Part 3
The Merry Widow Waltz
13
I parked at the curb and headed up Abigail Brown's freshly shoveled sidewalk with a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was an alien on my home turf. When I was attending the parochial school a few blocks down the street St. Johns was one of North Winnipeg’s prime residential areas—a lushly-treed boulevard of stately dwellings occupied by middle-class Jews and WASPs; now it was a rooming house jungle of working class Orientals and non-working class aboriginals. Judge Brown's widow had inherited one of the few surviving single-family dwellings—a red brick dinosaur that squatted on its crumbling foundation like a dowager empress presiding over a vanished kingdom.
My prospective interviewee sounded receptive enough on the phone but my years in radio had taught me not to trust voices. Cats who came on like Gregory Peck could be one vodka away from the happy academy and chicks who sounded like Candice Bergen often looked more like Edgar Bergen (or Mortimer Snerd). I mean, what kind of broad would live in the Adam’s Family Mansion after the lord of manor was blown away? Brown’s widow was probably one of those constipated political wives who'd consumed so much rubber chicken she’d turned into plastic—an aging “Barbie” whose painted kisser had frozen into a perpetual grimace from laughing at the same jokes and smiling though the same speeches since Christ was a cowboy. Still, Honest Bob was a born-again socialist so the little lady might be one of those wide-bottomed earth mothers who was too preoccupied with saving the Newfoundland whale to bother shaving her legs.
I climbed the steps with a heavy heart and rang the bell. The door opened—followed by my mouth.
“Hi, you must be Val Virgo.”
Well that much was clear but who in the hell was she? Standing in front of me, in a bulky sweater and baggy blue jeans, was an athletic-looking chick with long dirty-blond haiar and an impish smile who looked about eighteen.
“Yes. Is Mrs. Brown in?”
Her laugh sent a shiver up my spine. “She certainly is. But call me Abby, everybody does.”
I was glad I hadn't asked for her mother. She ushered me into the vestibule and closed the door behind me. Then stood there, studying my face like it was a homework assignment. “So you're the famous Val Virgo; I was wondering what you'd look like.” I hoped she'd spare me the verdict. “I know it's rude to stare but you must be used to it.”
“Why should I be used to it?”
“Hey, Virgo's a big name in this town.”
“But not a big face.”
She frowned, thoughtfully. “Say, how do I know you're really Val Virgo, got any I.D., mister?”
You're the one who needs I.D., sister. “Don't you recognize my voice?”
“Oh I never listen to talk shows,” she said, waving away an invisible fly. “I think they're an insult to the intelligence. No offence,” she added as an afterthought.
I managed to keep a straight face. “How could I possibly be offended by a remark like that?”
“Sure, it's nothing personal.” She turned and headed in the direction of what I assumed was the kitchen. “Take off your jacket and make yourself at home, I'll put on some tea.”
I hung up my new down-filled jacket (after struggling with the zipper for an hour or so) with a much lighter heart. Maybe this investigative ghouling wasn't going to be such a drag after all. The living room brightened my outlook further. It had had the ambiance of a jolly monastery—white walls, beamed ceiling and a large bay window through which the autumn sun was streaming. The sparse furniture was unfinished wood, canvas and hemp. The only color in the room was an abundance of greenery sitting in a motley assortment of crude earthenware pots. One specimen was coiled around a ceiling beam like a python.
“That's a dieffenbachia.”
I turned to see my hostess struggling with a tray of crockery that looked to have been fashioned by the same ham hand responsible for the jungle-fruit receptacles. “Any relation to the Prime Minister?” I said, moving to relieve her of the load.
She laughed. “Not that I know of. But it’s very easy to grow; if you like, I can give you a slip.”
“Maybe I’ll take you up on the offer when I’m in the market for a roommate. How often do you have to clean its cage?”
Her laughter bubbled up like water from a mountain spring. “Oh don't worry, Mr. Virgo, it hasn't eaten a talk show host in months…no, over there on the coffee table”.
“Call me Val,” I panted, relieving the strain on my back.
Abby Brown sat down on the floor beside the low coffee table on which I had deposited the crockery, tucked a leg under her blue-jeaned butt and invited me to park my carcass in a canvas chair across from her. As I collapsed into it she hoisted the gargantuan tea pot and began to pour a steaming greenish liquid through a strainer into one of the gallon sized cups. “I hope alfamint is all right?”
Alfred who? “Sure, great.”
“Do you like herb tea?”
“It's all I ever drink.”
She looked at me dubiously.
“That's an interesting pot,” I said.
“Do you like it?” she said, brightening. “I threw it myself.” She waved her free arm around the room. “I threw all this stuff.”
Not far enough—you fell short of the trashcan. “No kidding.” Having exhausted my fund of small talk I had no choice but to take a swig of the liquid in my cup. “Mmmmm, that hits the spot,” I said, choking back my gag reflex.
Smiling happily, young widow Brown poured herself a cup of the vile brew and prattled on. “I don't know how people can drink black tea, it's full of caffeine. And coffee, ugghh!” She made a face. Then took a sip of tea and smiled again. “So, how's Crosswords these days?”
“Talk.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The show is called Crosstalk—and I wouldn't know how it's doing because I haven't been on the air since my… accident.”
Her face fell. “You're all right, aren't you? The paper said...”
“I'm fine. The police just think I should keep a low profile for few weeks.”
“Is that why you’re wearing those things?”
She was referring to my shades, which I had forgotten I was wearing. “No, these are purely cosmetic,” I said, and lifted them to illustrate the point.
She cringed. “Oh my goodness!”
“It looks worse than it is,” I said, stoically. If I’d known what a gratifying response a couple of shiners were going to provoke I'd have shown up on crutches. But I didn't have long to bask in her sympathy because the doorbell rang. I swore under my breath.
My hostess also didn’t seem to be too pleased. “Who on earth can that be?”
It was obviously someone she hadn't seen for at least ten years. While they stood in the hallway, catching up, I used the opportunity to pour the rest of my organic swill into the nearest flowerpot. I noticed a guitar case standing in the corner and went to take a look. It was a Gibson Hummingbird, the first “serious” ax I had ever owned.
“That was my friend Sheila,” young widow Brown said, bouncing back into the room. “She saw your car sitting out front...” When she saw what I was holding her cheery mood evaporated. “I'd rather you didn't play that,” she said, gently taking it out of my hands and laying it back it its cradle. I had no intention of messing with her old man’s baby; it was just something to do with my hands. Besides, its strings were deader than its late owner.
“You were saying something about your visitor seeing my car.
“That's right,” she said, brightening. “My friend Sheila lives across the street,” she gestured toward the window, “and when she saw your car parked in front of my house she thought she'd better make sure I was all right. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her who that old wreck belonged to.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I'm trying to keep a low profile, remember?”
Her smile was replaced by a remorseful frown. “That's right, I forgot,” she said, biting her lip. The clouds parted as quickly as they had formed. “Well, she still doesn't know what you look like. She was just dying to come in and meet you but I didn't feel like going through the hassle. Aren't I terrible?”
“Not really, nosy neighbors can be a pain.”
Her smile evaporated. “Don't you dare talk about my friend Sheila like that. She's been just like a big sister to me since Robbie...” she bit her lip and looked away. She couldn't bring herself to say it.
And I couldn't bring myself to believe it. It was a little too theatrical. But this kid must have been a “method” actress because the tears were dribbling down her cheeks like...tears. “Look, if you'd rather I came back another time…”
“No, it's okay,” she sniffed, freezing me in mid-crouch. “I don't mind talking about my husband.”
Mind? When Abby Brown got onto the topic of her beloved “Robbie” her off button ceased to function. She talked about the guy like he'd just gone down to the corner to buy a newspaper. She prattled on, endlessly. And didn’t tell me one thing that was the least bit helpful. I was hoping to get some personal information about the dearly departed on the slim chance that it might be a clue to something we had in common beside “celebrity”. But his adoring young widow, to whom, I discovered, he had been married less than three years, gave me the official biography. The late Mr. Justice Robert Woodard Brown was born in Winnipeg, to lower middle-class parents, was an outstanding athlete, president of his high school, went to Oxford on a Rhode scholarship, completed his law degree at the University of Manitoba (“He won the Gold Medal, you know.”) joined the Manitoba Attorney Generals Department (“…best Crown Attorney they ever had.”) was drafted by the New Democratic Party to run for the St. Johns seat in the Manitoba legislature (“…won in a landslide.”) served three terms the NDP cabinet (“Minister of Education; Minister of Northern and Indian Affairs, Attorney General…) finally he was appointed to the bench and presided over the abortive Native Justice Commission. The rest was history. “Do you know anything about real estate?”
I looked at her, strangely. “Real Estate?”
She nodded. “What's the market like?” She waved her hand around the room. “I want to unload this white elephant as soon as possible. Otherwise I'll be stuck in this end of town until the cows go home.”
I repressed a smile. “I believe it's until the cows come home.”
“Come, go, what's the difference—what does it mean, anyway?”
I laughed. “I haven't the foggiest idea.”
“It's not funny,” she said, petulantly. “You have no idea what it's like living alone in this creepy old place. I don't know what possessed Robbie to buy a house in this crummy neighborhood.”
“He probably wanted to live among his constituents.”
“Well, they're not my constituents. You should see some of the characters around here. I'm afraid to walk to the Seven Eleven for a carton of milk. If it weren't for my friend Sheila I'd probably starve to death.” She moved to the window and looked out at the gloomy mansion across the street. “I'm a prisoner in my own house.” As she pulled a tissue from a box that was sitting on the window sill I noticed another one on the mantle above the fireplace. And a third on the coffee table. Sarah Heartburn was prepared to have a breakdown in any part of the room. “Maybe I should just rent this place and take a trip,” she continued, having wiped her eyes and blown her nose. She dropped the soggy tissue into an ashtray (or candy dish or whatever it was supposed to be). “I could sure use a vacation.” She heaved a world-weary sigh, then looked at me quizzically. “How's the stock market these days—up or down?”
How the hell did we get onto the stock market? This kid jumped from topic to topic like a stone across a pond. “I have no idea,” I said with a shrug.
“Aren't you supposed to know these things, Virgo? What if a caller asks you for financial advice?” She shook her head in exasperation. “My broker tells me one thing, my lawyer tells me another…” she looked at her watch. “I wonder if he's in?”
Unfortunately, he was. As I sat there, listening to Abby Brown fill her solicitor's ear with complaints about the depressed real estate market, the leaky plumbing, the rudeness of repairmen and all the other tribulations that made the life of a defenseless widow such a trial, I noticed that her teeth, though small and even, were slightly on the gray side; her hair, which had seemed so thick and lustrous, was beginning to hang rather limply and her nose had a heart-shaped bulb on the end of it. Young widow Brown wasn't quite the flawless creature she had seemed when I first walked in. Still, there was no denying she had something—even if it was just her late husband's estate. From what I could gather, the life insurance alone—with a double indemnity payoff—was in the neighborhood of half a million. Even in a depressed real estate market that wasn't exactly a slum!
As my hostess attempted to wind up her husband's affairs over the phone I didn't feel guilty about eavesdropping. Young Sarah Heartburn was obviously putting on this performance for an audience of one. Apart from the sly little smiles she kept tossing my way she kept me abreast of the proceedings with frowns, scowls, grimaces, groans and sighs. She rolled her eyes, hung her head, commanded her tear ducts to fill and pulled her adorable face into a thousand weird and wonderful shapes. It was virtuoso performance. But even the original “Divine Sarah” couldn't have held an audience with that kind of material so I finally got up, walked to the window and looked at the scenery.
I caught sight of a shadowy figure in a third floor window of the gloomy mansion across the street. “Friend Sheila” no doubt. She seemed to be watching the house. I moved away from the window and began to browse through the framed photographs that were hanging on the wall. My eyes came to rest on a confident looking dude in cap and gown with shoulder length hair, a blond mouser and a disturbingly familiar face. I was still trying to figure out where I had seen it when Abby Brown came bouncing back into the room.
“Well, I guess I told him a thing or two! They're all the same...lawyers, accountants, bank managers...just because you're a widow they think they can lead you around by the...oh, you've found Robbie's graduation picture.” She came over to help me admire it.
“Is this your husband?”
She smiled, proudly. “Isn't he handsome?”
“When was this picture taken?”
“When Robbie was at law school. Y’know he won the Gold…”
“No, I mean what year.”
She looked at me, curiously. “1980, why?”
“I think I know your husband from somewhere.”
“Well, I should hope so.”
“No, I don't mean I know Judge Brown, I mean I know the young man in this picture.”
She took it down and studied it. Even an adoring widow could see the hirsute young lawyer was a far cry from the balding, jurist who'd recently been elevated to that great Court of Appeal in the sky. She looked at me, intrigued. “You think you knew Robbie when this picture was taken?”
I nodded. “Would you mind if I borrowed it?” Mind? Why didn’t I just ask for her right arm? “I'll guard it with my life,” I promised. “I just want to keep it for a few days.”
She clutched the sacred icon to her modest bosom and narrowed her eyes, suspiciously. “What for?”
“To refresh my memory.”
“Robbie and I had no secrets. Why can't I refresh it?”
Because a picture is worth a thousand words, honey, and the portrait you've been painting bears as much resemblance to a human being as those clay abortions do to functional pottery. “Look, I have a friend who's a professional photographer. I'll get him to make a copy of the picture today and bring back the original tomorrow.”
She considered the offer for several seconds. “All right, but you better take good care of it.” She picked up the framed photograph, turned and left the room. When she returned, a few minutes later, she was carrying a large Manila envelope. She reluctantly held it out. But, as I reached for it, she suddenly had second thoughts. “You're not going to say anything about this on that stupid radio show?”
“I've been grounded, remember.”
She nodded. “That’s right, I forgot.” She released the envelope, which felt like it contained a cardboard protector in addition to the photo, and brought me my jacket. I put it on and prepared to take my leave. Which isn't as easy at it sounds. “What's the matter is the zipper stuck?”
“It's all right,” I grunted. “I'll have it in a minute.” But I didn't; it had me. I pushed and pulled and muttered and sweated and managed to embed the flap a little more firmly into the teeth.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Yes, you can stop looking over my shoulder while I make an ass of myself.
I gave the tab a vicious yank and the zipper finally broke free, with a sound that made my heart sink.
Oh my, you've torn your jacket.”
“That's okay, it's an old one.”
“Looks pretty new to me. Take it off, I'll mend it.”
“Don't bother.”
“It's no bother, I'm a very good seamstress. If you come home with your jacket in that condition your wife will have a bird.”
“I'm not married.” She looked at me curiously. “I’m divorced?”
he frowned. Abigail Brown didn't believe in divorce. “I'm a one-man woman,” she informed me, gravely.
Well, she certainly didn't seem to be pining for the one that got blown away, I mused, as she bounced out of the room with my torn jacket. When she returned, five minutes later, I couldn't even see the mend. My less-than reliable source hadn't exaggerated about one thing—young widow Brown was a hell of a seamstress.
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