A Most Unpleasant Wedding (11 page)

“Have you told Detective Brisbois any of this?”

“He hasn't asked. Besides, what Nick told me was hearsay, I guess you'd call it. Pillow talk.”

Simpson blushed again. “I believe you should tell Detective Brisbois,” he said.

Nick Anderson was a small man with thick white hair and a twinkle in his eye that made him look young in spite of his years. “I saw her,” he told Brisbois. “She went onto Jim Alva's boat a couple of times.”

“Business?”

Nick made a face. “The first time, maybe. His wife was there. The second time…” he shrugged.

Brisbois gave him a nod. “The woman is dead. Nothing you say is going to hurt her.”

Nick acquiesced. “She wasn't dressed in a businesslike fashion the second time. The first time, she was wearing something tailored and she was carrying a briefcase. The second time, she was wearing some little sundress and she wasn't carrying a briefcase. They took the boat out and were gone most of the day.”

Brisbois made some notes. “What did you think of her?”

“She was a nice-looking woman in a cool sort of way. But she wasn't somebody I'd want to chum around with. Snobbish.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I saw her around, off and on. She had a lady friend in town who keeps a boat here. She'd come down with her sometimes. Just the way she treated people, the way she sized things up…the more important she thought you were, the bigger the smile. A lot of people didn't like her.”

“I guess she must have made some enemies then.”

Anderson pushed back his cap. “Look, Detective, this is a tourist town. A lot of rich people come through here. We're used to people like her. They're just so much grist for the gossip mill. Nobody's going to kill somebody because they act hoity-toity.”

“OK.” Brisbois thought for a moment. “That second time you saw her getting on Alva's boat, was that the last time you saw her down here?”

Nick shook his head. “No. Last time I saw her, must have been, yeah, it was last Thursday night. I'd just brought my boat in. She drove down to the dock, got out, took a look around, kind of snooty, hands on her hips. Then she got back in her car and burned rubber.”

“Burned rubber?”

“Yeah, you know, she ripped out of here, spraying gravel.”

“Mad about something?”

Nick shrugged. “I don't know. She always looked kind of pissed off to me.”

“Do you remember what time of night that was?”

Nick thought for a minute. “I think it was somewhere around nine. I don't pay that close attention to the time these days.” He grinned. “Retired.”

Brisbois nodded. “OK.” He closed his notebook. “Thanks, Nick. We might need to talk to you later.”

Nick gave him a short salute. “Sure thing. I'm always around.”

Brisbois and Creighton walked back to the car.

“Thursday night,” Brisbois said. “The night she was murdered.”

Creighton took out the car keys. “Maybe Alva stood her up,” he said.

The old man's eyes were jaundiced and wild, his skin as creased as a walnut. He sat slumped in his chair in the interrogation room.

Brisbois pushed a cup of coffee toward him. “Relax, we brought you in because we couldn't interview you in the woods.” He didn't add “and because I couldn't drag someone who stank like a dead skunk and was as lousy as a badger into Rudley's office” — not that the idea didn't have some appeal. Besides, he wanted the old man to have a shower, some clean clothes, and a decent meal or two. “Look,” he said, “we're going to set you up with some new duds, find you a few bucks. Maybe find you a place to stay.”

“You can't keep me here.”

Creighton recoiled as Herb spewed frothy spit between cracked lips.

“We don't want to keep you here,” Brisbois said. “But there is the matter of you assaulting Officer Semple and Detective Creighton and” — he looked at his thumb — “biting me when we were putting you into the cruiser.”

“You better not take my place.”

“We didn't move your camp,” Brisbois said. “We're not Natural Resources.”

“Nobody's watching my camp. Somebody'll steal my stuff.”

“We brought your stuff in and locked it up.” Brisbois folded his arms on the table. “Nobody's going to take it.”

Herb gave him a suspicious look.

Brisbois turned to Creighton. “Detective, could you read the list of items we took from Mr. Carey's place?”

Creighton flipped through a sheaf of papers. “One half-package of pipe tobacco — Zig-Zag, and a package of rolling papers. One box of safety matches. A jackknife with a bone handle. Twelve feet of binder twine. Four grocery bags. A shoelace. Two dollars in quarters and four pennies. Two cloth bandanas. A pair of brown canvas sneakers. Three pairs of socks. A pair of long johns. One pair of chino pants. One plaid shirt. One white shirt. One suit jacket. One pair of yarn gloves. One knit toque. One straw hat. One cap with earflaps. One quilted vest. Two fishhooks. Two sinkers. Three bobbers. Thirty feet of nylon fishing line. A package of roofing nails. One pair of boxer shorts. Ten cherry-flavoured lollipops. Six Band-Aids. One booster button for Jean Chrétien. A tin of beans. Four packets of saltines. One TCC subway token.” He paused. “One wedding ring. One diamond ring. One ladies' watch. One wallet with forty-five dollars, a debit card, a Visa card, a library card, driver's licence, two grocery receipts, a Lee Valley card, birth certificate, social insurance card. And an OHIP card. All in the name of Evelyn Hopper. And” — he looked at Herb, lifting his eyebrows — “one western saddle and a blue and gold saddle blanket.”

Herb glowered.

Brisbois leaned toward him. “I don't think that wallet is yours.”

Herb muttered, shuffled his feet.

“Where'd you get it?”

“Found it.”

“Where?”

Herb studied the table. “Don't know. Just found it.”

Brisbois made a display of smoothing out his notebook, flicking his pen. “OK, you found the wallet. Ever think of giving it back?”

“Was going to. Once I knew whose it was.”

Brisbois sighed. “Herb, that wallet belonged to a woman we found dead, not too far from your camp.” He turned to Creighton. “What does that paper say about the shirt?”

Creighton shuffled the papers. “It says there was something on the cuff. The lab says it was blood.”

“Same type as Mrs. Hopper?” Brisbois asked.

“That's what it says.”

Brisbois turned back to Herb. “What do you say to that?”

Fear flashed through Herb's eyes. “You're trying to frame me for something.”

Brisbois pushed his notebook away, tilted his chair back. “You saw the wallet lying there. Maybe it fell out of her pocket. You picked it up. Maybe you looked through it to see who she was.” He lowered his voice. “You saw the money. Forty-five dollars. That's a lot of money. You were hungry. Running low on tobacco.” He paused. “What could it hurt? She was dead.”

Herb fished around in his pockets. Came up empty.

Brisbois made a regretful gesture with his hand. “Maybe she wasn't dead, Herb. She fell off her horse. She was lying there, dazed. And you picked up a big rock, so big you could barely get your hands around it, and you smashed her in the head. Then you took her wallet. You took her watch. You yanked off her rings. You took the saddle and blanket off her horse and you walked away. You went up to your place. Maybe you had a bottle. You took a few swigs to celebrate your good fortune. Then you went to sleep and slept like a baby. You didn't know you'd got blood on your shirt.”

Herb cogitated on that. “I get blood on my shirt sometimes,” he said finally.

“But this was hers.”

“Don't know.”

Brisbois emitted an exasperated sigh. “Look, the woman's dead. Her blood is on your shirt.” He tapped the table to get Herb's attention as he began to follow the progress of a fly across the ceiling. “Herb, I want to help you, but I can't unless you give me some straight answers.”

Herb shivered. “I didn't kill that woman. She was gone when I got there.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know if something's dead.”

Brisbois shuffled through his notebook. “OK, what time did you find her?”

“Late, the moon was moving down.”

“Dead?”

“Kind of cold and starchy.”

“Did you check her pulse?”

“Don't know that.”

“Did you try to wake her up?”

“Nope. She was dead.”

“So you took her wallet.”

Herb chewed on that. “Didn't figure she'd need it.”

“Where was the wallet?”

“Back pocket.”

“Kind of like rolling a drunk?”

Herb shot him a hard look. “I'll give you back the wallet. I didn't take anything out of it.”

Brisbois sighed. “OK, you took the wallet, then you took the saddle.”

“Nope.”

Brisbois' eyebrows shot up. “Nope?”

“Took the saddle first.”

Brisbois shook his head. “So you found the woman, you took the saddle, then you took her wallet.”

“Nope.”

Brisbois' shoulders sagged. “Nope?”

Herb gave Brisbois a look that suggested he found him obtuse. “Found the horse down by the creek. Took the saddle and the blanket. Didn't figure he wanted it. Took them back to my place.”

“So when did you come across the woman?”

“On my way into town.”

“When the moon was moving down.”

“Yeah, if I get there early enough, I can get something.”

Brisbois made some notes. “OK, while you were going into town, did you see anybody?”

“Seen the guy on the dock. I got some coffee.”

“Then what?”

“Just stayed around.”

“OK.”

Herb fidgeted in his chair. “Can I go now?”

Brisbois shook his head. “No. Even if you didn't do anything to the woman, Herb, there's still the matter of assaulting three police officers.”

Herb's face fell.

Brisbois thought for a minute. “Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to talk to my boss. Then we'll get you a lawyer and then we'll figure out what to do next.”

“I told you, I don't want one of them. They always get me into trouble.”

“We'll see. But I've got to keep you for a while.” He paused. “Want something to eat?”

Herb brightened. “Bacon and eggs. Pancakes with real syrup. Coffee.”

“We'll have it sent over.”

“Maybe a couple of scoops of hash browns, and baked beans, if you have them.”

“OK. We'll talk to you again in a bit.” Brisbois called to the officer, gave him Herb's order. He walked back to the office, sipping coffee as he went. Creighton followed with a can of 7-Up. Brisbois went to the window, peered out though the blinds, then sat down at the desk. He took out his cigarettes, put the package on the desk in front of him, stared at it.

Creighton perched on the edge of the desk. “What do you think?”

“I don't know.”

“Herb says she was in rigor when he found her. Sounds as if he got there sometime between three and four.”

“If he's telling the truth.”

“If he's telling the truth,” Creighton repeated.

“He's got the victim's wallet, her rings and watch, and he's got her blood on his shirt.”

“He probably picked up the blood when he took her stuff.”

“He could have.” Brisbois took out his notebook, flipped through. “He didn't seem to think he'd done anything wrong.”

“He needed the money. He figured she didn't. Sort of like taking the boots off a dead soldier. You know what Margaret said — he never stole anything, just scrounged.”

Brisbois drained his coffee. “We shouldn't have any trouble keeping him for a while. If we let him go, he'll vanish.”

Creighton rubbed his shin. “He could have broken my leg.”

“Makes you feel kind of bad, locking him up,” said Brisbois. “It's sort of like holding up a bird headed south. He's probably got some kind of survival timetable.”

Creighton nodded. “Maybe killing Mrs. Hopper and stealing her wallet was on his survival timetable.”

Brisbois thumbed through his notebook. “Yeah, forty-five dollars must have seemed like a gold mine. We'll talk to the Crown.”

Brisbois pushed back his hat, rubbed his forehead. “This case is driving me nuts.”

He was sitting on a bench a few yards from the bunkhouse, frowning at his notebook. Creighton sat on the bench opposite, dismantling a maple leaf.

“Tim says there're going to be flowers in the salad at the reception,” said Creighton. “Who in hell puts flowers in their salad?”

“My mother,” Brisbois muttered. “She grew nasturtiums for her salads.”

“You're kidding. My mother used to give me hell for eating the marigolds.”

Brisbois nodded. “You can use marigolds. Roses. Day lilies. Almost anything. I like the nasturtiums. They've got that nice peppery bite. Pansies, but mostly because they're pretty. They don't add much for taste.”

Creighton made a face. “Don't they have bugs in them? Aphids and the like?”

Brisbois stared at him. “Have you ever seen a tomato worm, or a corn borer? Or a slug?”

“Not that I've known of.”

Brisbois gave him an are-you-kidding look.

Creighton shrugged.

“Well, that's the kind of thing you see in your garden from time to time unless you're willing to lace the whole thing with enough pesticide to kill off every songbird within two miles.”

“So you're telling me you cook the vegetables up with the bugs.”

“No,” Brisbois said patiently. “When you pick stuff, you check it for bugs and take them off. There aren't that many. I use organic methods for bug control. That way I don't kill the birds, and the birds help me keep the bug population at acceptable levels. You've seen my garden, haven't you?”

“No.”

“Then I've got to get you out for dinner. Mary'd love to have you.”

“I'm game.”

“OK.” Brisbois turned his attention to his notebook. His eyes darted over one page. He flipped ahead, flipped back, brow furrowing. “We've got too many maybes, and everything leads in a different direction.” He paused, threw up his hands in exasperation. “Look at this interview with Lloyd.” He proceeded to read to Creighton.

Brisbois
: When you got back, what time was that?

Lloyd
: Just after eleven.

Brisbois: And you had Mr. Phipps-Walker and Mr. Lawrence with you.

Lloyd: Did.

Brisbois: Where'd you let them off?

Lloyd: They got off in the parking lot and they walked up.

Brisbois: Then what?

Lloyd: Went to bed.

Brisbois: Did you see anybody moving around?

Lloyd: Nope.

Brisbois: Was anybody missing?

Lloyd: Don't know. Didn't see anybody missing.

Creighton guffawed.

Brisbois cocked an eyebrow at Creighton, then returned to his notebook. “Anyway, I asked him if any of the cars were missing.”

Lloyd: Mr. Arnold's car was missing. There were just five cars in the parking lot — Tiffany's, Mr. Lawrence's, Mr. Oliver's, Miss Miller's, and Mr. Carty's.

Brisbois paused, prompted Creighton with an index finger.

“Carty doesn't have a car.” Creighton thought for a moment. “Maybe the car belonged to a visitor or a dinner guest.”

“I don't think the dinner guests are here that late.” Brisbois pocketed the notebook. “Let's talk to Lloyd.”

“Lloyd.” Brisbois and Creighton accosted him by the back porch where he was taking a break from gardening.

Lloyd had just settled in with a glass of milk and a piece of pecan pie when the detectives appeared. He liked the policemen but he found it hard to focus on the pie with them around. His mother had taught him it wasn't polite to eat in front of people unless you offered them something.

“Pie?”

Brisbois shook his head. “Oh, no thanks, Lloyd. I just wanted to go over the statement you gave us.”

Lloyd grinned. “OK.”

Brisbois consulted his notebook. “You said you got into the parking lot just after eleven.”

“Did.”

“You said there were five cars in the parking lot.”

“Yup.”

“You said the only car missing was Mr. Arnold's.”

“Did.”

Brisbois took a deep breath. “Now, when you said somebody's car was in the parking lot, did you mean it was their car or that there was a car parked in that spot that might have belonged to someone else?”

“If I see a car in their place and I see them driving it, it's theirs. But sometimes, like with Miss Miller, the car's in her spot, but Mr. Simpson drives it too.”

Brisbois shook his head as if trying to clear his ears. “Right,” he said. He returned to his notes. “You said Mr. Carty's car was there.”

“Yes'm.”

“But Mr. Carty doesn't have a car.”

“Was in his spot. Didn't see anybody else driving it so I said it was his.”

“The car was in the spot marked for the Oaks.”

“Yes'm.”

Brisbois frowned. “Don't the cars get registered when the guests arrive?”

“Do.”

“What if one of the other guests had a visitor or there was a guest in for dinner, might they park in one of the other guests' spots if that guest didn't have a car?”

“Could.”

“Would they let somebody know if they had done that?”

“Would if they was nice.”

“But, if no one complained, a dinner guest could park in Mr. Carty's space and no one would know.”

“Could, but most of them aren't here so late.”

“But somebody visiting one of the other guests might be.”

“Guess so.”

Brisbois thought for a moment. “Do you remember what the car in Mr. Carty's space looked like?”

“Yes'm.”

Brisbois prompted him with a hand gesture.

“Kind of old. Purple like lilacs. Honda Civic.”

“Ontario plates?”

“Yes'm.”

“Anything special about it? Broken taillight, that sort of thing?”

“A couple of dings. And it was a college car.”

“A college car?”

“Said in the back window. Carleton University.”

Brisbois turned to Creighton. “Well, I'll be damned.”

“Knew it wasn't a dinner guest,” said Lloyd, “because it was there two nights.”

Brisbois meandered down the lawn in the general direction of the dock, digesting the interview with Lloyd. “That car in Carty's parking space sounds a hell of a lot like Terri Hopper's.”

Creighton put a hand on his hat as the brim lifted in the breeze. “So she lied to us.”

“Sounds like it.” Brisbois skidded to a stop. “What do you suppose she was doing here?”

“Maybe her being here explains what a young guy like Carty was doing here. Terri's his girlfriend. She was staying with him. She tells her parents a little white lie. Then her mother gets murdered, and the lie doesn't seem so little anymore.”

“But why wouldn't she take him home?”

“Things weren't so great at home. Why would she want to drag him into that?”

Brisbois stared at the ground for a moment. “Maybe.” He didn't sound convinced. “We know she didn't have a great relationship with her mother. Maybe she did take him home. Her mother didn't approve. Things got out of hand.”

“You're saying Terri killed her mother?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she had help.”

“Or,” said Creighton, “maybe Evelyn lights into Terri. Terri storms out. Carl's upset about the way Evelyn treated Terri. They have a fight about it. He kills her. Aunt Joan said she was Carl's girl.”

“That's not a bad theory.” Brisbois' cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket. “Yeah.” He listened, nodded. “OK.” He pocketed the phone and headed toward the car. “Come on. Doc wants to talk to us.”

The pathologist motioned toward the tools laid out on the table. “I've examined the stuff your people collected and I think I've found some likely culprits.” He hauled out a heavy, narrow shovel with a flat, sharp end. “The cut on the right parietal and the one on the horse's shoulder? They were caused by something like this. But not this particular item.”

Brisbois' brow crinkled.

“This one's clean.”

“Clean?”

“Garden soil. That's what's on this one. No straw, no manure, no husks, no blood. But something exactly like this did it. Just not this one.”

“So there were two similar shovels in the stable. Someone whacked Mrs. Hopper and the horse with one and took it with him.”

The pathologist regarded him over his glasses. “You're the detective. But let me show you how I think it could have happened.”

Brisbois gave him a go-ahead gesture.

The pathologist picked up the shovel, stepped aside, raised it over his head. “Now, if your victim was mounted, and you're swinging upward, you're not generating a lot of force at this angle.”

“So she was just grazed.”

“Right, but on the downswing, you get a little more punch. You've got gravity to help for one thing. That's why the horse got the worst of it.”

“But the shovel didn't kill her. You told us that before. The blow to the right side of her head wasn't fatal.”

The pathologist laid the shovel on the table. “No. It struck her hard enough to give her a small subdural, which, as I said, might have killed her eventually — maybe days later.” He shrugged. “Maybe never.” He reached into a cardboard box that sat on the table near the shovel, took out a large rock. “Now this is more interesting.”

Brisbois and Creighton stared at the rock.

The pathologist placed the rock upside down on a metal tray, pointed to the gritty surface. “This is the surface that made contact with her skull. She didn't fall and hit her head.”

“Somebody picked the rock up and bashed her with it.”

“Yup, and let me show you something.” The pathologist picked up a manila envelope, took out some photographs. “See?” He pointed to the upper part of the photograph. “The rock was moved. Somebody picked it up, bashed our lady's skull in, then put it back down. That person didn't get it exactly in the right position, but I think he tried.”

Creighton studied the pictures. “Couldn't somebody just have kicked the rock, moved it by accident?”

The pathologist shook his head. “No, that would have left gouge marks in the soil, I think. We don't see that. And there should have been a little lip where the soil was pushed aside. And,” he said in conclusion, “this side of the rock was sitting on top of the grass around it. It overlapped by a centimetre. ” He nodded emphatically. “That rock was picked up and put back down.”

Brisbois thought for a moment. “Any chance the forensics team moved it?”

“No. Maroni was very careful. He photographed it, then brought it in in situ. He cut out thirty centimetres square of the forest floor. The lab's playing with that now.”

“Any fingerprints on that?”

“No. The upper surface is too irregular. The lab noted some marks in the muck on the bottom suggestive of fingerprints.” The pathologist pointed them out to Brisbois and Creighton. “As you can see, they're too smudged to say for sure.”

“Trace?”

“Maroni noted some fibres in his report. Off-white. They've gone to Trace, but the opinion is cotton.”

Brisbois walked out of the office and halfway down the hall before stopping. “Off-white cotton,” he said to Creighton. “Could be from a million places.” He fondled his cigarette package. “Herb was wearing a red plaid shirt, an old yellow vinyl raincoat.” He shook his head. “It's got to be eighty degrees, and the guy's wearing long sleeves and a rubber coat.”

“These guys are all the same,” Creighton said. “They're afraid to lose their coats. They're afraid if they take them off, somebody will steal them. Some of them are afraid of catching cold, but more often they're hiding needle tracks or protecting themselves from alien death rays and CSIS wiretaps.”

“They might be right about that one.”