Mortal Sins Read online

  Behind the canned Zoodles, she discovered a package of Betty Crocker’s Chocolate Chip Snackin’ Cake mix, poured it into an 8-by-8-inch tin, followed the too simple instructions on the side of the box (she tried them in French, for a challenge), and slammed it into the oven. All that absorbed a mere 15 minutes, despite the rusty hand mixer.

  At noon she poured herself a glass of port, put on her old Frank Sinatra record about walking with the lions, curled up in her favorite shabby brown armchair, and tore open the envelope with one quick movement before she could change her mind.

  In the top right-hand corner, in raised script, the paper displayed James’s professional qualifications and the address of his clinic. “Dr. James W. Hayes, Veterinary Surgeon...” The W stood for Wadsworth. It really did. James had been assigned it by his father, the itinerant salesman, who had hoped to be written into the will of some distant cousin called Wadsworth. Later, James had tried to pass the initial on to Jimmy, but Judith had dug in her heels. No baby should have to be called Wadsworth.

  The words were admirably spaced, the whole letter wonderfully centered. James took pride in the presentation of his work.

  My dear Judith,

  Who’s he kidding?

  Another year has gone by, filled, I’m glad to say, with challenge, learning, and a measure of happiness. I hope the year has been kind to you as well. I fear, though, when talking to Jimmy and Anne, that you are still having difficulties in your life and I know I am, to some small degree, to be blamed for that.

  Ugh...

  My analyst is convinced that I have found a way to deal with my day-to-day problems, and he has encouraged me to take more responsibility for past actions and emotions.

  A small choking noise erupted from deep in Judith’s throat and surfaced as a squeak. She finished her port in one gulp and poured herself another.

  To make a long story short—

  Not quite short enough...

  —I feel the time is right for me to visit with the children. They must be given the opportunity to relate to me, one on one, at their own level and within their own environment. As you may recall, their visits here have been somewhat strained.

  And mercifully brief and far apart. Nothing for several years after the separation, only letters and gifts for birthdays and Christmas. The first visit had been arranged by James’s lawyer—the same fellow who sent the monthly installments— with Judith’s lawyer, who was not really Judith’s lawyer but a friend she occasionally dined with, and who gave her interests about as much attention as he accorded other charitable institutions. As the old saying goes, you get what you pay for.

  During that first memorable visit Jimmy had been bitten by a poodle in James’s care. The dog, it turned out, was not suffering from feelings of deprivation at having been moved to downtown Chicago from his Iowa farm, as James had assumed. He had rabies. Jimmy had spent the rest of his filial visit in Billings Hospital, screaming for his mother every time the doctor stuck a needle in his stomach. Judith had flown to Chicago to hold his hand and bring him home as soon as they’d let her. In the hospital cafeteria she had emptied a bowl of carrot soup over James’s head and had to be restrained by the nursing staff from beating him to death with the blue plastic tray.

  The next, and last, visit was two years later, and much less adventuresome. They had had a minutely scheduled timetable with outings to the Art Institute, Frank Lloyd Wright’s home and studio, Lincoln Park Conservatory, the Shedd Aquarium, and a daylong excursion to the Museum of Surgical Sciences and Hall of Fame. Then they had gone sailing on James’s new 24-foot yacht, with his current belle, and confirmed that Anne had inherited her mother’s tendency for seasickness. Anne might have mentioned this before they took off across Lake Michigan, but didn’t want to talk to her father about something so personal. After all, she barely knew him.

  Afterward, when Judith asked Jimmy how they had gotten along with their father, all he said was “He runs one hell of a tour.”

  I realize, in hindsight, that we were not yet ready for one another then. Now we are. When I spoke to Jimmy on the phone last weekend, I knew the time was right. He needs me. I expect the same is true of Anne, too, but perhaps her needs are less pressing than Jimmy’s. And this is as it should be. A boy needs a role model—

  Oh no. Not a role model!

  —and no matter how hard you’ve tried, you cannot be that for him. Don’t jump on your high horse, Judith, I’m not being critical. You’ve done a fine job bringing them up. But Jimmy is nearly a man himself now. It is my turn to do my duty—

  No amount of port could alleviate that line. And, knowing James, he would truly have conned himself into his new role. He would probably have had a faraway look in his eyes as he penned those words. She’d been half expecting it, since his last garbled call about getting Jimmy interested in animal science. For Christmas he had sent the two kids a huge aquarium—perhaps a reminder of the Shedd—personally delivered by the owner of Exotic Aquarium Services. Luckily, all the fish had died within three weeks so Judith didn’t have to remember to feed them any more. Anne had flushed their limp, slippery bodies down the toilet and they had converted the aquarium into a major-league flowerpot that now happily housed the philodendrons.

  —and I hope I can count on your help, or that at least you will not throw obstacles in my way. While I’ve not been of much assistance to you, myself, these past few years—

  Closer to ten, actually...

  —I do intend to do my share now. There is a convention of small-animal vets in Toronto next week. I will be arriving Monday evening, the 2nd, and expect to stay for two weeks. I’ve already mentioned my plans to Jimmy and Anne. They have agreed to dine—

  Dine!

  —with me at the hotel Monday night. I beg you, Judith, not to make it difficult for them.

  Yours,

  James

  She followed her nose into the kitchen, took Betty Crocker out of the oven, and loosened it around the edges. While waiting for it to cool, she checked the school calendar. March 2nd really was next Monday. Under the date, next to Jimmy’s swim tryouts, in Anne’s neat blue pencil it said DAD.

  She set to frosting half of the chocolate cake, cut it into bite-sized chunks, and ate it.

  Then she vacuumed the living room, vigorously cleaned the upstairs toilet bowl with Sani-Flush, and shoved a load of Jimmy’s shirts and underwear into the vintage 1960s washing machine in the basement.

  When none of this worked, she dialed Marsha’s number.

  Marsha and Judith had been friends since Grade 7 at Bishop Strachan School for girls. Back then, they had been best friends, so close the head prefect suggested they not be allowed adjoining desks—they would be too distracting for each other. Years later, the friendship deepened as their paths diverged— Marsha scaling the executive ladder on the New York publishing scene, Judith eking out a meager living from words in Toronto.

  “Judith, for Chrissakes, what’s happened?” Marsha’s reassuringly familiar, wonderfully deep, amused voice was full of concern and expectation.

  Already Judith felt better. Marsha’s voice usually had that calming effect on her.

  “Nothing yet, but it’s all about to. James is coming, if you can believe it. He is planning on relating to Jimmy and Anne, and he wants to be a role model. He actually thinks Jimmy needs him, and he wants to do his duty...”

  “He told you all that?

  “In a letter. What am I going to do?” She had failed to keep the whine out of her voice.

  “Nothing,” said Marsha after only a moment’s thought. “You’re going to sit it out, calmly. James has clearly hooked onto a new analyst. The last one was intent on having him identify his personal goals and needs, putting him in touch with his feelings, forcing his innermost fears and childhood deprivations to the surface, so he could wallow in them. Relating wasn’t on the menu... New shrink, new priorities. With luck, this too shall pass.”

  “But the kids?”

&nbs
p; “They’ll deal with it in their own way. Jimmy knows all about rabid beasts now, and you can’t go sailing in Toronto in March. They know he’s coming?”

  “Yes. They’ve known for a while. That’s another thing that bothers me. Why in hell didn’t they tell me?”

  “Because they’re smart. What’s the point of getting you all riled up a minute sooner than necessary? Who likes to break bad news?”

  “They want to see him.”

  “So? He’s their father. It’s not an issue of conflicting loyalties. Why shouldn’t they see him?”

  “Do you suppose Mother’s had something to do with this? She’s been talking about Jimmy needing ‘a father’s hand.’ ”

  “No point blaming the visit on Marjorie. Last time you won a battle with her you were 16, and that was a costly victory.”

  Ignoring her mother’s insistence that she spend the summer at her grandparents’ cottage in the Muskokas, Judith had gone to stay with Marsha’s family on the North Shore. She had loved the semblance of opulence at Marsha’s, the freedom afforded the three children. Although they had nannies well past the age when nannies were an acceptable alternative to parenting, none of them had to report in on what they did each day and why.

  Marsha and Judith had drunk beer and Colonel Hillier’s vintage port and cruised the beaches in Marsha’s new red convertible with custom-made license plates that said NO. 1 CAT.

  For three weeks afterward, Marjorie had refused to speak with Judith, and when the grandparents died a year later, she had managed to make her feel guilty for their deaths.

  “What am I going to do?” Judith repeated.

  “Make some tea. Don’t drink anything stronger than tea, and don’t eat sweets. You can’t handle crisis when you’re fat and hung over. Have your hair done, buy a new dress, go out with a friend, keep busy. By the way, how did you get along with Zimmerman?”

  “Went well, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Well... I felt as though he was orchestrating the whole thing. He had choreographed the interview, knew what he wanted me to ask, had an agenda for his answers, had me scheduled to see what he wanted me to see. He was overly cooperative. And I don’t see why.”

  “I warned you he was going to be cooperative. He has no reason not to trust you. After all, I arranged the introduction. From his point of view, that means you’re the safest ray of limelight he’s likely to get.”

  “Why?”

  “He used to know my father. He’s been a guest at my mother’s summer place on the North Shore. He thinks we move in the right circles to celebrate a man for his ability to make wads of money and keep it. Funny thing is, Mother has always despised him, but never let him know.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “With Mother, it’s anyone’s guess. Mine is she thinks he became too rich too fast. As third generation after the potato famine, she’s always had delusions of class.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Well enough to flirt with, but not enough for a serious conversation. Strong cocktail party stuff.”

  “I’m going to his home for dinner Sunday night.”

  “Super. That gives you an excuse to have the hair coiffed, buy the new dress...you know.”

  “Thank you, I’ll try,” Judith agreed reluctantly, before hanging up. She had never found hairdressers relaxing. The time they wasted annoyed her, as did the whole pretentious performance, and the results were rarely worth it.

  The doorbell had been ringing for a full minute or so, in rhythmically persistent bursts, and it wouldn’t stop. With her shoulder to the wall Judith could peer through the side window and just see the back of whoever was standing on the porch.

  There was no mistaking the angle of the shoulders nor the worn blue overcoat with the faded blue collar. She opened the door to view the rest of Detective Inspector David Parr leaning against the doorpost, his hand still on the bell, grinning.

  “It’s kind of hard to tell from here,” he said, “but that may have been a not unreasonable rendition of ‘Colonel Bogey.’ What do you say?”

  Judith shook her head. “More like a fire alarm,” she said. “Best part is when it stops.”

  “That’s part of ‘Colonel Bogey,’ too. May I come in?” he asked, standing first on one foot, then the other as he loosened his overshoes. “Not much hospitality in these parts today.”

  He kissed her, a little too casually, on the top of her head. They had been seeing each other for a good year or so now, yet the relationship had failed to settle into a comfortable groove. She ushered him into the living room. He threw his overcoat onto the back of the couch and himself into the armchair they both liked. He was looking at her expectantly. “Did you wonder how I knew you were here?” he asked.

  “Lucky guess?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Binoculars?”

  “Gave that up when I came off the regular beat. It’s the path to the front door. Snowed last night. About an inch of new snow. Pair of big duck boots going, pair of smooth boots also going—two kids. Heavy gumboots in and out: mailman. Nothing else by the front door. I know the back door’s stuck because I spent two hours battling with it last weekend. Deduction: you haven’t been out yet.” He hooked his forefinger into the collar of his shirt and loosened his tie. “Awful day,” he said with a sigh.

  “You can say that again,” Judith concurred, perching on the arm of the couch near his coat. “I was about to make tea. Would you like some?”

  “Tea?” he asked, looking at Judith with renewed attention.

  “Tea,” she said. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  David shrugged. “Like me to start the fire? Damn cold in here.” While the kettle boiled he scooped out the ashes and set up the logs. Jimmy had stacked them against the back door which was very likely the reason why the door was stuck in the first place. All damp oak.

  Judith brought in the mugs of tea and studied David’s back as he worked. He had broad sloping shoulders, slightly hunched forward; the muscles stretched the rough tweed of his jacket. She remembered the first time she saw him; she’d thought he looked more like a college professor than a policeman. He’d been wearing that old heavy tweed jacket with the extra-large brown buttons, and his shirt was creased, open at the neck where his tie was always askew. She had promised herself she wouldn’t fall in love with him, but it hadn’t quite worked.

  “Did you happen to be passing by?” she inquired.

  “Not exactly. I needed some respite,” he said, settling back on his haunches, watching the fire race through the newspaper before it caught the kindling. “I’ve been at the top of Spadina Road since noon. An old woman’s been found with her head bashed in. Killer used the poker and left it in the fireplace. No fingerprints. He went around wiping the door handles, the cups, even the cards. Very efficient.”

  “Cards?”

  “Tarot. She was a fortune-teller.”

  Judith shuddered. She still couldn’t get accustomed to David’s line of work.

  “What was her name?”

  “Cielo. Italian for heaven or sky,” Parr said. “With a soft c. Wasn’t her real name, though. She used it only for professional purposes. Did you ever consult her?”

  Judith shook her head. “Haven’t tried a fortune-teller in years.”

  “My second homicide today,” David sighed. “All that wretched paperwork. But at least with Madame Cielo we can hope for an early burial. The other one’s likely to drag on for weeks. No clue as to who the guy is. Someone went to the trouble of removing all his identification. Even the ring from his finger.” He didn’t tell Judith about the deep scrape marks along the knuckle of the man’s ring finger, nor that the joint had been pulled from its socket when the ring was wrenched off.

  He wandered into the kitchen for a second cup. “Judith,” he called over his shoulder, “I’m sorry about the other night.”

  “You are?”

  Judith was about to follow
him when the front door crashed in with the combined weight of Jimmy and his closest friend of the moment, Duke (his mother had a lifelong crush on John Wayne). They hurtled into the living room in a blurred movement of flailing arms and legs, yelling and laughing till they hit the couch. Jimmy tossed his knapsack into the corner smack up against the record player.

  “Hiya,” Jimmy said with a smirk. Recently he’d taken to smirking whenever he saw David and his mother together.

  “Boots. Boots!” Judith shouted in retaliation. “How many times do I have to tell you...”

  “Keep your shirt on, Mom,” Jimmy said, hopping back to the front door on one foot as he struggled to remove the boot from the other foot.

  Duke thumped down where he was, lifted both feet in the air, and began to untie his World War II American army specials. “Sorry,” he growled, in a voice of poignant hurt. After all, it wasn’t his house. Or his mother. Very likely his mother encouraged trampling mud into the carpets because it reminded her of the Old West.

  “C’mon,” Jimmy said, digging Duke in the side with his foot, and headed into the kitchen.

  “How about dinner Sunday?” David asked.

  “Where’s the peanut butter?” Jimmy yelled.

  “Don’t know,” said Judith. “Can’t,” to David.

  “Can we finish the ice cream?”

  “Saturday?”

  “I think so,” said Judith.

  “Thanks,” said Jimmy.

  “Creeps,” Anne asserted from the doorway, addressing no one in particular. She slammed the door behind her. “I’m definitely not going to the dumb dance now. Stupid little show-offs. No way.”

  “Ain’t Zitface going to be surprised?” shouted Jimmy from the kitchen.

  “What happened?” Judith asked, solicitously.

  David waved limply and made his escape.

  The phone rang.

  Anne clutched her books to her fast-developing chest. Her hair stood at angry attention, her chin jutted out as it used to when she was defiantly wading through the terrible twos.