Free Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery by Linda Moore

principles to involve anyone unnecessarily in a case, but he was anxious to find a way to get at whatever information Aziz had.
    â€œI have to go see her today anyway,” he added.
    â€œOh really,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
    â€œI left Molly there this morning.”
    â€œWell, Sophie’s got rehearsal at six and she usually goes in early, so you better get cracking.”
    â€œRight.” He got to his feet and started to put his coat on.
    â€œAnd hey, don’t bother asking me how my day was,” I said, picking up his teacup and carrying it to the sink.
    â€œOkay I won’t. Alright. How was your day?”
    â€œWell, since you ask, I went to the King residence to get the yew tree samples this morning and I had a very interesting conversation with Daniel King, who surprised me by being there—it turns out he isn’t leaving for Ontario until tomorrow.”
    â€œHe must have changed his travel plans. And what was so interesting?”
    â€œWell, he spoke quite eloquently about his father, but then he became extremely upset talking about his mother’s strange behaviour after the funeral, how she more or less cut him off emotionally, packed her bags and left for Europe. Did you know about this?” I asked.
    â€œNo, I didn’t—I mean—he told me she had gone, but not that she was behaving strangely.”
    â€œSo,” I continued, “I’m thinking that if we get the results I’m expecting on this yew sample—and I did get it out to the lab today—then we’ll need to twist some arms and get official permission to exhume the body ASAP. And if we can prove poisoning, then I think we’d better be tracking down Greta King.”
    â€œYou’ve got it all figured out, eh Roz? Maybe you should hang out your sign.”
    â€œMcBride! For heaven’s sake.”
    â€œI’ll take all this under advisement kiddo—see you later.” He was gone. I’d forgotten to ask him whether Andy had found anything untoward in his security sweep but I assumed since McBride hadn’t mentioned it that everything was clean.

    I had to get ready for rehearsal, so I decided not to stew about McBride’s challenged ego, or about my own surprising feelings around his involvement with Sophie. I walked over to the cat and scratched her chin. She started purring immediately—warm from lying on the radiator. She stretched. “It looks like we’re down to sharing a can of soup,” I said. “But it’s your favourite—beef with barley.”
    I put the new Cohen CD on and got a little repast together.
    â€œLook at me Leonard. Look at me Leonard. Look at me one last time,” I sang along.

    â€œSo,” I said to Sophie during the break, “reiki eh?”
    â€œWhat a character,” she replied. “He’s sweet, though. I like him.”
    â€œSweet wouldn’t be my descriptive choice,” I said. “Don’t forget I warned you.”
    â€œHe mentioned this idea of yours to me this afternoon,” she said, deftly changing the subject, “of calling this person and pretending I’m his friend or his cousin or something.”
    â€œJust make sure to keep it between us, Sophie, ” I said, looking around to be certain we were out of earshot.
    â€œDon’t worry, I’m like the grave.”
    â€œDid McBride have a plan for what you’ll say and all that?”
    â€œHe’s working on it.”
    â€œWell, make sure to let me know what the plan is,” I said to her, in case McBride decided to go ahead without filling me in.
    â€œWe’re back, everybody.” It was Michael, the stage manager.

    For rehearsal that evening the space was set up for the play within the play, “The Mousetrap.” There was a shadow drape that hung down from a high platform. Behind it was a red flickering light. Above on the platform, in full view, stood the