Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

She had a point there. There’s nothing the police like more than an open-and-shut case; it’s neat, like balancing the books, and it makes the statistics look good. And most cases are open-and-shut. Why should Tony Caldwell’s be so different? Because his sister said so? If I killed someone, I’d hope that my sister would refuse to believe it, too, and defend me just the way Susan was defending Tony. Still, I was tempted to give it a try.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He’s staying with me. He just came out on bail. Our parents live in Sarnia, and Tony’s not supposed to leave Toronto.”

“Give me the details,” I said.

Susan sat back in her chair and spoke softly. “It was about one o’clock in the morning. Tony and Val — that’s Valerie Pascale, his wife — had been out, and they just got home.”

“Where do they live?”

“The Beaches. Or Beach. I never know which.”

“Either’s fine with me. Go on.”

“The neighbors said they heard them arguing loudly. Then, after it had been quiet for a while, Tony called the police and said his wife was dead.”

“Is that exactly what he said?”

“On the phone, yes, but when they came, before they warned him or whatever they do, they say he said, ‘I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Val.’ ”

That didn’t sound good. “Did they argue often?”

“They loved each other very much, but it was a pretty volatile relationship. Valerie grew up in Vancouver, but she was half French,” Susan added, as if that explained it all.

“Did Tony explain what he meant by the comment?”

“He said that he was apologising for the argument, that he was sorry the last words they’d had together were angry, and that he’d never have a chance to make up.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He admitted they’d had a quarrel, and said he stormed off upstairs. I know this might sound odd, Mr. Lang, but he had a shower. If you knew Tony, you’d know he’s a compulsive showerer, and he always does it when he gets upset. Ever since he was a kid. When he went downstairs about twenty minutes later, he found Valerie dead in the living room, stabbed. He says he doesn’t remember much after that.”

“You say she was stabbed. What about the knife? Did the police find it? Were Tony’s fingerprints on it?”

“It was just a kitchen knife, I think. He said he’d been using it earlier to cut the string on a parcel.”

“So his prints were on it?”

“Only because he’d been using it to cut the string.”

Again, it wasn’t looking good. “Did he confess?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Was there any other reason the police charged him so quickly, then?” I asked, almost dreading the answer.

“Well,” said Susan, shifting uneasily in her chair. “I suppose so... I mean, you know, when they got there... it might have looked bad.”

“Yes?”

“Well, when the police arrived, Tony was kneeling beside her body holding the knife, and he was covered in blood. Valerie’s blood.”

2

The police refused to talk to me and warned me off the case, as expected, so I decided to have a word with the accused next. Susan Caldwell lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the Yonge and Eglinton area, or “Young and Eligible,” as it was known locally because of the hordes of singles who filled the apartment buildings and frequented the restaurants, bars, and clubs every night. Susan was waiting when I arrived, and without further ado she showed me into her brother’s room.

Tony Caldwell lay sprawled on his bed reading a photographic magazine. He looked more Queen Street West than East in a white T-shirt with Japanese characters scrawled in red across the front, black jeans, hollow cheeks, and gelled, spiky blond hair. Handsome if you liked that sort of look, effeminate if you didn’t. I didn’t care either way.

I introduced myself, and he gestured me to a hard-backed chair by the window. We were on the twelfth floor, and below I could see lunchtime swarms of office workers hitting the trendy Yonge Street bistros and trattorias.

“I really didn’t do it, you know,” Tony said. “It happened exactly the way I told the police.”

“Tell me about that evening. Who was there? What were you doing?”

Tony propped himself up on a cushion. “Val and me, Jacqui Prior, my business partner Ray Dasgupta, and Scott Schneider and his wife Ginny. We were supposed to be celebrating. Jacqui had just been chosen as the new Cherub girl. It’s a whole range of soaps, bath oils, shampoos, and stuff due to be launched next year. Major multinational campaign. Anyway, Jacqui was the face, the look, and our studio got the contract for the still photography, so we all had a lot to celebrate. Scott is Jacqui’s agent, so he and Ginny were over the moon, too. You’ve no idea what a boost that will give Jacqui’s career — not that she’s done badly so far, but it’s a whole new ballgame for her. For all of us, in fact. It’s like we’ve all suddenly moved into the big time.”

“When did things start to go wrong?”