Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery by Linda Moore

happened to your father.”
    â€œI didn’t at first. She was so grief-stricken—crying all the time. I didn’t think she could handle the idea that he may have been murdered, though I believed she’d have to face it when the Medical Examiner’s report came out. But when it was declared a death by natural causes—heart failure—I certainly let her know how I felt. I mean, I was in shock. I’d been convinced they would find something amiss. And once the Medical Examiner’s official report was in and the death certificate was signed it was a done deal—the police were not interested in pursuing it.”
    â€œSo, am I correct in understanding that there was no actual autopsy?”
    â€œThe post-mortem examination on my father was external only—no examination of internal organs or toxicology testing . I was really bewildered by that and I wanted to go through whatever channels necessary to have them do a ‘forensic’ or ‘medico-legal’ aut opsy, which is carried out in the case of unexplained or unnatural deaths. Well, my mother was dead set against it. She thought it was sordid and uncalled for, and she was angry with me. She wanted everything taken care of quickly and with a maximum of dignity and decorum—for my father’s sake. So we had a tidy funeral and the next thing I knew, she was packing her bags, saying she needed some time to recover.
    â€œThen, my insomnia set in. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. I told her I might hire a private investigator and she just shook her head and said, ‘It won’t bring him back. We have to get over this. It takes time. Don’t waste your money.’ And then she was gone.”
    â€œTell me, do you have a list of everyone who attended the funeral?” I asked.
    â€œThere’s a guestbook that people signed, but I don’t know if everyone did. There’s a video too.”
    â€œI’d like to borrow them. Your father wasn’t cremated, was he?” I asked.
    â€œI think my mother would have had him cremated, but he’d requested a burial in his will.”
    â€œTell me about your mother—does she have family here?”
    â€œNo, but my mother didn’t get on that well with her family. My father met her in London, when he was attending the London School of Economics. After they married he brought her home to Canada. He studied law at Osgoode Hall and then they came here. But she went abroad to visit friends quite often over the years.”
    â€œAnd where in Europe is she from?”
    â€œZurich. In fact, I stayed with some cousins when I studied there. I took a summer architecture course on exterior motifs a few years ago.”
    â€œSounds wonderful,” I said.
    â€œIt was. It was great. Those were the days.” He rose from the table. “I’ll get those things for you,” he said.
    For just a second, I caught a glimpse of the carefree Daniel, a young man on the road to success studying architecture, and coming from an interesting cosmopolitan family; a life full of promise. I realized that all that innocence had now been shattered. Everything had changed with the suspicious death of his father. It seemed to him that even his own mother had abandoned him.
    â€œWhat’s the next step?” he asked, bringing me the guest book and the video.
    â€œWell, if we want to examine this question of a poisoning, we must get permission to exhume the body and do a thorough forensic autopsy. It’s the only way to find out. I can prepare theories on what may have been used, and McBride will be working hard to dig for the who and the why. But in the end, we’ve got to go back to the body if we want to find evidence and prove murder. And if what we suspect is true, then there are those who will stand fiercely in our way. So we’ve all got to be brave and very careful, including you