CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

10:00 pm Thursday June 29th

Rosedale

Detective Murdoch breezed up on his motorcycle to a stately home in posh Rosedale just before 10 p.m. Glancing through the front window, he saw a party already going strong, the sounds of the Club Royal Orchestra's The Sheik audible from the street.

Despite the music and loud chatter, he hadn't put his hand up to knock before a door swung open and a butler ushered him in, wordlessly taking his hat. Walking into the room, he searched for a familiar face to get his bearings amongst a throng of men and glamorously dressed women, nodding thanks when handed a glass which turned out to be of champagne. Oddly, he did not feel the urge to down it, but he carried it anyway to have something to do with his hands while he looked around.

"Detective! How wonderful you came! Julia didn't tell me, that devil, she's a sly one!" the unmistakable voice of Ruby Ogden exclaimed. "I am on my way...er...out, but, come, you must meet mother - she'll be thrilled you're here," Linking her arm through his, Ruby dragged him into a small parlor where a mature, yet striking woman stood in front of a painting, excitedly gesturing towards it.

"Mother, you must meet Detective Murdoch, one of Julia's colleagues," Ruby interrupted.

The woman raised an eyebrow as though she were sizing him up before smiling; he could immediately see Ruby in the woman's round, classical features and he squirmed inside under her gaze. He set the champagne down quickly, embarrassed to have it in his hand.

"Lucinda Ogden." The woman held her hand out for him and he bowed to graze it with his lips as if he were a gentleman caller and not a detective on police business. "My, Ruby, you and Mick weren't exaggerating when you said he was attractive...and you both tell me he has a mind to match? That's simply unfair," she drawled.

They're discussing me with her?!

Though it had been a long time since he'd been in polite society, he automatically came up with an appropriate comeback. "I believe you should be concerned at the exaggeration of which Dr. McDaniels and your daughters are capable."

With a musical laugh, Lucinda Ogden shook her head. "I believe I can see with my own eyes, Detective."

He cleared his throat, wanting to move on as quickly as possible. "I do hate to intrude upon your hostessing duties, but this is not a social call. I have some questions about an investigation, and I believe you possess information that could assist me greatly."

"Of course, Detective. I'd be happy to tell you anything I know, but could it wait a few minutes? I'm about to introduce some artist friends...which are the whole reason for this soiree…" she explained with a wave of her elegant hand.

"Of course, Mrs. Ogden," he agreed as the woman nodded and moved into the main salon. Miss Ruby Ogden disappeared, leaving him unchaperoned with nothing to do but look at the artwork.

Staring at the painting Mrs. Ogden had been showing off, Murdoch didn't recognize the artist, but there was something compelling about the subject - an attractive young woman wearing little else but a scarf strategically wrapped around her body, head thrown back in ecstasy as she sat in a garden swing. The painting was sensual, suggestive...not entirely unlike the images he'd looked at with Julia Ogden in the Jackson's apartment. He closed his eyes as those memories flooded back, his mental images conflating themselves with the painting. A lithe body and curly strawberry blonde hair…

"Maxfield Parrish." The contralto voice belonging to the other Miss Ogden was at his ear. "It's called 'The Swing: Summer.' Quite a striking image, don't you think?"

He turned to acknowledge her. "Good evening...um, Julia." She was wearing yet another diaphanous dress, this one light green.

"The woman is wearing something, yet practically nothing, leading one to ask why she bothered. All that hair is a striking contrast to the palest of sky behind her… The image certainly reminds one of something though I can't seem to put my finger on it...can you?"

He returned only a faint smile.

"What a surprise to see you here! Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you came, but knowing you, this is not a social call," she said, taking a sip of her own champagne.

"No. I believe your mother has information on a person of interest. I hope she will be able to offer me some insight," he assured her.

"Understood. Allow her to make her speech, and then I'll bring her to you myself...if there's not anything else I can get you…" she asked, a glint in her eye.

Those Ogden women don't hide their intent, that's for sure! Keeping his wits about him was going to be necessary. He waved her off.

"Are you sure? Have you eaten yet? At least let me get you some food while we wait," she offered again.

As if on cue, his stomach growled. "I suppose it's been a while since I ate," he agreed as she led him to the kitchen. She produced a selection of tiny canapes and a lemonade which he thankfully accepted in exchange for the champagne he'd left behind.

"As soon as she's done speaking and I'll bring her back here, if that's all right," Julia explained.

Wiping a crumb from his mouth, he nodded. "That will be fine," he said, finishing the lemonade and meeting her gaze. "This is not the first kitchen I have been left waiting in."

Excusing herself, she left the kitchen, and he relaxed somewhat, still thinking how to phrase the questions he needed to ask Mrs. Ogden. Women were a challenge for him at the best of times, and given that this was a powerful, popular woman in Society who just so happened to be the mother of his new coroner made it particularly tricky. He took out his notebook and reviewed the questions he'd rehearsed when, as promised, Julia returned with her mother.

Julia grabbed a bottle of champagne. "I will leave you two to conduct business, while I enjoy the yard."

"Thank you, Dr. Ogden. Mrs. Ogden, I promise this will be brief, but as I explained to your daughter, I believe you may have some insight that will help me in an investigation. You are not a suspect," he reassured her.

"Oh, relax, Detective. I will be more fascinating a hostess if I am thought to have knowledge of a police investigation, and disappearing for a few minutes does lend one an air of mystery… particularly when I am seen to be alone with such a handsome man...Perhaps the guests will assume you and I are up to something scandalous," Mrs. Ogden laughed delightedly.

Now, I see the resemblance to Julia.

Thrown off balance by the woman's humour, he decided if it helped her cooperate with him, he'd use it. Forcing a smile, he leaned in. "I understand you are an art connoisseur, and I'm curious about one painting and one guest in particular…"

"Which was…?"

"A young woman named Miss Lydia O'Mara made a scene at one of your salons a little over three months ago. She was upset about a painting you were displaying at the time."

"Oh, yes! I remember a young lady did cause quite a stir. I don't recall who dragged her along, but she'd been rather out of her element, poor dear, indifferent to the art until she heard me tell another friend the name of the painting. She asked me to repeat it, twice. She looked as if I'd slapped her then asked to see the painting off the wall. I was so taken aback I agreed. She looked it over, front and back then just ran off without even saying goodbye."

"Could you give me her description?"

"I can do better than that! One of the artists here is a portraitist who wanted to draw her - so fresh faced he called her - so I am sure he has a sketch or two. In fact, he may be able to do a nice rendering of her. How exciting! Let me go fetch him."

As it turned out, the artist had a few sketches of Miss O'Mara at his studio and agreed to complete one and deliver it to the station house. He thanked Mrs. Ogden, satisfied with the evening's work and set out to look for Julia to thank her as well for her assistance.

He found her in the backyard with her champagne, gazing at the stars as she sat on a swing in her flowing dress, the image so similar to the painting hanging in her mother's salon. Jazz music from the party wafted onto the lawn and mixed with the smell of lilies.

"Was my mother helpful?" she asked, taking a sip.

"Very much so. I have new leads to explore tomorrow, and hopefully you will have a quiet day to catch up with all of your work."

"Let's also hope the poisoner will take some time off, or better yet, imbibed a bit of their own product and saved us all the trouble." Her laugh sounded bitter. She dipped her head. "I suppose I have offended you; it's understandable you'd like to bring them to justice yourself."

"I would." After a long silence, he felt compelled to end it. "It is a beautiful, warm night." He gestured to the southwest where the moon was setting.

"It is... just as it was ten years ago tonight," she giggled.

"Oh? What happened ten years ago?"

"Let's call it my first acquaintance with the Toronto Constabulary...when I was arrested." Her laugh this time was lighter, swallowed by her next sip of her champagne.

"What heinous crime were you charged with?" he wondered, half curious and half concerned.

"Well, it was a hot night, and some friends and I decided to do a bit of swimming at Hanlan's Point."

"Since that is not a crime, I'll wager there was more to it than that."

"We decided lack of bathing costumes was not going to stop us. In retrospect, we were too loud and disturbed nearby residents, who called the constabulary on us," she moved a slender shoulder in a shrug. "In some ways, it seems more than a decade ago...it seems a lifetime ago." She sighed, setting her glass down.

"A lot happened in those ten years...many lifetimes ago, in fact," he agreed, offering her a hand up from the swing. She remained close to him, her scent mingling with the flowers.

"Did you enjoy my mother's new painting?" she whispered.

"Were you planning on fully recreating that painting here in the garden?" he asked, enjoying the faint blush that appeared on her cheeks at the risqué suggestion. Perhaps he'd misjudged her, reconsidering his earlier thinking about Dr. McDaniels.

"That would certainly create quite the scandal, wouldn't it?"

"It's your garden…"

"Is that a challenge? You should know that I don't back down from a dare?" she teased back.

"Of that I have no doubt." he retorted. I don't need to dare you when I have an imagination, do I? Laughing, he shook his head, hardly recognizing his own wayward thoughts.

In return, she said nothing, but looked as though she were seriously considering it. Before she spoke, they both heard Dr. McDaniel's voice called from the French doors. "Oh, Julia darling, are you out here?"

He noticed a look of disappointment cross her face as he took a self-conscious step back. "Good night, Julia. I'll see you tomorrow," he bid her, and retreated before he got himself in deeper than he should.


2330 hours - Thursday June 29th

222 Ontario Street

Murdoch whistled while he put his motorcycle away in the shed off the back alley, a catchy refrain from Mr. Berlin's Some Sunny Day stuck in his head, the last song he heard as he left the Ogden family estate. He made his way across the small garden to his kitchen door, humming to himself. He had the name of the gallery who rented the painting, to visit tomorrow. He would soon possess a sketch of a red-haired Miss O'Mara to use for his investigation, certain she was the same woman Mr. Landswell's ex-fiancée reported seeing at Landswell's office - the same woman who wrote to Landswell, that Brackenreid said was asking for help. On the way home, he'd used the time to let his mind work on the mountain of information he'd been collecting, letting a few things settle into place, hoping more was going to fit together.

Julia was right earlier today, he said to himself. Policemen do not like coincidences, not at all. The spectre of career-ending scandal aside, he was optimistic as he used his key in the door.

Once inside, he inhaled and savoured the smell of this morning's bacon and tomorrow's bread proofing in a cool corner. A small plate of bread and cheese was left for him under a glass dome. "Bless you, Mrs. Kitchen!" he whispered, folding the napkin into a bindle and taking his snack with him. He went quietly through the dining room to the front parlour without turning on a light, his feet soft on the hall carpet so as not to disturb Mrs. Kitchen in her rooms on the main floor. In light from the streetlamp coming through the transom above the front door, he scooped up his mail and took the stairs past his second-floor boarders to his private rooms on the third floor.

Moving his legs up the two flights of stairs was a tonic. He was exhausted, yet his mind remained active and engaged in solving the vexing problems before him, simultaneously trying to explain several intertwined factors:

Number one: How to avoid the whole-sale corruption scandal about to swallow him and Brackenreid.

Number two: How and to where did Rocco Perri possibly 'disappear' the Royal distilling operation, if the Hamilton police's theory is correct?

Number three: How (and where) was the poisoned alcohol created and disseminated?

Number four: What relevance, if any, was there to Father Doulton being a veteran?

Number five: How was a purportedly stolen oil painting motive for Landswell's murder?

Number six: What had any of it to do with Howard Knox?

His instinct was that there was something just - off about it all. Try as he might, he was struggling with making all these pieces of information form a coherent theory of the crime - or was it crimes? It was like a missing square or sliding block puzzle - one of the few entertainments he allowed himself - but one which was made improperly, refusing to resolve into the correct shape.

His brain clicked along with it anyway. He opened the door to his rooms at the top of the stairs and flicked the light switch on. When he purchased the house from the newly widowed Beatrice Kitchen, installing her as housekeeper and manager for the boarding house operation, the first thing he did was create rooms for him and Liza in what had been the attic - two small bedrooms, a small sitting room and a bathroom - just enough for him and Liza to start their family. Liza had been so thrilled to select the paint and wallpapers, choose the carpet runners for their little 'nest' as she called it. Tonight, as most of his days and nights, he ignored all of it.

He went directly to his bedroom, turning on another light and the electrical air-cooling unit he built and installed there, which started its work with a low hum. He removed his hat and suit jacket, placing them carefully aside in his wardrobe, then unbuttoned his collar and took his cufflinks out of his sleeves, also carefully setting those aside. His mail and Mrs. Kitchen's thoughtful snack he tossed on the bed while he finished disrobing and used the bathroom. Feeling more settled he sat on the bed to go through his post before turning in, enjoying the cold air blowing on him, nibbling on the bread and cheese which were delicious and more to his taste than the exotic fare served at Lucinda Ogden's soiree. More filling too.

He looked at his bedside telephone, thought about calling Brackenreid, then sighed. Why disturb the boss when tomorrow would do? Especially because if today was a long one, tomorrow was shaping up to be worse. Sighing in exhaustion, he leaned back and let his mind drift to Julia, allowing his imagination to picture her as the painting, a similar expression to one Julia would have in ecstasy…

His breath shallow, he swallowed as ripples cascaded through his body. Rattled by the sensations he jumped up and ran to the bathroom, sticking his head under the sink tap to clear his mind. Drying his hair off, he breathed deep to purge any remaining fantasies and sought distraction in the mail, sorting through it. He was happy to see a cheque from one of his patents, setting bills aside, when his hand came across a thick envelope postmarked from Toronto and the law offices of Jennings and Ford.

His good mood fled. He dropped it on the bed and pushed the envelope away from him with a finger, contemplating ignoring it, leaving it alone. Why deal with it now? What's another few days, give or take three years?

He spun the gold band on his left hand with the thumb and first finger of his right - the hard circle used to be a symbol of their indissoluble bond. It wasn't the first time he contemplated being disconnected from her, but it was painful all the same. Sometimes he'd take the ring off - a few hours, overnight, just to see - always returning it to his hand. The envelope lay on the coverlet, mocking him. Without even opening it, he knew it was going to contain the necessary paperwork to divorce Liza. He hated to open it, yet he just couldn't look away.

Coward! It's not a snake! Murdoch opened it and read the cover letter, full of logic and legalese. By the time he was done he was utterly deflated.

Slowly, dully, like being dragged along on Mr. Ford's assembly line against his will, he turned off the cold air, got up and showered, re-bandaged his hand, re-dressed and went downstairs, absently taking the bread and cheese with him in his pocket as he locked the back door and headed for the alley in the hot night air.

He left his wedding ring upstairs on the top of his highboy dresser.