(2012) Cross-Border Murder (18 page)

“It’s an awful lot of ifs and maybes,” she said sadly, “I may not know men all that well, but it doesn’t feel right to me.”

Back inside the house, we discussed returning to Montreal with Gina. She did not put up any objection, but the feistiness she had exhibited during her first visit to Montreal was now markedly absent.

I wanted to leave early the next morning. But Mary needed a day or two to arrange for a short leave. “It shouldn’t be difficult,” she noted, “last year two full-time employees were reduced to part-time employees because of budget cuts. I’m sure either of them would be happy to work full time even if it’s only for a brief period.” Mary suggested that Gina drive back with her. I was a little surprised by how readily Gina agreed. In effect, she was giving me free reign to investigate on my own for a few days.

Before turning in for the night I phoned Phil Ryan. I told him that I would be returning to Montreal tomorrow and that Gina and her mother would be arriving a day or two later. I explained that Joe Gibbs would probably produce recent photos of Gooden and Hendricks, that Hendricks had a cottage near the Symansky’s, and that Gooden had one in Georgeville just on the other side of Lake Memphamagog from where Naomi was killed. And I gave him a brief synopsis of my conversations with Gooden and Hendricks. Did you get through to the Symanskys?”

“Sure did.”

“And?”

“They spent a quiet Sunday together. Or so they claimed. Not much of an alibi. When he discovered that I was retired from the force, he balked at sending an up-to-date photo of himself and his wife. Said he would do so if asked by an official who was investigating Naomi Bronson’s death. Otherwise, he was reluctant to have anyone going around showing his photograph and asking questions which he considered pointless. He suggested it could only cast suspicion where none was warranted. He was a smoothie. Didn’t miss a beat, never got angry or uppity, polite all the way. I tell you he missed his vocation.”

“What one?”

“Politics.”

“He struck me as a little too fastidious for politics. An ambassador perhaps.”

“I’ve never met an ambassador.” Phil muttered.

“In either case,” I said, “they rarely do their own dirty work. They have others do it.”

“Yeah, I don’t doubt it. But if he once broke into Monaghan’s office in the days when he was a snitch, then he once did his own dirty work, and that, like riding a bicycle, is a skill you don’t lose.”

I didn’t disagree. “Still, I’m inclined to put him at the bottom of my list for the moment. Any progress with Leclair?”

“They’ve confiscated Naomi Bronson’s filing cabinets and moved them to headquarters until they get a chance to go through them. Today they were hoping to get at the contents of her safety deposit box. I suggested it might be helpful if we had a chance to go through the photo files. For the moment it’s a no. But if his people get nowhere, he might let us have a look before returning them to her house mate who, by the way, is now also a suspect because she inherits quite a bit! They had to practically tie her down to remove Naomi’s files to headquarters.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Did you know Naomi Bronson was wealthy?”

“She came from a wealthy family.” I said.

“Well you wouldn’t know it from where she lived.”

“Maybe she had her own kind of pride, and wanted to live on what she earned.”

“Jesus! I don’t believe what I’ve just heard.” He chortled.

“There could be another reason why her friend did not want the police to take away any of the files.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m sure their relationship was a lesbian one.”

“So what’s that got to do with anything? I mean where have you been in the last ten years? No one tries to hide that kind of thing anymore.”

“I know. But gays still don’t consider the police very friendly. Naomi may have had personal photos and correspondence that her friend didn’t want any macho cops pawing through.”

“Possibly. Maybe I should go see her tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to size her up myself.”

“Maybe you’ll just rub her the wrong way.”

“Maybe. But that will only make Gina look good by comparison. If she turns me down, then Gina could have a go when she gets back. Meanwhile, I can try the friendly ex-cop approach. You know, tell her that, unlike all the other cops, I’m convinced she had nothing to do with Naomi’s death because I believe Naomi’s murder is tied in to Professor Monaghan’s murder. An investigation I had botched. Who knows, she may feel she can use a friend with some former police credentials.”

“Well, it’s worth a try,” I said more to keep him pumped up than anything else. “Certainly, she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“But then you’re just a macho, ex-journalist!” He laughed.

“Anything new on the motel shooting front?” I asked.

“Nah. They’re dragging their heels. A stripper gets a flesh wound. Not something high on their priority list.”

So much, I thought, for equality before the law.

CHAPTER TWELVE
 

Somewhere after leaving Portland, and before arriving at South Paris where I stopped for coffee and studied a road map, I had decided on a drive which would take me to Burlington, then to Essex Junction, then to Naomi’s cottage, and then around the lake to Georgeville, and finally back to Montreal. I bought two throw-away cameras at a shopping mall to take pictures of the Symansky residence and the cottages.

At Bethel, I switched highways heading west through St. Johnsbury to Montpelier where I picked up I-89. Once in Burlington, I took a photo of the Symansky residence without getting out of my car, and thought about heading into the local newspaper office for an up-to-date photo of Steve and Stella Symansky. Given their status, I was sure the local newspaper would have one. But I was not sure about what kind of reception I would receive, and decided that a request through my former paper would be more productive in the long run. Before I left I drove to the house next door to the Symanskys and without getting out my car again, managed to get from a different angle, a close-up photo of the car that was parked in the Symansky driveway. It was a dark green Lexus.

Essex Junction was only ten miles East of Burlington. I stopped at a pay phone to check the telephone book for an address under Hendricks. At a gas station I filled up and asked the attendant for directions. I also bought two submarine sandwiches and purchased a thermos full of coffee.

Five minutes later I was parked a hundred yards from a Pan-Abode cottage. I smiled to myself. In my thirties I had once thought of buying one myself, and wondered how many engineers had done so. It was a special kind of pre-fab, made up of pre-cut inter-locking, tongue and groove logs made of light weight western cedar. Its attraction was two-fold. It was a marvel of precision engineering, because each log had to be milled to precise specifications; and the four inch thickness of the logs guaranteed natural insulation against both the coldest winters as well as the warmest summers. If my memory was correct, it had originally been designed to meet the needs of administrators working on the Alaskan pipeline. Hendricks, I noticed, had bought one of the larger models and had added a wing and a solarium. It was an impressive set-up for someone I thought of as living in an alcoholic haze half of his life. Maybe I would have to revise my assessment of his drinking habits.

It was my fascination with the cottage that led me to do more than take a photo. I went up close to inspect it, and on impulse knocked on the front door. It moved under the pressure of my knuckles. It had not been locked, nor properly shut. When I received no answer, I took a hesitant step inside. In front of me was a spacious, macho living room. A deer head adorned one of the walls, and a number of animal skin rugs were on the floor. Against the wall, under the deer head, was a locked, antique cupboard with glass doors. It had been redesigned to hold a number of hunting rifles.

“Anybody home?” I asked in a raised voice. There was no immediate answer. I wandered over to look at the gun collection. There were two shotguns, two .303 caliber rifles, and one empty slot. I heard someone approaching from the rear of the cottage and went back quickly to stand near the entrance.

A young man appeared through the back door of the cottage. He was thin and slight with long hair tied at the back of his neck. He stopped and eyed me warily. “What are you doing here?”

I smiled and held my hands out in front of me in a way designed to show that I meant no offense. “The last time I spoke with professor Hendricks,” I said, “he mentioned the cottage. Since I was driving through town I thought I would stop and have a look at it. Who are you?”

“I live here. Professor Hendricks lets me have a room in exchange for looking after the place while he’s away.”

“Are you an engineering student?”

He nodded.

“From Winston University?” I asked.

He gave me a disdainful look. “No. How did you get in?” He asked, eying me suspiciously.

“The door was slightly open.” I said. “I hollered. Got no answer. I was puzzled.”

He was a good twenty feet away, and a little unsure of what to do. But the way he looked at me made it clear I was unwelcome.

“Nice deer head.” I said, pretending an interest I did not feel. “Didn’t know that Hendricks was a hunter.”

He gave an indifferent shrug, but glanced at the gun collection. Finally he said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m in the middle of a project.”

Safely at the door, I turned back.

“I notice there’s a rifle missing from the collection, do you know what kind it was?”

He had followed me to the door. He stopped and glanced back at the gun cabinet. He looked puzzled. This time when he looked at me there was both suspicion and a growing belligerence in his stare. “Who the hell are you?” He asked.

I turned and as I left the cottage, I threw over my shoulder, “Were you here last Sunday?” I swiveled my head to watch his reaction. But he just stared at me.

I nodded and walked down the gravel driveway listening for footsteps behind me. A few seconds later I heard the door close and the click of a lock being slipped into place. But it was only when I was in the car and moving away that I began to relax. I don’t have the nerves for this kind of work, I thought.

I checked my watch and headed back for the I-89. I drove to the exit for Saint Albans’s where I switched to highway 105 heading back east to North Troy. It played a key part in the cross-border compound that Gerald Bull had set up as an artillery range.

It had taken me thirty-five minutes to get to the border. I crossed it without significant delay and reached the site of Naomi’s cottage in under 15 minutes. If I allowed about 20 minutes for the murder of Naomi, the return trip early on a Sunday morning would be just under two hours for either the Symanskys or Hendricks. I stopped only long enough to take some photos. I then drove north around the tip of Lake Memphramagog to Georgeville. Elapsed time roughly 30 minutes. Assuming time for a round trip, the murder could have been committed by Gooden with less than an hour and a half absence from his cottage. I was presuming that his cottage was less than a few minutes from the center of Georgeville. He could, of course, have continued right on to Montreal. I stopped at the only local grocery store and asked directions to Gooden’s cottage. The young girl at the counter did not know, but after a brief discussion with her parents at the rear of the store, she gave me directions. It was less than five minutes away. I was surprised to find a for sale sign on the property. It was a modest cottage for that part of the countryside. Something that must have been built before Gooden was born, and there was little evidence that he had bothered to make significant changes or improvements. Perhaps he did not have the time. It did not look as if he spent as much time here as Hendricks did at his cottage in Essex Junction. That would not be surprising. Hendricks was a professor with a work load which probably allowed him to be absent for considerable periods from the university. Gooden was a dean with administrative responsibilities which no doubt tied him down for long stretches of time.

There was a car on the property, and I was about to take a photo, when four young people emerged from the building. Their general demeanor made it clear they had been partying. When one of the young men saw me he suddenly hesitated. His glance was not hostile. More sheepish and puzzled than anything else. He moved slowly towards me. He was wearing jeans torn at the knees, a crumpled plaid shirt and underneath what had once been a white polo shirt.

“Can I help you?” He asked.

“Is this Dean Gooden’s place?”

He nodded. “I’m his son. Are you a potential buyer?”

I shook my head. “I’m an acquaintance of your father. I happened to be passing by, thought I’d check to see if he was here. When I saw the sign I thought I’d take a picture in case one of my friends might be interested. Guess I should have dropped by on the weekend. Probably could have seen him then.”

He nodded.

“Will he be down this weekend?” I asked.

He shook his head. “It’s my mother’s turn.”

I gave him a puzzled look.

“They separated last year.”

“Oh.” I said. I shrugged. “That kind of thing happens.”

He nodded again. He began to fidget. My presence was probably an intrusion. I smiled.

“I’ll give him a call at the university.”

Another nod. The sheepish look returned to his face as I turned to get back into the car.

“Actually he doesn’t know that I’m here.” He mumbled.

I grinned conspiratorially, “then I won’t mention it to him.”

“Thanks.” He said, looking relieved.

I drove away leaving the foursome to their indulgences.

It was after eight when I got back to Montreal. I dropped the disposable camera at a store which promised overnight development.

The house felt empty. I ordered in some Chinese food and poured myself a glass of wine. Against my better instincts I was becoming a fast-food, take-out victim. While I was waiting for the food to arrive, I went upstairs to the den and checked my messages on the answering machine.