Frankenstein, but at exactly the time you adopted Meredith, Norah was working at the police station where a young constable worked who was closely connected to her mother. Was that the person who introduced you to the priest? Was it Adam Jules?”

Her quick intake of breath was all the answer he needed.

TWENTY-FOUR

A
s Levesque drove, Green studied his notes. Bit by bit, he was chipping away at the mystery of the past. After a little more probing, Norah had finally admitted that she'd known Jules back in Montreal. The tall, handsome eligible young constable with the impeccable manners had been the talk of the typing pool, and they all vied for the chance to do his reports. “Not me, of course,” Norah had added with a hasty glance at Reg. He was always the perfect gentleman, always said a personal thankyou, and none of the girls received special treatment. But one day she'd just returned from yet another disappointing doctor's appointment, and she was upset when Jules came in. He brought her a cup of tea and listened.

“What a sweetheart! He never talked much, but you knew he listened. Afterwards, he never mentioned it again, but a couple of months later he asked if Reg and I would like to meet a friend of his.”

Green was surprised by the story. He'd never known Adam Jules to have a tender side. He'd cared about his officers and done a lot to protect and nurture their careers behind the scenes, but rarely was a word spoken about it. Green remembered the touch of fingertips between Amélie and him. Something had changed in the man over the years.

The Good Shepherd's Mission was in Montreal's northeast district, not far from the simple bachelor quarters where Adam Jules lived. He told Norah that he'd been volunteering at the mission every Sunday since he'd moved to the city, running the soup kitchen. Occasionally his work brought him in contact with frightened, desperate young women. He never knew where the babies ended up, just that Father Fréchette was very careful with his adoption choices.

Norah didn't know when and why Jules left Montreal, since he'd never been in touch with them since the adoption. Both Kennedys hotly denied having spoken to him in the past week. Curiously they seemed more relaxed and talkative once they'd confessed. Was it the relief of letting go of the secret they'd kept dammed up all these years? Or relief that Green appeared to accept the story? Norah wept unabashedly. Even Reg's eyes brimmed with tears as he talked about how the news would have destroyed Meredith. Terrified that she would somehow find out, they had sworn their family to absolute secrecy. Except for Norah's mom, Reg said. That was the one person they could no longer trust, now that her mind was going. They were so scared she'd blurt it out during one of her rants.

“Touching story,” Levesque muttered as she steered the car up towards the Queensway. “We did it all for Meredith.”

Green thought of his own colossal mistakes with Hannah. “Even with the best intentions, parents make mistakes and find themselves in corners which they can't get out of.”

She shot him a skeptical glance. “You believe them?”

“I'm keeping an open mind. Their emotion seemed pretty real.” He didn't mention the role played by Adam Jules. Their story did not exonerate Jules from shady dealings, but it was far easier to think his mentor was facilitating private adoptions than running a baby peddling racket.

“They've had years to rehearse it,” was all she said before turning her attention to the road. Green knew she was right. He had not even had to push that hard before their sad, self-serving tale came pouring out.

Elena Longstreet would be a different story. She was next on the interview list, and as Levesque accelerated east towards Rockcliffe, he reviewed the questions he wanted to ask her. He knew he was going up against one of the foremost cross-examination tacticians on the Ottawa Bar, and he had to have every angle covered. Elena was not going to be bullied, outmanoeuvred or driven to tears.

He'd phoned her as they were leaving the Kennedys to let her know he was coming. He considered the advantages of a surprise attack but decided the risk of her wrath outweighed the good. If he wanted any chance of cooperation, an honest, straightforward approach was best. She had been impeccably polite but non-committal on the phone when she informed him she could spare him half an hour. “I'm due in court,” she'd said as if to remind him how important she was.

A sleek, champagne-coloured Town Car was parked at the curb in front of Elena's house, the silhouette of its driver visible through the tinted glass. Idling chauffeur-driven luxury cars were such a common sight in Rockcliffe that Green gave it no thought. Elena greeted them at the door dressed in what he assumed was her court attire—a simple black dress to be worn under her gown and a string of white pearls at her neck. She gave Levesque only the faintest nod before turning to lead the way to the living room. She didn't offer to take their coats, as if she didn't intend them to stay long. Ignoring the subtext, Green hung his coat on the coat rack on his way past. Jules's cashmere scarf, he noted, was gone.

To his surprise, the wing chair by the bay window was occupied by an old man who seemed to be all head above a tiny, wraithlike body. He peered at Green through hostile eyes but made no move to greet him.

Green stepped across the room with his hand extended. “Mr. Cyril Longstreet, I assume? I'm Inspector Michael Green of Ottawa CID, and this is my associate Sergeant Levesque.”

The man's hand felt like dry twigs in his, but even so he emanated strength. Perhaps it was his unblinking stare or the pugnacious set of his jaw, so different from Green's own father. Despite his frailty, Cyril wanted him to know who was still the boss.

As the two men appraised each other, Green quickly rethought his approach. With Cyril at her side, Elena was twice the adversary. She had not yet invited him to sit down, but before she could choose a place for him, he selected a seat on the sofa with a view of them both. He was again pleased to see Levesque take a chair without prompting on the opposite side of the room. She extracted her notebook.

Green leaned in. “Mrs. Longstreet, since we haven't much time, we'll skip the preliminaries. We all know why we're here; to find out what information you can give us regarding the disappearance of Meredith Kennedy and the death of Lise Gravelle. After a week of intensive investigation, we've uncovered considerable evidence linking Lise to Meredith and to you—both of you, in fact—but to save us some time, perhaps you can tell us what you know.”

From the second wing chair, Elena eyed him, deadpan. After a long moment, she shrugged. “Nothing more than I read in the papers, I'm afraid.”

“All right, here's what we know.” Green held up his hand to begin ticking off points. “For the past thirty years, Lise Gravelle has been keeping tabs on you. She saved clippings of your husband's death, of your departure for Toronto, your court trials, and three weeks ago, an internet story about your son's engagement to Meredith. Two weeks ago, she also began placing calls to Meredith's cell phone, six in all, and last Monday, Meredith paid her a visit in Montreal. Lise caught the bus up here immediately after the visit, placed a call to Meredith during which Meredith became hysterical and accused her of wanting to ruin everything. A few hours later, she was killed, on her way over here to see you.”

Elena looked about to object but seemed to think better of it. Green knew the facts alone did not begin to support any wrongdoing on her part, but perhaps she was hoping to give him enough rope to hang himself.

“Since then,” he continued, “the Kennedys have admitted that Meredith was in fact adopted and that a young police officer who volunteered at a Catholic mission arranged it with the priest. Until last Monday, Meredith never knew.”

Now Elena did react, her lips parting in shock. She breathed a single “no.”

Green tried to interpret her shock. Was she reacting to the news that Meredith was adopted or that she'd never been told? He decided to press further.

“So we go back thirty years now, to your husband's death. I've looked at the Montreal police file and crime scene photos, talked to a newspaper reporter, and this much I do know. Lise Gravelle was a second-year law student of your husband's—young, pretty and straight off the farm. Your husband was not alone when he died, but his apartment was cleaned up to erase all trace of his lover. The young police officer who helped the Kennedys adopt Meredith was also the investigating officer who looked the other way.” Green paused, debating whether to mention Adam Jules's name. In the end he chose to hold back. For now. “Five months later, Lise Gravelle gave birth to a baby girl who has since vanished into thin air. These are some of the facts. I'm sure you can see how I'm connecting the dots.”

Still shaken, Elena had flushed more deeply at the mention of her husband's lover. She sat very still as she considered her next move. Before she could speak, Cyril cut in. “I'm sure you can connect the dots in all kinds of imaginative, entirely unsubstantiated ways, but what is it you actually want from us today?”

Green kept his eyes on Elena. “The answers to some questions that would help me move the investigation forward. Firstly, were you aware that Lise Gravelle was your husband's lover?”

She looked across at him. If looks could kill, he thought. “At what point?” she asked.

“At any point. Either before he died, or in the weeks that followed.”

“Not before. But afterwards, yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“The police told me.”

Adam Jules. Had that been the beginning of their connection?

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

She glanced at Cyril, not for guidance it seemed, but in reproach.

“Yes, I did. The officer told me that too.”

“What arrangement was made?”

“What do you mean?”

Green gave a gesture of incredulity. “A hapless young student was having your husband's baby, and all of a sudden the whole investigation is buried and none of the witnesses remember a damn thing. Was Lise hung out to dry?”

“No,” Cyril interrupted, his voice like a shot. “And cut the ‘fresh off the farm' crap. She played the oldest trick in the book, and if he hadn't died, she'd have taken him to the cleaners. She was failing law school, not cut out for the rigours of the profession, and she was facing an ignoble retreat back to the farm. As it was, she got an apartment, child support, payment for photography courses and equipment, and all she had to do was keep quiet. She accepted the deal before the ink was dry.”

People like her don't have much choice, Green thought. “Who brokered the deal?

Cyril eyed him. “You don't want to know.”

Green's heart sank. He took a few seconds before refocusing on Elena, who looked unnaturally pale. “In the past three weeks, did Lise Gravelle try to make contact with you?”