Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (259 page)

Green took the photo of the girl off the wall and turned it over. On the back, the title, photographer and date were inscribed in black calligraphy. “Summer on Mount Royal, Amélie series, Lise Gravelle, 1981”. Another photo showed the same scene, but this time the little girl was looking up at a young man. The young man’s profile was in partial shadow, suggesting an illusion almost out of reach.

Green turned over another photo, this one of a long-eared dog resting its muzzle on its paws mournfully. “Mon Ami, Lise Gravelle, 1989”. He crossed the room and selected a colour photo of a stream in springtime, the water rushing around the shards of ice still clinging to the bank. “Espoir, Lise Gravelle, 2002”.

Hope, he translated. A world still frozen but coming alive again. Did they mean anything—these portraits of hope and yearning and loneliness—or were they just interesting studies by a talented artist exploring human experience?

Magloire emerged from the bathroom grasping in his fingertips a smelly garbage bag, which he placed in the hall outside the door. “Where do we begin, Inspector?”

Green had no idea of the man’s investigative skills, although his apparent lack of interest in the photographs on the wall was telling. He nodded towards the bedroom. “You start in there, and I’ll check this desk. We’re looking for...” He raised his hand to tick off his fingers. “A computer and cellphone, papers that identify friends and family, any family photos, an agenda book, address book, letters, postcards... Most importantly, any connection to Meredith Kennedy or Ottawa.”

Once Magloire had disappeared into the small room off the living room, Green took out his digital camera and methodically took pictures of every photo on the walls. He wasn’t sure what use they would serve, but in a murder investigation, irrelevance was always better than regret. He then photographed the whole room from different angles before beginning a methodical search. He looked under the sofas, lifted the cushions and the carpet, leafed through the photographic and home decorating magazines stacked on the end table and the small pile of mail on the kitchen counter. Bills, flyers, charity requests—nothing out of the ordinary. He unfolded the bank statement and the credit card bill. The woman had a modest bank balance of two hundred dollars and no large deposits or withdrawals to suggest unusual activity in the last month. The credit card bill showed a similar frugality. She had paid off the card in full at the last due date and made only three small charges in the past month, to a pharmacy, a restaurant and Sears. If this woman had anyone on her Christmas gift list, she had not made her purchases early.

Green put the mail into the evidence bin, jotted down the names of the charities and turned his attention to the desk. Here too, Lise Gravelle was orderly and minimalist. The desk contained nothing but stationery supplies, stapler, sketch pads and several rolls of film. Where were all the negatives and copies of the photos on the wall? In his experience, photographers had several cameras and took hundreds of photos to get one perfect one. If her career had spanned thirty years, as the dates on the photos suggested, she had very little to show for it.

In the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, he found a modern SLR camera, a box of lenses and a whole stack of CDs. He turned the camera on and thumbed through the recent photos. Images of the snowstorm, Christmas lights and bundled up pedestrians slogging through the snow. Portraits of winter life in Montreal, providing no obvious clues to her murder. He placed the camera and CDs into the evidence bin to take back to Ottawa for closer study.

In the upper drawer, he found neat file folders labelled bills, job applications, finances, taxes. He sifted through all these carefully, seizing anything that looked promising. Lise had no major debts or unexpected sources of income. Last year’s taxes showed no mention of earnings from photography, only her income from her clerical job at St. Mary’s, a pittance that would have been difficult to live on. She was emerging as a solitary, cautious woman who lived a methodical life without much joy or adventure. Like her photos—a life lived on the outside.

From the back of the filing cabinet drawer, he pulled out a thick file folder with no label. Inside was a jumble of brittle, yellowed newspapers. Green glanced at the dates. 1980, 1978. He froze as a name leaped out at him from the newsprint.

Longstreet.

He sat down at the desk, his heart racing, and skimmed the newspaper articles. With one exception, they were all from 1978 and chronicled the life and death of Harvey Kent Longstreet. Obituaries, police press releases, and newspaper features in the
Montreal Star
. The one exception was an article published in the
Westmount Examiner
in 1980 announcing that Mrs. Elena Longstreet, widow of prominent McGill law professor Harvey Longstreet, had accepted a position with the prestigious Toronto law firm of McGrath, Wellington, and Associates. Mrs. Longstreet cited exciting job opportunities and a fresh start as reasons for her departure from Montreal.

Beneath the stack of newspaper articles were some much newer pages, computer print-outs from the web. There was no sign of computer equipment in the apartment, so she must have used a public computer, possibly at her place of work. Most of the print-outs contained stories about Elena Longstreet’s professional successes, including reports on high-profile appeals she had won and charities she supported. It was the last page that nearly took his breath away. A brief announcement of Brandon’s and Meredith’s upcoming wedding at the Ottawa home of prominent attorney Elena Longstreet, complete with a photo of the happy couple.

All the pages had been printed out on the same date, barely three weeks ago.

Green took the entire folder over to the evidence bin. His pulse was racing and his hands shook with the familiar rush of adrenaline. Here was the connection he’d been seeking! For whatever reason, Lise Gravelle had been obsessed with Elena Longstreet, enough to track down and preserve every possible piece of news on the woman, including her son’s marriage. The question was why?

He went into the bedroom where Magloire was sitting on the floor by the bed, sorting through a plastic bin that had obviously been pulled out from under the bed. Green could see camera equipment and packets of photographs.

“Jean Pierre,” he said, “get on the phone to your office and ask them to pull the police file on Harvey Longstreet’s death in July 1978.”

“Nineteen seventy-eight?” Magloire looked dismayed. “Is it an open file?”

“Not likely. It was ruled a suicide.”

“Then the original would be in a box in a warehouse somewhere, open week days only. It might also be on microfilm in the archives, but they wouldn’t be open today either.”

Green pulled a face at the prospect of microfilm. “Can you pull some strings? And if possible get the original file. Once we’re done here I’d like to go back downtown and have a look at it.”

FIFTEEN

Magloire spent the next ten minutes on the phone, arguing in a French too rapid and colloquial for Green’s unpractised ear, although it was liberally peppered with “
Non
!” He seemed to be repeating his request over and over as he went up the chain of command, his tone changing from jovial to cajoling to impatient until he seemed satisfied that the request would be carried out.

Once he hung up, he shrugged.

“Budget cuts. On the weekend there is no one in records administration to deal with such a request.”

Green opened his mouth to protest, but Magloire held up his hand. “But I have my ways. The original file I can’t promise, but with luck at least the microfilm should be sent to us.”

“Thank you. Have you found anything useful in the bedroom?”

“Besides these expensive cameras and hundreds of negatives she had stored under the bed?” Magloire lifted his broad shoulders in another shrug, as if the whims of women were beyond him. “I can tell you, for a Montreal woman and a photographer, her fashion sense is terrible. Striped socks, flowered polyester, nothing elegant, nothing sexy. No sign in her bathroom that she has a boyfriend or a sex life.
La pauvre
. Just lots of vitamins, medicines and an empty prescription bottle for Paxil.”

“An anti-depressant.”

Magloire nodded. “Filled last year at St. Mary’s hospital pharmacy.”

A sharp knock at the front door caused them both to turn. Tessier was standing in the doorway to the apartment, gazing at the photos on the wall. “
Tabernac!
” she breathed. “She was good!”

Green nodded, pleased at the young officer’s perceptiveness.

“When you get back to your station, you can research whether she’s ever had a show or worked as a professional. Anything from the street canvass?”

Tessier snapped to attention. “You were right about the apartment across the street, sir. He is an old gentleman with a walker who passes all the day to observe the street. He saw her get into a taxi at...” she consulted her notebook, “just after sixteen hours last Monday. He remarked the time because it was getting dark and the snow was beginning to fall. She was all dressed up—boots, hat, winter coat, large hand bag...”

Green calculated quickly. Lise could have been heading for the five o’clock bus to Ottawa, one hour earlier than Meredith, in which case she would have arrived at seven p.m. An hour and a half before she phoned Meredith. Why wait so long? Perhaps to find a hotel?

Or to track down Elena Longstreet’s address?

There was another knock at the door, softer and more tentative than the previous, and a thin, tired-looking woman peered in, clutching her winter coat around her. Her eyes were huge as she stared at Tessier.

“Is it true? She’s dead?” she asked in French. “The news trucks are outside.”

Green stepped forward before Tessier could respond. “You’re her neighbour?”

The woman nodded, switching to English. “I reported her missing. Poor woman. What will happen to T’bou?”

“That’s her dog,” Tessier said. “This is Mme Lasalle from the next apartment.”

Green showed the woman inside. Mme Lasalle perched on the edge of the sofa but kept her coat wrapped around her as if guarding herself against the chill of death. Green began the routine battery of questions. How long had she known her? One year. Did Lise have any family or close friends? No, she never talked about her family, said her parents died years ago. Did Lise have any enemies or disputes with anyone? No, she was quiet and kept to herself. Did Lise ever talk about Ottawa?

Here Mme Lasalle coloured and dropped her gaze. “She didn’t have much use for the government. Not for the English either, in fact. All rich, all stuck up, she thought they controlled everything and got all the breaks. I don’t think she ever wanted to visit there.”

“Did she mention any rich English person in particular?”

The woman shook her head. “She only mentioned it a couple of times, when she was angry. Most of the time we avoided politics. I think she was just sounding off, you know? Because she had a lousy job in an English hospital.”

“Did she ever mention the name Longstreet?”

She shook her head again.

“Meredith Kennedy?”

“We didn’t socialize much. She was a bitter woman, not fun to be with.” She shrugged in apology. “I should have been more sympathetic.”

“I understand she asked you to take care of her dog last Monday evening.”

“Yes, just that night. But he’s still at my place.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“No, but I told the officer she seemed happier. Maybe...”

Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute! There was someone coming out of her apartment earlier that afternoon. I was coming back from the store, and this woman nearly knocked me over as she got on the elevator. She was very upset, crying, and I think she didn’t even see me. I never saw her before.” She leaned forward, excited. “I can’t be certain where she was coming from, naturally, but when I go down the hall, Lise is there in her doorway. She appeared... I can’t even describe the expression on her face.”

“Nervous?”

“Oh no! It seems strange, but almost...triumphant.”

Green blinked. Triumphant was a hell of a strong word. It implied a battle. A conquest. A victor. “Can you describe this woman in the elevator?”

“Thirty years. Quite beautiful, red hair, beautiful red coat.”

Bingo, Green thought.

Early winter darkness was already seeping into the streets as the two detectives emerged from the apartment building. A Radio Canada media van was parked at the curb, and they had to dodge the glare of camera lights and the press of microphones as they made their way to the Impala. Magloire stopped only long enough to flash his trademark smile at the camera and say that he could not release any details at this time. He herded Green into the car and accelerated away in a spray of ice.

While Magloire drove, Green sat in silent thought, trying to plan the next steps in the investigation. The Kennedys needed to be interviewed about whether they’d ever heard of Lise Gravelle, and Elena Longstreet needed to be questioned about what possible connection there could have been between Lise Gravelle and her husband’s death. Knowing Elena, Green suspected it would be more a confrontation than an interview. No one up in Ottawa—not Sue Peters, Bob Gibbs nor Marie Claire Levesque—was ready to go up against her.

In fact, even Green hesitated to face her down until he had all the facts he could muster about that old case and about the intervening years. Had Lise Gravelle nurtured her obsession with Elena in private, or had she contacted the woman? If so, why? In the end, he phoned Gibbs. From the sound of rock music in the background, he suspected he’d caught the young detective off duty. At five p.m. on a Saturday, why not?

“When you’re back on, Bob, I want you to do some deep background digging on Elena Longstreet. Perform your magic with the internet. Go back as far as you can, 1978 if possible, and find out if she ever had dealings with Lise Gravelle, if their paths ever crossed in any way. Do the same with the Kennedys, both Meredith and her parents.”