Carmichael property,” the real estate agent said. “For now. The owner is still refusing to sell. I don’t know why. The place is way too much for her, but the son says she’s still clearing it out and refuses to let anyone in.”
“So maybe in a few months …?”
“Personally, I think if you’re patient and you like the look of it, it will come up before the winter. She won’t want to be there all alone once the snow hits. The laneway is a nightmare to plough and the power goes off every time there’s a —” Harris broke off abruptly, as if recognizing the poor sales pitch he was giving. “Of course, most of the time it’s fine. And the son’s going to keep trying to make her see reason. He’s pretty determined. Wants to get back to Paris, and, between you and me, he sounds like he really wants the money.”
“But it’s his mother’s house, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah. But I guess she’ll be giving some of the proceeds to her kids. That’s what she always promised them, he says. I’ll let you know the minute anything changes.”
“Okay, but meanwhile we’ll keep looking elsewhere.” No point in appearing too eager. Harris started to rhyme off other properties, but she extricated herself and went to track down Bob.
She found him closeted with Inspector Green and Staff Sergeant Sullivan, but the door to Green’s new office was half open so she poked her head in. They were poring over court testimony Bob had to give the next day. Bob was a competent detective, maybe even thorough to a fault, but defence lawyers terrified him. Tomorrow he was up against the lion of the defence bar and he needed all the coaching he could get to prepare for cross-examination. All three detectives stared up at her in disbelief.
“Sorry,” she muttered when she realized her intrusion. “The real estate lawyer in Navan called. That house is still a no-go, for now.”
“What house?” Green said sharply.
Sue glanced at Bob. Should they risk angering the inspector once again? “The Carmichael house. We didn’t bother her,” she rushed on hastily. “A real estate agent there told us her son is trying to persuade her to sell.”
“Her son? Gordon?”
“I don’t know the name. He lives in Paris.”
“That’s Gordon. I didn’t know he was even in the country. But I can guess what his interest is.”
“Money. But the agent does think he can persuade her.”
Doubt and distaste flickered across the inspector’s face. Sue hesitated before throwing caution to the winds. Nothing ventured, nothing gained had always been her motto. “Are you still in touch with Mrs. Carmichael, sir? Could you —”
“No, Detective, I won’t. Marilyn Carmichael is a strong, sensible woman who will sell that house when and if she’s ready, no matter what that son of hers wants. She’s smart enough to see right through him.”
The hospital call came at eight o’clock the next morning, just as Green was tightening the lid on his travel coffee mug in hopes of escaping the house. The kitchen clamoured with life. Modo was sprawled strategically across the centre of the kitchen floor, hoping for tidbits, and Aviva was pulling her ears. Over her squeals, Tony chattered about his upcoming summer soccer day camp. The microwave hummed and plates clattered.
Hannah, as usual, had yet to put in an appearance. Much to Green’s consternation, she had taken a summer job waitressing at a Byward Market pub. After dusk, the heritage market area came alive with pub crawlers, street people, and prostitutes, along with the crooks who preyed on them all. In response to Green’s fatherly fretting, she had cast him a dark, knowing look that he didn’t dare question. A look that said she’d walked those streets herself and knew every trick.
Over the morning chaos, he didn’t even hear the ring, but Sharon glanced at the phone and sobered instantly. “It’s the Ottawa Hospital,” she said as she picked up.
It could have been
“So maybe in a few months …?”
“Personally, I think if you’re patient and you like the look of it, it will come up before the winter. She won’t want to be there all alone once the snow hits. The laneway is a nightmare to plough and the power goes off every time there’s a —” Harris broke off abruptly, as if recognizing the poor sales pitch he was giving. “Of course, most of the time it’s fine. And the son’s going to keep trying to make her see reason. He’s pretty determined. Wants to get back to Paris, and, between you and me, he sounds like he really wants the money.”
“But it’s his mother’s house, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah. But I guess she’ll be giving some of the proceeds to her kids. That’s what she always promised them, he says. I’ll let you know the minute anything changes.”
“Okay, but meanwhile we’ll keep looking elsewhere.” No point in appearing too eager. Harris started to rhyme off other properties, but she extricated herself and went to track down Bob.
She found him closeted with Inspector Green and Staff Sergeant Sullivan, but the door to Green’s new office was half open so she poked her head in. They were poring over court testimony Bob had to give the next day. Bob was a competent detective, maybe even thorough to a fault, but defence lawyers terrified him. Tomorrow he was up against the lion of the defence bar and he needed all the coaching he could get to prepare for cross-examination. All three detectives stared up at her in disbelief.
“Sorry,” she muttered when she realized her intrusion. “The real estate lawyer in Navan called. That house is still a no-go, for now.”
“What house?” Green said sharply.
Sue glanced at Bob. Should they risk angering the inspector once again? “The Carmichael house. We didn’t bother her,” she rushed on hastily. “A real estate agent there told us her son is trying to persuade her to sell.”
“Her son? Gordon?”
“I don’t know the name. He lives in Paris.”
“That’s Gordon. I didn’t know he was even in the country. But I can guess what his interest is.”
“Money. But the agent does think he can persuade her.”
Doubt and distaste flickered across the inspector’s face. Sue hesitated before throwing caution to the winds. Nothing ventured, nothing gained had always been her motto. “Are you still in touch with Mrs. Carmichael, sir? Could you —”
“No, Detective, I won’t. Marilyn Carmichael is a strong, sensible woman who will sell that house when and if she’s ready, no matter what that son of hers wants. She’s smart enough to see right through him.”
The hospital call came at eight o’clock the next morning, just as Green was tightening the lid on his travel coffee mug in hopes of escaping the house. The kitchen clamoured with life. Modo was sprawled strategically across the centre of the kitchen floor, hoping for tidbits, and Aviva was pulling her ears. Over her squeals, Tony chattered about his upcoming summer soccer day camp. The microwave hummed and plates clattered.
Hannah, as usual, had yet to put in an appearance. Much to Green’s consternation, she had taken a summer job waitressing at a Byward Market pub. After dusk, the heritage market area came alive with pub crawlers, street people, and prostitutes, along with the crooks who preyed on them all. In response to Green’s fatherly fretting, she had cast him a dark, knowing look that he didn’t dare question. A look that said she’d walked those streets herself and knew every trick.
Over the morning chaos, he didn’t even hear the ring, but Sharon glanced at the phone and sobered instantly. “It’s the Ottawa Hospital,” she said as she picked up.
It could have been
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