Stella and my aunt Marie pointed accusatory fingers at Gabriella, while in front of them Annie bled to death.
I woke with my heart racing, sweat drenching my T-shirt. By the time I’d calmed down, I was thoroughly awake. Jake was sleeping soundly next to me. It was five-fifteen; dawn was coming. I might as well get back to my own place and face the day.
While I waited for the espresso machine to heat, I turned on my laptop to look at the messages from my answering service. Forty-seven media queries had come in overnight, including four from Murray. I sent my service an e-mail, saying to tell everyone I had no comment and that I would not be returning press calls.
When I checked my e-mail, I found hundreds of messages. Seven from Murray, ranging from belligerent to begging (Come on, Warshawski, you know the rules of the game , don’t pull this kind of stunt on me . . . Please, Vic, we’ve been friends for so many years, don’t shoot the messenger). He was right, but I wasn’t feeling very forgiving yet.
I recognized some names from local news shows, but many of the addresses included country codes: Serbia, Russia, Kazakhstan—Boom-Boom would be pleased to know his fame lived on in the hockey world.
Pierre Fouchard had also left an e-mail. I see you’ve turned your phone over to the lawyers, but what is this filth they are spreading about Boom-Boom? I talked to Bernadine, but she can tell me nothing. Call me, Victoria: I can be in Chicago in two hours. Those of us who played with Boom-Boom know this is the worst of lies, so tell me what you need. Muscle? Love? Money? All at your disposal.
I reached him at the Canadiens front office.
“Victoria! These crapules , what are they trying to accomplish?”
“I don’t know. The mother did major prison time for the crime, so I can’t understand why she’s trying to accuse Boom-Boom now. Did Boom-Boom talk about the murder when it happened?”
“This I am trying to remember since last night, when I am first seeing the news. He was very shocked, of course, because she was a girl from his childhood, and I am thinking there was a brother, is that right, that they were friends. I am not remembering much, but, Victoria, if he had said to me, Pierre, I have murdered this girl, that I would not have forgotten.”
“Likely not,” I agreed dryly. “The mother, Stella, is claiming she found a diary that her daughter kept, and that Annie was writing about how jealous Boom-Boom was, and how she was afraid of him.”
Pierre laughed. “That is impossible to picture. If you are imagining Boom-Boom as Bluebeard, no, you know him better than that. Yes, if you were against him in a game, then you should defend yourself against attacks from all sides, but Boom-Boom and women—there were so many, and they all had a good time with him, no one ever walked away from Boom-Boom weeping because he had frightened her, surely you don’t need me to tell you that. As for a girl and a diary, how can I know about that? But if she wrote it, it came out of her own imaginations. This mother, this salope , she has maybe made her daughter to be afraid of every man in the world.”
That was a shrewd insight, plausible, given Stella’s obsession with sex, but not something I had any way to prove. I led the conversation around to Bernie, how well she was doing, how much I enjoyed her company.
“Yes, she’s loving Chicago,” Pierre agreed. “When she comes back to us next month, you must come with her. A week in the Laurentians, that will put all this tracasserie out of your mind.”
When we hung up, I felt better than I had since Murray’s text came in yesterday afternoon. I took an espresso out to the back porch. I had promised Freeman not to go near Stella or her house or her current lawyer. But what about her old lawyer, the useless baby who didn’t bring up Boom-Boom’s relationship with Annie at Stella’s trial?
When I’d looked up Stella’s trial last week, they hadn’t
I woke with my heart racing, sweat drenching my T-shirt. By the time I’d calmed down, I was thoroughly awake. Jake was sleeping soundly next to me. It was five-fifteen; dawn was coming. I might as well get back to my own place and face the day.
While I waited for the espresso machine to heat, I turned on my laptop to look at the messages from my answering service. Forty-seven media queries had come in overnight, including four from Murray. I sent my service an e-mail, saying to tell everyone I had no comment and that I would not be returning press calls.
When I checked my e-mail, I found hundreds of messages. Seven from Murray, ranging from belligerent to begging (Come on, Warshawski, you know the rules of the game , don’t pull this kind of stunt on me . . . Please, Vic, we’ve been friends for so many years, don’t shoot the messenger). He was right, but I wasn’t feeling very forgiving yet.
I recognized some names from local news shows, but many of the addresses included country codes: Serbia, Russia, Kazakhstan—Boom-Boom would be pleased to know his fame lived on in the hockey world.
Pierre Fouchard had also left an e-mail. I see you’ve turned your phone over to the lawyers, but what is this filth they are spreading about Boom-Boom? I talked to Bernadine, but she can tell me nothing. Call me, Victoria: I can be in Chicago in two hours. Those of us who played with Boom-Boom know this is the worst of lies, so tell me what you need. Muscle? Love? Money? All at your disposal.
I reached him at the Canadiens front office.
“Victoria! These crapules , what are they trying to accomplish?”
“I don’t know. The mother did major prison time for the crime, so I can’t understand why she’s trying to accuse Boom-Boom now. Did Boom-Boom talk about the murder when it happened?”
“This I am trying to remember since last night, when I am first seeing the news. He was very shocked, of course, because she was a girl from his childhood, and I am thinking there was a brother, is that right, that they were friends. I am not remembering much, but, Victoria, if he had said to me, Pierre, I have murdered this girl, that I would not have forgotten.”
“Likely not,” I agreed dryly. “The mother, Stella, is claiming she found a diary that her daughter kept, and that Annie was writing about how jealous Boom-Boom was, and how she was afraid of him.”
Pierre laughed. “That is impossible to picture. If you are imagining Boom-Boom as Bluebeard, no, you know him better than that. Yes, if you were against him in a game, then you should defend yourself against attacks from all sides, but Boom-Boom and women—there were so many, and they all had a good time with him, no one ever walked away from Boom-Boom weeping because he had frightened her, surely you don’t need me to tell you that. As for a girl and a diary, how can I know about that? But if she wrote it, it came out of her own imaginations. This mother, this salope , she has maybe made her daughter to be afraid of every man in the world.”
That was a shrewd insight, plausible, given Stella’s obsession with sex, but not something I had any way to prove. I led the conversation around to Bernie, how well she was doing, how much I enjoyed her company.
“Yes, she’s loving Chicago,” Pierre agreed. “When she comes back to us next month, you must come with her. A week in the Laurentians, that will put all this tracasserie out of your mind.”
When we hung up, I felt better than I had since Murray’s text came in yesterday afternoon. I took an espresso out to the back porch. I had promised Freeman not to go near Stella or her house or her current lawyer. But what about her old lawyer, the useless baby who didn’t bring up Boom-Boom’s relationship with Annie at Stella’s trial?
When I’d looked up Stella’s trial last week, they hadn’t
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