Tapas on the Ramblas (18 page)

"I think it's obvious, don't you?" Charity replied, unfazed. "Dottie warned me not to have another Charity Event after Morris was murdered!" She stopped there and glared at her rapt audience for an uncomfortable moment before continuing. "Oh yes, Morris was murdered! Dottie also warned me not to reveal my plans for my will, and of course, she was right, my lovely Dottie. But what's done is done. We are here, and we are on our way to Rome where I
will
change my will as I've already outlined to you.

This..." She raised the note high into the air, shaking it like an enemy's neck, "... changes nothing!

"In other matters," she continued as if she were reciting the items off a shopping list. "I was informed early this morning that due to some stupidity I don't care to understand, The Dorothy cannot dock in the Palermo harbour...something about too many ships already parked there or some such silliness... any way, we will be putting down anchor some ways offshore and utilizing tenders. With Mr. Gray's assistance I've managed to arrange for three local tenders for our exclusive use. As our departure from Palermo is not until eleven o'clock tonight, we have a great deal of time at our disposal, so this will give our family added flexibility in coming and going to and from the ship.

"Further, although there are three tenders, I will be restricting the use of one for myself, Dottie, Flora, Mr. Quant and his companion, Errall. Each tender has room for at least ten people, so the rest of you should have no problem. I'll leave those details up to you." With business complete, Charity lowered herself majestically into her waiting chair and nodded at a nearby staff member to commence serving breakfast.

I turned to Faith who was at my left and said, "Were you surprised by Charity's answer to your question?" I hoped that since there was only Errall and Faith's husband at the table that she'd feel some licence to speak freely.. if she was so inclined.

She looked at me, her face bathed in the gentle light of a morning sun. Again I was struck by her similarity to Charity. Nature is amazing in how it can take the same features and present them in a wholly unique way, a millimetre here, a millimetre there, slightly different colouring, subdue this, emphasize that and voila: a new person.

"Mr. Quant, I don't know how long you've been in the employ of my sister, but I've known her for eighty years and nothing she says or does surprises me."

"Did she ever?"

I saw the corners of her mouth turn up slightly. Her lips were painted a soft rose-petal pink. "Oh my, yes. Charity was...well, let's just say she was quite different than the other Wiser daughters. Everyone thought so. In the nineteen forties Canadian women were not expected to take over their father's business.

They were expected to get married. To a man or to God."

"Everyone was surprised when Charity took over Wiser Meats?"

Faith let out a small laugh, even sharing it generously with a tin-coloured waiter who had arrived to serve our breakfast: toast and porridge for her, a fruit plate and bran for me. "They weren't surprised.

They were shocked. Everyone expected her to fail. And quickly."

"Did you?"

She eyed me again, searching me out for my real intent. She must have decided it was innocent because she kept on. "I must admit I had my doubts about what she'd taken on. So did Hope. But our lives were so full we really didn't pay it much mind. We were rather selfish I suppose, thinking only of ourselves. We received our inheritances and carelessly went on with our lives."

"I wouldn't say becoming a nun is careless or selfish." I dumped the contents of my fruit plate over my bran and added milk.

She gave me a slight nod. "Thank you for saying that. I've always hoped that was true, despite my decision to leave God's service later in life. But poor Charity had so many struggles and worries. She went through it all alone with no one to help her or guide her or comfort her. Our parents were gone, Hope had her new husband and I had my calling.

"You see, Charity thinks I don't know what she went through with our father's business. But I do. I know how difficult it must have been for her to provide us with our inheritances when there wasn't any money. At the time it meant little to me. All I was interested in as a young woman was serving God.

Money had nothing to do with that. But of course later, when Thomas and I left the church, married and began raising a family, I was ever so grateful for it. Without it I...well, we wouldn't have survived. No one would hire us: two people in their forties with little on our resumes other than knowing how to say the rosary. We had two children to feed and clothe and school. The Wiser money made that possible. Thomas and I, we are poor now, it's true, but only in dollars. We have our family-children and grandchildren. That is what enriches our lives, every day.

"You can see, Mr. Quant, how important I think that is, family? To me it is the joy of the world. But I've come to understand that isn't true for everyone. So I can well imagine how difficult it must have been for Charity, with her complicated life, to capitulate to our wishes and raise that child."

"I don't under stand... she capitulated to your wishes?"

Faith reached for some water and swallowed hard. "Oh dear. I don't think this is appropriate breakfast conversation, do you, Mr. Quant?"

"It would help me," I tried to convince her to go on. "It would help me in my role as her advisor, to understand the parts of her past that she is too.. .proud, too modest to speak of."

"She didn't want to keep John," Faith said then, careful to keep her voice low. "She said it was because she was too busy keeping Wiser Meats afloat, but really.. .really.. .oh, poor Charity, really she was embarrassed at having been impregnated out of wedlock and I suspect.. .now I don't know this for certain, Mr. Quant.. .I suspect that the baby's father was a disreputable man who may have forced himself upon my sister."

The words were surprising but made a lot of sense. Charity's dossier mentioned her son, John, but revealed nothing about his father or how she came to be pregnant. Although Faith was only guessing, the chances were good that her guess was accurate. I could easily imagine that in the 1940s, a young woman, attractive, a lesbian, would consider the world of business preferable to marrying the first man (or any man) who came her way. It was a handy cloak of secrecy beneath which to hide. But such a woman, and owner of one of Canada's largest businesses, would have been an irresistible challenge to a certain type of man.

"You believe she was raped?" I whispered back.

Instead of answering my new question, she reverted to my last, less troubling one. "Hope and I convinced Charity to have the baby and keep him. So she did. She named him John."

I didn't know how much of our conversation he'd overheard, but Thomas noticed his wife becoming upset and laid his big hand over her petite, shaking one. "Dear, are you all right?"

She nodded and gave her husband a tight smile. When she turned to me her eyes were damp. "We were wrong, Mr. Quant. I can't believe I would ever say it would be wrong for a mother to keep her newborn child but.. .Charity could not be a mother to that child. She had no desire or natural talent for it, and that truth haunts her to this very day."

I nodded and gave her an empathetic look. "I know John left home at an early age and that he and Charity didn't have much contact after that."

"That's true. Their relationship was not a close one. She blames herself, but I'm afraid much of the responsibility falls on Hope and me. Charity didn't want to have a child. We forced her."

"But you couldn't have known what she'd gone through with the child's father.. .if indeed it was what you suspect. You were giving her advice that was the best you knew how to give at the time."

"I thank God for Flora. She was...is like...a second chance. Even though it came by way of tragedy, here was a child Charity could raise and learn to love as her own. I thank the Lord for that."

"Perhaps we should enjoy our breakfast now?" Thomas suggested, looking directly at me with a stern expression.

But...but...but I have one more question to ask. It was time to be insensitive. I tried to ignore Thomas and asked Faith the big one: "Do you think someone in this room could be threatening to kill your sister?"

"Mr. Quant!" Thomas admonished me, his voice low but pressing.

Faith shook her head decisively. "Never. Not in this family.

Whatever it is that Charity believes is happening is all a mistake.. .a big mistake." "What ab..."

"Mr. Quant," Thomas cut me off. "I think that's enough." I nodded and looked down at my bowl of soggy bran, giving in to the ex-priest's suggestion. I considered what I had just learned. I certainly was gaining a better appreciation for the circumstances of Charity's life. Her self-prepared dossier had left out some important facts. What I hadn't learned was whether any of it spelled out a reason for murder.

Charity had chosen her tender-mates with care, only those people she trusted not to stick a knife in her back-literally. I was again being thrust into the role of bodyguard rather than detective. I'd have preferred to spend the day with other members of the family in order to continue my hunt for a suspect. But then again, what better way to identify a potential murderer than being in the hip pocket of the intended victim?

Given that The Dorothy wasn't leaving port until late evening, our group of five agreed to spend the first part of the day on board the ship. It gave us time to visit the spa or gym, or sun by the pool before meeting at the tender launch for a mid-afternoon trip into Palermo for some shopping and sightseeing to be followed by a late dinner.

I had a couple Wiser rooms yet to search and after breakfast I attempted to seek out opportunities to do so but was thwarted at every turn, never able to find ten safe minutes in which to carry out my foraging for clues. I finally gave up and tracked down Charity in a relatively secluded area off the pool deck. She was sitting alone on a chaise lounge shaded by an umbrella and a fantastically large-brimmed hat with a bold red tassel that hung almost to the ground and matched the wraparound she wore. She was reading a business periodical.

"I knew you'd come a-sniffing," she greeted me with a complicated smile that bore little warmth. "Sit if you must."

I did and then stared at her.

She stared back.

Finally, "Charity, you cannot go ashore."

That was all she needed. "Oh for the sake of Salome's seven veils!" Ewww boy, here it comes, beginning with an interesting turn of phrase. Did it represent Charity's hunger for someone's head on a platter? Mine?
"You
do not tell
me
what I can or cannot do, Mr. Quant. I employ you, do I not? Of course I do. Our contract says it's so. I don't mean to be harsh, I know you are only concerned for my well-being, I appreciate that, I truly do, but I will not be cowed by some cowardly sonofabitch who writes petty notes and hires Tunisian schoolboys to do his dirty work. I am not afraid, Mr. Quant, I am not afraid!"

I gave her words a few seconds to flow away on the morning breeze before saying, "Well, maybe I am."

"What! What? What are you talking about?" she sputtered.

"I've already told you, I am not a bodyguard. I will do my best to protect you, but I cannot ensure your safety. I am afraid that next time.. .and there will be a next time, Charity.. .either I won't be there or I won't be able to save you. We got lucky in Tunis, that’s all."

"Russell, pi..."

"Charity, understand this: Someone wants you dead. This isn't a game, this isn't just another Charity Event where you control what happens. You have no control here. I know that may be difficult for you to understand, but you have to try. You're right, I shouldn't tell you what you can or cannot do, but I will tell you
I do not want you to go ashore."

She nodded, then said. "But you will come with me?"

I nodded too. It was my job.

"And I hope you will try to understand why I must." She searched my face but did not find what she was looking for.

Charity reached into a nearby cloth purse and pulled out a piece of paper. It was the latest note. She held it out to me, her hand as steady as granite. "I thought you'd be asking to see this."

I took the note. Same block handwriting I'd yet to identify the owner of. Same FOD stationery. Same threatening intent, one which we had just decided to ignore.

After a light workout and lunch by the pool I decided to check out the ship's library, which also doubled as a computer room with several internet accessible machines. It was a cozy space, with wall to wall shelves of books, magazines and DVDs that passengers could sign out for use in their cabins.

I selected a computer station that offered some level of privacy and a comfy chair and settled in. I liked it here. Aside from an unobtrusive FOD staffer who manned the room in case anyone needed assistance, there were only one or two other people meandering throughout the room. I liked having a bit of space and quiet time to myself. Sharing a room is not all it's cracked up to be. And I liked being in front of a computer. It reminded me of my office at home, a room that I love spending time in. I pushed a few buttons to get to my favourite internet browser and played around with some research on the Wisers. It’s one of my standard investigative techniques: putting out feelers that sometimes return useful information, sometimes don't-but worth a shot. For the millionth time I wondered how anyone ever found out anything before the internet. Encyclopedias? What are those?

I was about done when a voice slithered over my right shoulder, "I know what you're up to."

I felt the skin on my skull shift a few millimetres. I swivelled in my chair and came face to face with Kayla Moshier, looking a bit smug, slouched in front of the computer monitor at a neighbouring station.

She must have come in without my hearing her. "Excuse me?"

"You're like a cop, right? Or a spy, a detective? Right?" Her voice was slippery and purposefully sly.

So the teenager was cleverer than I'd given her credit for. "Why do you think that?" I asked with wide, innocent eyes and a tilt of my head.

"I've been watching you." She adjusted one of the straps of the bikini top she was wearing with a pair of too-tight cut-off jeans. "And you're gay too."