I go to an old book store north of here. Dusty.
The young man at the counter follows me around to chat. It has been a lonely morning.
He mentions that it was cold that morning. That his hands were frozen by the time he got to the subway.
I look up at him, away from the rows of old books.
“You came from Toronto?” I ask.
He stares back at me.
“No, the store.”
When another customer appears, he moves on to them.
Doing research on something else, I run across two unsolved murders that took place in 1983 in Toronto. I read about Susan Tice and Erin Gilmour and then I watch an interview with a detective after Erin’s murder, which took place six months after Susan’s.
Police believed the same man killed Susan and Erin.
The detective says this:
“The similarities are similar there, the only difference being obviously different neighbourhoods. As well Susan was a little older, she was in her 40s, recently getting divorced, grown children, that kind of thing.
“Erin Gilmour on the other hand was just starting out her life. She had just done some modeling, came from a well-to-do family, a very social person, loved by everyone.”
I stare at the screen. Wonder if I heard him right. Watch it again
Perhaps I am a 40-something sensitive mom who took that the wrong way.
When I do more research, I discover Susan had four children. Children who loved her very much. In fact, she was probably loved by all of them.
Is it less tragic because she didn’t model, was not from a well to do family and was tainted by her upcoming divorce?
The kids and I go into Toronto to have lunch with their Dad. We check out his office (it’s been years) then go to lunch.
We go to a restaurant where there are a million tvs and the waitresses wear short black skirts. The ceiling is about fifty feet high.
The kids are mesmerized (by the tvs not the skirts). There is one tv that is colossal. Every sport possible plays before us.
The food was good.