Coming Unclued (22 page)

“Go ahead,” I told her. “And don’t let us make you nervous. We’re just looking for some information; nothing to fret about.”

Winnie lifted the tablecloth on the side table and took out a pack of cigarettes and a red ashtray in the shape of a lobster. “Care for one?” she asked us, holding out the pack.

I hadn’t had a smoke in probably ten years, yet that package of cigarettes looked very tempting. I missed it. I missed the ritual; I missed a nice after-dinner smoke. I missed the days when people casually lit up in their living room. And I was feeling a little tense myself.

“I wouldn’t mind,” I said, reaching for the pack.

“Except that we can’t smoke on the job,” chimed in Julie.

I took a cigarette and glanced at Julie, saying “Let’s keep things in perspective here. Nothing wrong with a smoke under the circumstances.” I lit up with the lighter Winnie passed me and inhaled deeply. My head started spinning and I immediately began coughing which caused Julie to give a satisfied smirk. “I’ve been trying to cut back,” I told Winnie.

“Oh me too,” she responded. “But it’s tough. A nice cup of tea and a smoke. Nothing better.”

“We have a few more questions, Winnie, if you don’t mind,” said Julie. “Do you happen to know where Bryson was on the night of December 18th? It was a Saturday night.”

“The night Harry was murdered?” said Winnie. “He was home in the basement, like he always is.” She pointed her cigarette at Julie. “Why? Why are you asking about Bryson? He didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“We don’t mean to imply that he does,” I told her. “We’re just trying to establish a chain of events. We want to cross all our Ts if you know what I mean.”

From the look on Winnie’s face she wasn’t any too sure about what I meant, but I soldiered on.

“Are you sure about Bryson’s whereabouts? Is there a private entrance to the basement?”

“Of course he was home,” said Winnie. “Where would he go on a Saturday night?”

“And how was the relationship between your son and his father?”

Winnie took a deep drag of her cigarette and leaned back against the couch. “Not so good,” she said. “I don’t believe they’ve talked for quite a few years now. Harry never much cared for Bryson. Even when he was young. He was embarrassed about his weight and worried that people might think Bryson was an oddball. Can you imagine that? Embarrassed by your own son. After we got the divorce Harry sent cheques until Bryson was of age, but he never did pay him much attention. That’s all a long time ago though. I never even think about Harry much anymore. I was taken aback seeing his picture on the front of the paper though. Monday morning I’m waiting for the bus, and I look in the newspaper box, you know, to see the front page, and there’s Harry all dressed up like Santa Claus, murdered. Took the wind out of me.”

“I can imagine,” I said. I leaned forward and spoke in a confiding tone. “The primary reason we’re here Winnie is that we have reason to believe that your son may have had blood on his slipper when he attended his father’s funeral. Now while of course there may be a perfectly logical reason for that, naturally enough it’s something we need to clear up.”

At the mention of blood on Bryson’s slipper, Winnie looked stricken. She knew something, that was clear. “It’s my fault. I told him no matter how he feels about his father it’s only decent that he go to the funeral. He wore his slippers?”

I nodded in affirmation. “Mules. Beige mules with blood on the toe.”

“Or ketchup,” said Julie. “We have no proof its blood, or whose blood it is if it is blood.”

Winnie just shook her head sadly.

“So please tell us again Winnie,” I said. “Where was your son late last Saturday night?”

Winnie put out her cigarette and finished off her tea with one loud gulp. “He’s a sweet boy, he really is,” she said. “But he has his issues. He gets upset easily and he’s never been good at dealing with stress. And my Lord, he’s got such resentment against his father. I keep telling him he’s got to let it go.”

I nodded my head, doing my best to look professional, yet sympathetic. Now we were getting somewhere. I knew it had to be something like this.

“I’m going to call him up here,” said Winnie. “I can’t believe he’d wear those bloody slippers to a funeral.”

Did she mean bloody as in blood-stained or was she using bloody as an epithet? Winnie got up and went down the hall toward the kitchen. I could hear her open a door and yell down the stairs. “Bryson! Can you come up here? There’s some people who needs to talk to you.”

“So what are we going to do?” asked Julie. “What if we get him to confess?”

“We’ll take him in,” I said.

“On the subway? He might suspect something when we start digging around for tokens.”

“Fine. How about we’ll spring for a cab?”

“The FBI calling a cab to take in a murder suspect? Just like in the movies.”

“We’re not FBI — remember? It’s not our fault if Winnie jumped to that conclusion.”

Winnie came back into the living room carrying a plate of mincemeat tarts. “He’s in the laundry room,” she said. “Putting some pants on. It’s hot down in the basement so he’s usually just in his boxers. Here have one,” she said, gesturing to the plate.

Putting some pants on. Small mercies. I reached over and took a mincemeat tart. They were delicious. Perhaps the best I’d ever eaten. Winnie nodded at the look of pure bliss on my face. “I’ll wrap you up some to take home,” she said. I munched happily, secure in the knowledge that we’d found Mr. Potter’s killer and that I would soon be vindicated. Also, I would be going home with a plate of delicious mincemeat tarts.

As I reveled in the tasty tart there was a slapping sound as Bryson came down the hall. He really was a sizeable fellow; even bigger close up. And he was wearing the same slippers he’d worn to the funeral.

“Bryson,” said Winnie. “This is Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Wesson. They’re with the FBI and they’d like to talk to you about your father’s murder.”

Bryson looked at us with undisguised contempt. “FBI? We don’t have FBI in Canada.”

Smartass. We do now. “We are special investigators who sometimes help out the police with their more complex murders,” I told him in a firm voice. “Cross border cooperation. Happens all the time. Now, Mr. Potter, we’d be interested in knowing your whereabouts in the early morning of December 18th.”

“Can I see your identification?” Bryson asked. “You don’t look like FBI.”

How many real FBI agents had he ever seen? I pulled my badge out of my pocket and flashed it at him. “We don’t have time for your shenanigans Mr. Potter. Where were you on the date in question?” Shenanigans. There’s a word right out of the FBI interrogation manual.

He gestured at Julie. “Where’s your badge?”

Julie quickly flashed him her badge. “Just answer the question. We have a lot of people to see today. You’re just one fish in a big pond.”

Good one. Good analogy. Though granted, Bryson would be a very big fish regardless of the size of the pond.

“I was home,” he said. “It was a Saturday night. I was watching some stuff on Netflix.”

Winnie patted the couch beside her. “Sit down here honey. They saw the blood on your slipper. Why on earth would you wear your slippers to your father’s funeral?”

“I’m retaining water,” said Bryson. “Couldn’t fit into my shoes.”

Winnie nodded her head like this was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Granted
,
Bryson did appear to be retaining a considerable amount of water.

“As part of our investigation, we will have to take your slipper down to the station,” said Julie. “Do a DNA match.”

“They just need to rule out it’s your father’s blood,” said Winnie in a consoling tone of voice, patting Bryson on the leg.

“Naaa,” said Bryson. “It’s not that creep’s blood. You think I’m stupid or something? You think if I killed him I’d be walking around with his blood on my slipper?”

“Criminals don’t always make the best decisions,” I told him in an authoritative voice. “Like my partner said, we’ll need to do a DNA test on that slipper.” What was I saying? He was supposed to confess. How was I supposed to do a DNA test?

“Take it off honey,” said Winnie. “Show the ladies.” She looked at us quickly. “The officers.”

That was more like it. Bryson hesitated, then slowly removed his slipper. Ewww. The mincemeat tart I’d so enjoyed almost came back up. Bryson’s toenails were chewed down to the nub. His toes looked like rancid hamburger, some raw and bloody and others scabbed over. I’d never seen anything like it.

“He chews his toenails,” said Winnie. “It’s been a problem his whole life. His big toe in particular gets real messy sometimes.”

I glanced over at Julie who was looking a little green.

“You’d never know it to look at him,” said Winnie, “but Bryson’s very bendy. Sits down there on his couch chewing away.” She shook her head sadly. “I keep telling him he’s never going to find a woman if he doesn’t quit it, but it’s a tough one.” She picked up the pack of cigarettes. “We all have our vices.”

“So you’re saying that the blood is from toenail chewing?” Julie asked slowly.

“Well look at those feet,” said Winnie. “Of course it’s his blood. My sakes, his father was stabbed to death. You think Bryson would stab his own father?”

“Sure I would,” said Bryson. “But I didn’t.”

We had to regroup here. I wished he’d put his slippers back on so I could think clearly. “Are you familiar with the contents of Mr. Potter’s will?” I asked in a more conciliatory voice. “He was quite a wealthy man.”

“Well I’m not in it,” said Bryson. “He told me a long time ago that if I wanted any money from him I had to lose a hundred pounds and get a job. Screw him!”

“He couldn’t let up about Bryson’s weight,” said Winnie. “Couldn’t get past it.”

“That thing he’s married to is getting everything,” said Bryson.

Julie stood up. “Thank you very much for your time Mrs. Potter — Winnie — and Bryson. We appreciate your candor. I believe we have everything we need here.”

Winnie hopped off the couch. “Just let me make you up a nice plate of tarts. How about a few shortbread too?”

“Thank you,” I said. “That would be lovely. Maybe just the tarts though.” Once my stomach recovered from the sight of Bryson’s toes they would be lovely.

“No, no, that’s fine,” said Julie. “We appreciate it, but we’re not allowed to accept gifts.”

“I think we could bend the rules Ms. Wesson,” I said, glaring at Julie. “It is Christmas.”

“Yes, it’s Christmas,” said Winnie. “You wait right there. I won’t be a minute.”

So we stood in the living room, staring at the Christmas tree like we’d never seen one before, both of us trying to avoid looking at Bryson. He had his left foot in his hand, gently running his finger over the instep, his scabby toes pointed right at us. “There’s polish you can get,” I told him. “It tastes really bitter so you don’t want to bite. You might want to try it.”

“Tried it,” said Bryson. “After a while it tastes okay. You know, the paper said that he got stabbed by some old slag that worked for him. I’d of thought it’d be Sophie. She hated him.”

I shook off the old slag comment, given the source. Sophie hated Mr. Potter? Interesting.

Winnie returned bearing two paper plates of tarts, covered in saran wrap. “Why do you say Sophie hated him, Bryson?” I asked. “Do you have any concrete evidence to back up that conjecture?” I sounded so professional, I was quite impressed with myself.

“Oh don’t listen to him,” said Winnie. “He’s always had a thing about that woman. She’s a little snooty, didn’t like Bryson coming around.” She turned to Bryson. “We don’t know that she hated your father. She’s not a warm person. That’s just the way she is. But they were together quite a while so there was something there. She must have seen something in him we couldn’t see.”

“His bank account,” said Bryson.

“Well thank you very much for your time,” said Julie. “And for the tarts.”

“Not every day the FBI drops by,” said Winnie. “Wait till I tell the girls.”

“We’d prefer you keep it confidential. As we emphasized, we are investigators, merely doing some investigating,” I said. “If you could just stay mum until we clarify the myriad elements to this complex police procedural.” I was overdoing it; Julie was actually wincing but fortunately Winnie was too good hearted to notice my blathering.

“I don’t see a car. Where’d you park?” she asked as she opened the door for us.

“Oh we took the subway,” I said. “No car budget,” I hastened to add. “Terrible. So many cutbacks.”

“Terrible,” agreed Winnie. “At your age. Let me call you a cab. I’ll pay for it. I won almost 200 dollars at the Casino the other night.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Julie, “but we’re not allowed to accept cab rides. Thank you so much for your time.”

Julie was such a stickler for rules. “Yes, thank you,” I said. “Good luck.” Good luck. Why did I say that? Good luck with Bryson I guess. He must be the quite the burden to bear.

We stood at the top of the stairs, taking in our surroundings. The sun was almost down and the weather had turned very brisk. The Christmas lights were starting to come on and it all looked quite homey and festive. “Pretty isn’t it?” said Winnie. “Only one house on the street didn’t put up lights this year.” She leaned closer to us. “They’re from Iran.” She pronounced it I – Ran. “One of them’s a doctor.”

“Tally ho,” said Julie, forgetting her professional demeanor for a moment, as she marched briskly down the steps.

“Well,” I said, my shoulders slumping in defeat as we headed down the walk, “she believed us, but we’re back where we started. I was so sure we had him.” I thought about it for a moment as we walked along. “Are we sure it’s not Bryson? He’s got quite a chip on his shoulder.”

“Are you kidding? That man doesn’t have the gumption to do anything as proactive as killing his father.”

We headed toward the subway, carrying our mincemeat tarts, and alternately admiring or disparaging the Christmas displays. I looked over at Julie and was overwhelmed with affection for her as she scrunched up her face at a house that had been extremely prolific with the icicle lights. “I really appreciate your support Julie,” I said.