Beautiful Lie the Dead. Barbara Fradkin

and committee work. He was astonished to discover an entire file drawer devoted to him. Not just every report card he’d ever received, but every letter he’d sent from camp, every crayoned art offering and handmade Mother’s Day card he’d ever drawn. He knew that as an only child he was important to her, but he’d always thought she had a busy, fulfilling life beyond the home. He remembered her being constantly on the phone, delayed at meetings, and listening with half an ear to his childish chatter while she scanned the latest judge’s decision. He remembered a childhood of cleaning ladies, babysitters and even catered meals when she was in the middle of a case.

      She’d always seemed slightly aloof, avoiding the mushy cuddling that Meredith’s family bestowed at the smallest excuse. He couldn’t recall her ever saying “I love you” except in jest, and the unfamiliar words had not come easily to his own lips when Meredith had first demanded them. His reticence had almost cost him the warmest, most exciting woman who had ever come into his life.

      He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the open file cabinet, his child’s drawings crackling with age as they filtered through his hands. She had cherished every single artefact of his past, squirrelled it silently away in her own private drawer, never told him how much she loved them or how proud she was of him. In rare moments, uttered only the words “Your father would be so proud.” He had no memory of his father, who had died when he was two months old, but his mother had painted an idealized image. Even as a child he’d suspected no one could be as loving a husband, as devoted a father, as brilliant a lawyer nor as beloved a professor as the Harvey Kent Longstreet of her descriptions. He’d been her professor, thirteen years her senior and light years ahead of all her other suitors in maturity, wisdom and allure. Brandon had once overheard her saying to a friend that, despite plenty of offers, she’d never remarried because a love like Harvey Longstreet came along only once in a lifetime. At the time, he’d been startled, even discomfited, by the tremor of passion in her impeccably modulated voice.

      Now she surprised him again with the strength of her devotion to him. He remembered the urgency in that fragment he’d overheard that morning. “He mustn’t know!” took on a less sinister, more protective meaning. Was she just trying to shield him from something? What? The answer was not on her desk, which was filled with mundane household matters, nor among the drawings and letters of his childhood. He shut the file cabinet and pulled open another one, chock full of carefully labelled file folders. Taxes, telephone, travel, wedding, will... Neither the wedding folder nor the will held anything unusual.

      On a whim, he pulled open an upper drawer for the H’s. Nothing under husband, but thumbing through files in search of Harvey, he came across a file labelled “Hatfield”. Not recognizing the name, he almost skipped by, but its thick, unruly contents gave him pause. He pulled it out, and a jumble of yellowed newspaper clippings from the Montreal Star fell out. He caught the reporter’s name—Cam Hatfield—and a couple of headlines. Tributes pour in for dead professor. The private anguish of a public man. A new brand of teacher.

      His scalp prickled. He picked up one article, unfolded it along its brittle seam, and began to read:

       Confusion continues to surround the death of one of McGill’s most popular professors, who was found dead in his McTavish Street apartment on Monday morning. Harvey Longstreet was a member of the prominent Montreal family that founded the Anglo- Canadian Transportation Company, now known as CanTransco, in 1855. The professor’s young widow and two-month old son are in seclusion at his uncle’s Westmount home and the family is requesting privacy to deal with the tragedy. Colleagues willing to speak to the newspaper expressed shock and disbelief, stating that Longstreet had shown no signs of depression or stress—

      The doorbell rang distantly. Brandon looked up, confusion giving way to fear. Meredith! Quickly he stuffed the articles back into the filing cabinet and kicked the drawer shut as he headed out the door.

      A young woman stood on the doorstep, bundled against the cold in a blue parka, a red tuque with a red and white pompom and matching mittens. Was there a hint of excitement in those blue eyes, he wondered? His hopes stirred.

      Then she held up her badge. “Detective Peters, Ottawa Police,” she said, enunciating carefully as if the label were unfamiliar to her. “Are you Brandon Longstreet?”

      He nodded. “Any news?”

      “We haven’t found her, no sir, but we’re making progress on her movements. May I come in?”