***
Kate had no problems locating Catherine Stone’s home. It was two blocks around the corner from where she grew up. She drove the unmarked Ford sedan past her homestead and was surprised at jab of disappointment at the sight of the empty driveway. She waved to Ruth Jamieson, her family’s life-long next door neighbour, who, with trowel in hand, was walking towards her perennial bed.
Mom’s probably off to one of her speaking engagements and Dad, of course, is with his cigar smoking cronies at the once a month cholesterol packed breakfast. She was scheduled to meet with them this evening for a family dinner party and made a mental note to call and give her regrets once she parked the car.
As she drove past the sweeping manicured lawns, wrought iron gates, Victorian and Early Colonial mansions, she remembered growing up and playing in what was a much less populated neighbourhood then – although the area was the last one in the city where people could still buy a home built on a three acre property.
She turned right at the end of the street, drove two blocks and turned left on Mullen Drive. If she had forgotten the street address, it wouldn’t have mattered, the small group of media and journalists gathered in front of the large mansion would have been a clue.
Unlike the majority of her colleagues, Kate didn’t have a problem with the media or journalists. Granted there were the sleaze balls but those types are found in every profession. She respected the good ones; the ones who reported responsibly, protected their sources, valued their readers’ opinions.
She had never experienced a problem with any of them but then again, her father and his family have owned and operated the city’s largest newspaper for two generations. She parked the car, walked past the group, smiled and waved. Some smiled back, some nodded, said hello, others ignored her.
She pushed the bell. No one came. She lifted her hand to ring again when the door opened. A tall, angular woman, dressed in ivory silk pants, a black silk blouse, ivory coloured heels, with mint green jewellery and matching scarf, extended her hand.
“You must be Detective Sgt. Fraser. I’m Nora Jamieson, Catherine’s sister. Please come in.”
Kate stepped into the large, marble foyer.
“Catherine is in the library. If you’ll just follow me.”
Spoken like the humble servant rather than the sister, Kate thought.
She followed Nora down the cavernous hallway, stopping behind her at the door the right. Nora gave a quiet knock before entering into the library. Kate maintained her discreet distance from Nora, taking the time to gaze around the library.
The room was exquisite with its built in cherry wood cabinets displaying books, blueprints and maps, the overstuffed leather couches and chairs, and the floor to ceiling French Doors draped in velvets and silk. Directly across from the entrance to the room stood a red brick fireplace that commanded attention; it was twice as wide as it was long and family photos were scattered across length of its mantle. From the hearth, the tang of low burning apple wood filled Kate’s senses with nostalgic memories of Christmas, roasted chestnuts and presents.
Catherine sat in one of a pair of wing chairs placed adjacent to the fireplace. Kate advanced quickly before the woman rose, introduced herself and offered her condolences. The widow invited her to sit in the other wing chair and turned to speak with her sister. Kate studied Catherine’s profile. She was subdued rather passive looking; her features, like her sister’s, were sharp, angular, the high cheek bones emphasizing her deep set eyes. As she spoke to Nora, her long, slender hands swept through her coiffed blonde hair as if searching for stray strands. She wore a simply cut black dress, black shoes with wedged heels, pearl earrings and a pearl necklace.
The woman doesn’t shout conservative, Kate thought, she screams its. Another perfect image of a woman fast frozen in the 50’s - dutiful wife, dutiful mother, and dutiful hostess. Where has she seen that 50’s look recently? Then she remembered where she had seen the resemblance. Eleanor, the company’s set designer, in her navy blue and whites.
Kate accepted Nora’s offer of tea.
“You have a beautiful home. How long have you lived here?”
“Thank you. I’m glad you like it. I enjoyed working with Antoine; have you seen his work on the interior of the Art Museum? Brilliant. We’ve lived here for a little over three years now. Jeffrey loves, loved it, as well. We were both sorry to have to leave it.”
“I understand you were moving back to New York.”
“Yes. Walter Thomas, you may have heard of him, he was behind all those Shakespeare dramas in the 80’s, made Jeffrey an offer her couldn’t refuse. He deserved the honour, he’s, ah, he was, a very talented Director.”
“I understand you were an actor at one time.”
A hint of a smile. “Yes, many years ago. Once we started our family, I retired from the theatre. It was no contest. I’m a homemaker at heart.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Two, Edward and Sarina. They’re both on their own now. Sarina’s studying art design in Paris. Edward is working for an engineering firm in Minnesota. I’m expecting them home sometime tomorrow.”
Nora entered the library and placed the tray filled with a silver tea pot, delicate, paper thin, china teacups with matching side plates, tiny crystal milk and sugar containers and delicious looking sandwiches, on the table between the sofa and wing chairs.
Twenty minutes or longer, Kate guessed, had passed as the three women busied themselves with tea, sandwiches and polite conversation before Nora, gathering up everything, excused herself and left
