(2012) Cross-Border Murder (12 page)

I tried to look offended. But I only smiled. “Not quite. But sort of.”

“I think you’re growing soft in your old age,” she said. “Or have you always been like that?”

“Nope,” I said testily, “I think it’s a very recent change on my part.” I don’t know whether it was the reference to my age or my behavior that upset me most.

She said, “maybe I will have to play tough cop, to your soft cop approach!”

“No.” I said firmly. “That could be truly dangerous. Maybe we should leave that role up to Phil Ryan.”

Later that night, back in my increasingly disorderly den, there was a message on my answering machine. To my surprise I found that it was from Naomi Bronson. She suggested that Gina visit her anytime on the weekend at her cottage in the Eastern Townships. Otherwise she would try to set up at meeting in Montreal later in the week. She left instructions on how to get to the cottage and a telephone number. I called Gina and informed her. We decided it would be smart to set out around noon tomorrow. She would call Naomi in the morning.

I sat at my desk for a few minutes longer staring out the window. But low level clouds and mist made the night darker. The yellow lights on the next street were only flickering pinpricks. The result turned my window into a distorting mirror, reflecting the light on my desk, parts of my own face, and some of the objects behind me in a manner that made them seem more of a magician’s illusion than solid creations of time and space. I tried to avoid thinking about the accumulating and discordant bits of evidence that seemed to circle in the night like ghostly buzzards around the murder of Professor Monaghan. There seemed to be a dirty world out there I really didn’t want to know about, a world of confusion which tired the mind and the spirit, a world where the father of lies lurked and laughed.

CHAPTER EIGHT
 

By noon the next day, Gina and I were back on the road. We had spent part of the morning trying the number Naomi Bronson had left on my answering machine, but to no avail. Something had disrupted phone service, not unusual in such a rural area. Finally we had decided to undertake the drive anyway. Beneath an almost translucent blue sky, a mild Spring day made mockery of the feelings I had experienced the night before. Reality was anything but a world of smoke and mirrors and dark thoughts. A smell of loam rose from the surrounding countryside with a warm certainty about its purpose. Fecundity was everywhere. And it functioned without self-doubts or insecurity or, indeed, morality.

An hour and a half later we passed through the town of Mansonville and veered left towards Owl’s Head mountain. The road was paved all the way to the ski resort, but a half-mile farther, the pavement gave way to gravel and dirt. According to Naomi Bronson’s instructions, her cottage would be on the left about three miles from the entrance to the ski hill. There would be a gate with a sign and her name on it. I slowed down, in part because the road was still rutted and ravaged from the spring run-off, but also because I did not want to come upon her place too abruptly. As I came to a crest beside an old, abandoned graveyard, I stopped the car.

Stretched before me was a remarkable valley. It was probably fifteen miles across and twenty miles in depth. At the southern end I could see Jay Peak, one of the largest skiing areas in northern New England, and one of the earliest ones to employ a large cable car to take skiers and sightseers to the top of the mountain.

“Do you see that far corner diametrically opposite to us?”

Gina scanned that sector. “What about it?”

“That’s Highwater, a small town on the border where both countries maintain full custom services. Over these hills to our left is Lake Memphramagog whose southern tip is in the United States at a town called Newport. During prohibition, a lot of liquor was smuggled across the border over small mining and lumber roads between Newport and Highwater. But that’s not the reason I’m drawing your attention to this valley.” She waited impatiently for me to go on. I think she was in a hurry to get on with her meeting with Naomi. “Bull’s gunnery range was near Highwater. It ran parallel and very close to that border down there. In fact, if my memory serves me right, a portion of the land he used as a potential supply depot actually straddled the border.”

Gina stared down the valley in obvious fascination.

I took my observations a step farther. “If Naomi Bronson’s cottage is properly situated up in the hills to our left, and if they had the cottage when Monaghan was alive, then with an average telescope, Monaghan could probably have spied on Bull’s operations.”

“But why would he want to do that?” Gina asked puzzled.

“Maybe he was jealous of what Bull was accomplishing. Maybe he wanted to leapfrog some of Bull’s research. Some countries would have paid handsomely for that kind of new ballistic information.”

“I think it’s time I found out,” Gina muttered frowning, “what Naomi has to say to me. Maybe I’ll even ask her whether Monaghan was ever able to spy on Bull’s compound down there.”

I started the car down the slope. We should be able to spot the cottage once we were over the next crest. I was right. What I did not expect were the number and nature of the vehicles parked near it. There was a Honda hatchback, an ambulance with its lights blinking and two police cars. I slowed down to a crawl as I approached. A young provincial police officer tried to wave me on. But I stopped instead. I rolled down my window and explained in French that we had come here to see Ms. Bronson at her request. He frowned. He shouted in French to a fellow officer who ambled over. They consulted and then told us to get out of the car. They motioned us towards one of the police cars. Once there, the youngest one kept an eye on us while the more senior trudged up the hill towards the cottage which sat impressively on a ledge about three hundred yards up the hill from the road. A few minutes later, what I took to be an officer in civvies came down the path towards us. He was followed by the woman I had met just a few nights ago at Naomi Bronson’s tenement. As she recognized me I could see her whisper something to him.

In French, I explained who I was. All I got was a blank, hostile stare. Obviously neither wanted a reporter here. I introduced Gina and explained who she was. As briefly as possible, I explained the purpose of my visit to Ms. Bronson on Tuesday, and why we had driven down here to see her this afternoon. The policeman listened carefully but did no more than nod occasionally to indicate that he was taking note of what I was telling him. I asked what had happened. In an angry voice, Naomi’s roommate blurted out that she had just discovered Naomi’s body when she had arrived less than an hour ago. She gave me a look which seemed to suggest that I was somehow responsible. I could see she was suffering traumatic stress. I looked at the ambulance, but from everyone’s demeanor I had to assume that Naomi Bronson was dead.

“Is the Honda yours?” I asked, addressing my remark to Naomi’s roommate. She nodded, puzzled. “Then where’s Ms. Bronson’s car? Or was she driven here?”

The policeman looked back at the cottage, and then returned his gaze to me. Finally he said, “the driveway circles the cottage. Ms. Bronson’s car is hidden from sight behind the cottage.”

“Captain Leclair thinks,” Naomi’s roommate said sarcastically, “that because her car could not be seen from the road, some vagrant who thought the cottage was empty broke in and killed Naomi when she surprised him.”

Captain Leclair shrugged his annoyance. He turned his attention to Gina. So did I. Her face was drained of color. I wondered if she was about to be sick. He asked the young police officer to take Gina to the car and have her sit down. I went with her. Looking back I could see that he was frowning. Our presence, and the brief explanation I had given him, in particular the observation that Naomi Bronson’s husband had also been murdered, had clearly added an unwanted complication. Whether he was inclined to do so or not, he could no longer treat this as simply another break and entry homicide.

Once the ambulance had left, Gina and I were escorted to the nearest provincial police detachment where our statements were recorded. Someone kindly provided sandwiches and coffee. We were both shaken by Naomi’s murder. The danger I had feared had become very real. An hour later we were heading back to Montreal. It was close to five when I came to a stop outside her motel. On the drive back, I had convinced her to stay overnight at my place.

She went into the motel to pack her bags. Ten minutes later she emerged. So did her friend, Linda. I got out of the car to help Gina place her bags on the back seat. She then went over to speak to Linda. As she turned back towards the car, Linda hesitated briefly and then moved in Gina’s direction to say something more. It was then that I heard a crack as if someone nearby had stepped on a dead branch. Linda gave a high pitched scream and crumpled sideways to the ground.

Adrenaline made my mind and body function at a speed I would not have thought possible. I grabbed Gina and hauled her down beside the car. Instinctively I knew that I was not the target. After all I had been stationary and in plain view. I came quickly to the conclusion that another shot was unlikely. No sniper would stay around this long in the hope of getting off a second shot. After all, it was broad daylight. So I darted quickly towards Linda.

Blood stained her upper thigh just below her short skirt. A continuous moaning was broken only by her needs to inhale. Both her hands were holding her left leg just above the knee. I dragged her behind the car next to Gina.

Then I darted inside. I shouted to the desk clerk to call the police and an ambulance. But he had already done so. I went back outside. Gina was cradling Linda’s head and was pressing a handkerchief to the wound. I knew nothing of first aid. All I could do was wait. Surprisingly, I did not have to wait long before the wail of sirens and the calm and decisive presence of police and ambulance attendants took over.

When I got a chance I whispered to Gina to say as little as possible, to mention nothing about what had transpired earlier that day: in short, to act as if her friend had been the sniper’s intended target, even though I for one did not believe it. And I’m sure she didn’t either. But I wanted to avoid another lengthy interrogation.

I was only partially successful. As soon as Linda had been transported to the nearest hospital, we were ushered into the motel’s vestibule where our statements were taken and our identities verified. The police seemed to accept the view that we were accidental bystanders too busy to have seen the sniper or anything of significance. But they were taking no chances. Once they were satisfied that we would not be difficult to contact, they let us drive away to my place. But a police cruiser was detached to provide protection until we were safely inside my home.

I immediately poured us two stiff scotches and added a little water. Gina took a little sip and made a face.

“I have some mild tranquillizers upstairs if you’d prefer.”

She shook her head. “Later, maybe.” She took another sip.

I phoned Domino’s and ordered a large pizza with all the trimmings. I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t think that Gina was either. But once the stress and trauma had eased off, we would probably be ravenous. We both took our drinks into the living room. Gina stretched out on the sofa, and I sank into my rocker.

“Bunch of blundering amateurs, that’s what we are.” Gina said.

“Once the pizza has arrived, I’ll phone Phil Ryan.”

“Yeah, sure.” She shrugged. I could tell from her tone that she didn’t think much of my plan.

We both lapsed into silence. She rose from the couch. “I’d almost forgotten. I want to phone the hospital and find out how Linda’s doing.” She left the room and made her way upstairs towards the telephone in the den. I was about to remind her that the nearest phone was in the kitchen when I heard her close the bathroom door. I finished my scotch, thought about having another, and decided against it. Instead I went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Then I went upstairs to use the bathroom. Through the open den door, I could see Gina huddled against my desk cradling the phone as if it was an infant. I returned to the living room and pulled the curtains, something I should have done much earlier. The events of the day had shaken me. I made a vain attempt at straightening my shoulders. In for a penny, in for a pound, I tried to tell myself. I heard Gina returning.

“She’s going to be okay. Apparently the bullet passed right through the fleshy part of her thigh. They’ve stitched her up, dosed her with antibiotics, pain killers and tranquillizers, and are going to keep her in overnight just as a precaution. I guess that puts an end to her career.”

“I would imagine so. A bullet hole in the thigh is hardly a come on.” I immediately regretted the remark.

“Oh,” Gina shot back, giving me a caustic look, “I’m sure there are plenty of weirdos out there who would get turned on by it. And, by the way,” she added, “Linda is not a prostitute. I know you think she is. But she’s just a stripper trying to put money away to go back to university.”

Gina’s face showed both the level of stress and exhaustion she was feeling. I dreaded the idea of taking a look at my own face in the mirror. She sighed but went on doggedly, “I mention all that because there was little reason why anyone would want to take a pot shot at her. She wasn’t into drugs, and there was no patron or john who knew where she was staying.”

I nodded. “Which confirms my assumption that you were the intended victim.”

“Or you. You’re the one with the power to publish something which could result in the case being re-opened.”

“No. As I told you, if I get shot, the paper is only likely to put someone else on the case more competent than I am. Besides, if I was the intended victim, then why stake out the motel?”

“Okay so why me?” She asked. We both lapsed into a prolonged silence. I had a tentative theory but at that moment the doorbell rang. I was thankful it was only the pizza being delivered and not another policeman wanting to interrogate us.