The Minstrel & The Beagle

by Lila K Bell

  “That would be most helpful, thank you. You can see where they go.”

  To my surprise, she dumped the entire stack into my arms, and then went around the desk to sit down and riffle through some papers.

  I bit my tongue and forced a smile. If I got one piece of information out of her, it would be worth it for the ten minutes it would take to sort through the brochures.

  “I confess, I’m actually here to speak with you about the Historical Society,” I said as I got to work.

  “Oh yes?” She slid her glasses on and stared at me over the plastic frames. “Have you been speaking with your mother? I know she’s interested in running for the presidency, but I’m determined to win the next election. I have so many wonderful ideas.”

  “And I have no doubt you’ll be able to bring them to life with a flourish,” I said. “I’m not here on behalf of my mother. I’m actually interested in joining the Society myself. The work you do in the community is so fascinating, and Jeremy Coleman was regaling me with praise of your banquet the other night.”

  Susan’s face flattened with a smug look, though the chuckle she offered was less than warm. “I find that most generous coming from Jeremy considering he disappeared halfway through the evening.”

  Well that was easy.

  “Did he?” I asked. How dare he? my tone suggested. Of all the nerve.

  When Susan glanced down at the brochures, I realized I’d paused my work to catch her reply and got back to it.

  “He didn’t mention anything about that when we spoke,” I said. “He said the food was superb.”

  He hadn’t, of course, but it sounded like something he would have a positive word to say about. That and the number of eligible young women.

  “I’m not sure how he would have known,” Susan said. “He stayed for the soup and salad, disappeared just before the main course, and didn’t return until we were enjoying our after-dinner drinks. It was most discourteous. You can imagine how much we pay by the plate for these things.”

  “I can indeed,” I said. “It would have been nice of him to explain what dragged him away. Maybe it was something serious?”

  “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea. I was too busy discussing the details of my campaign through most of the evening. Though I did see him speaking with Jasper Huxley afterward, and the two seemed very amused, so it couldn’t have been that dire.” She shrugged. “All it does is support my point that we need new blood in the society. People who are actually invested in participating and supporting the group. If you are interested in joining, dear, we meet every Tuesday and Saturday evening, and it’s a five-hundred dollar entrance fee, which covers the cost of supplies for meetings, snacks, beverages, guest speakers, and what have you. That won’t be an issue, will it?”

  I balked at the price. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the money, but it blew my mind that so many people were willing to pay it just to sit around and listen to a bunch of people drone on about the development of Brookside’s irrigation system. It wasn’t like we had a wild military history in our neck of the woods. I was pretty sure the biggest civil uprising we’d had since our founding was the time Arthur Bennett ran down Chris Collins’ fence with his riding mower, destroying his prize zucchinis. That incident had led to fisticuffs at sunset, and I was pretty sure tensions remained high, the families still not on speaking terms. That had been fifty years or so ago, and was one of Gramps’s favourite stories.

  “I’ll have to think it over to see if it fits into my schedule. I’ll be in touch.”

  I put away the last of the brochures, thanked Susan for her time, and headed out.

  Under the mid-morning sun, I checked my watch and debated what to do next. My stomach wasn’t grumbling yet, so I figured I could set lunch aside for another little while, which would mean waiting to speak with Jasper Huxley. I knew Jasper vaguely through other connections and from the amount of time I spent at Jennifer’s Tea Room, where he worked as a cook. If I was lucky, I could grab a few minutes to ask him about Jeremy while grabbing a cream tea at the same time. Win-win for me.

  To fill the rest of my morning, I opted for the next name on my mental list: Barnaby Coleman’s best friend, Roger Hardwick. Jeremy’s information wouldn’t have been enough to help me track him down, but Sam’s little slip about a boat gave me a pretty good idea.

  As it was a nice day, I left Mercy at the meter, topping it up for another hour, and walked to the marina.

  The smell of wet earth and gasoline floated toward me on the wind, mixed with the regular odour of Lake Ontario. The breeze tickled my hair and blew it around my face, leaving me to brush it back and wish I’d thought to bring a hair elastic along with me.

  When I reached the pier, I sauntered along to the nearest docks and began asking for Roger. In my experience, boat people were a friendly lot, and today they lived up to my expectation, sending me along the marina to the last set of docks at the end.

  I thanked them and started off, moving at a relaxed pace to soak up the beauty of the day. It was getting cooler, but hadn’t yet passed into cold. The leaves on the trees hanging over the water were touched with reds and oranges, reflecting like fire on the choppy surface of the lake. In the summer, the beach nearby was full of people eager to take advantage of a cool dip, but today the sands were empty, giving the area a sort of melancholy dreariness.

  I reached the last dock and approached what appeared to be a houseboat. I say appeared, because it took a bit of imagination to find any kind of boat under all the rust and flaking paint.

  In prime condition, the boat would have been lovely, with wood paneling and bright curtains in the windows. The deck was wide, perfect for lying out to get some sun or sitting at the back for some fishing, and from what I could see through a glimpse in the window, the interior was spacious as well.

  The Beagle was written across the side in fresh white paint, and I couldn’t help but smile at the homage. Was it a coincidence that the name matched the breed of Coleman’s dog, or did Barnaby and Roger’s friendship extend to a shared passion in evolution?

  The dog was in much better shape than the houseboat, however. The boards on the deck were rotting, one of the windows was cracked, and by the smell coming through it, I could only guess at the amount of mould lurking in the damp corners of the cabin.

  A man came out from inside, and I guessed him to be Roger. He looked to be in his sixties with a full brown beard that had begun to go grey, neatly trimmed hair, and an interesting fashion sense. His orange and blue Hawaiian shirt didn’t exactly go with the green khaki’s, but I appreciated his confidence in putting them together.

  “Good morning!” he called, his voice deep and friendly as he waved. “Lovely day.”

  “It is, indeed,” I said, and stepped closer to the boat. “Good waters today?”

  “Haven’t been out yet,” he said, “but maybe this afternoon.”

  I scanned the marina, thoughts racing about how to proceed, then turned my smile back towards him. “Maybe you’re a good person to ask, seeing as how you’re standing on one, but I might be in the market for a houseboat. Do you recommend them as a good investment? A home away from home?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “There’s nothing like it, as long as you have a good hull.”

  By the ruefulness of his expression as he looked around, I guessed he did not see himself as being lucky in that regard.

  “What about night boating?” I asked. “I have this thing about seeing the moon on the lake, and I’d love to experience it out on the water. I just wonder if it wouldn’t be too clunky to dock on my way back in. Do you think something smaller would be better for a hobby like that?”

  “I wouldn’t know personally,” he said, chuckling. “Can’t say I’m much of a night boater myself. Never saw it as particularly safe.”

  And there was the lie. It was possible he’d been at the marina during the time Barnaby had been murdered, but he definitely hadn’t been out on the water like he’d
told the police.

  “Are you happy with your boat?” I asked. Jeremy had mentioned something about Roger getting the boat from Barnaby, hadn’t he? That they’d had a falling out over it. At the state of it, I could see why, but Roger didn’t appear too frustrated by its condition.

  “I love it,” he said. “Don’t be fooled by how it looks. Fixing it up is half the fun. By the time I’m done with her, she’ll be fit to head on out and tour the lake.”

  “How much did it set you back, if you don’t mind my asking?” I crouched down as though to assess the hull, but all I could see was more rust.

  “I got it for a steal,” he said. “Traded it for a copy of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species. Just something I had lying around the house, can you believe it?” He drew in a deep breath. “Freedom of the water in exchange for a book. Best deal I ever made.”

  My mouth went dry, and I nearly tipped forward into the water. Carefully, I settled back on my heels and struggled to keep my smile in place. Did he know how much the book had been worth? Had Barnaby?

  “I’m a huge fan of Darwin, see,” Roger continued. “The man changed the world. That’s why I named the boat The Beagle, a tip of my hat to the man himself. Maybe if I keep a close eye out, I’ll make my own discoveries right here on the shores of Lake Ontario.”

  “I wish you all the success with that,” I said. “She’ll be quite the beauty when she’s set up. And all for the cost of a book? That was generous of the person you traded with.”

  “Bah,” Roger said, waving his head in dismissal. “What’s a trade between friends, right? When Barnaby offered me the deal, I couldn’t say no.”

  “Barnaby?” I repeated, feigning surprise. “Not Barnaby Coleman, is it? The man who was murdered?”

  At the mention, Roger crumbled in front of me. The lines around his eyes tightened, and he bowed his chin to his chest. “That’d be him. I’d known the man for over forty years. I still can’t believe—”

  He looked up, rolled his eyes skyward, and blinked to clear the tears pooling in the wrinkles along his eyelids. A stray one escaped and slid over his chin, but Roger was quick to brush it away. He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the ropes coiled on the corner of the deck. “I hope whoever did it gets what’s coming to him. Barnaby didn’t deserve to go out like that.”

  He rested his hand on the wooden frame and gave it a gentle pat. “At least I got this from him before he went. Something to remember him by. He was my best friend. I’ll miss him.”

  My heart ached at the sight of his grief, and nothing would have made me push harder than I already had. Instead, I wished him a good day and left him to his mourning, fighting back my own tears at the sight of his.

  It was possible he knew the deal had been a rip off no matter what he said, but there was no doubt in my mind that his grief was sincere.

  So it was time to turn my attention back to the handsome little liar: Jeremy Coleman.

  9

  After being witness to Roger’s grief — and feeling no small amount of guilt that I’d stuck my finger into the wound — I was in great need of a scone, complete with cream and jam. Which was convenient, considering my next stop was the tea room.

  I took advantage of the walk back to town to shake off the weight of my conversation with Roger, losing myself in the sounds of the busy-for-a-small-town streets and the tantalizing aromas of the restaurants as they geared up for the lunch rush.

  Roger and Barnaby might have fallen out, and Jeremy might have his reasons not to like the man, but so far Roger Hardwick was the only person who’d actually shown regret that Coleman was dead.

  I thought about how sad that was, that a life could be stolen with no one left behind to grieve for the loss. If my parents were suddenly taken from me, I like to think I would at least be able to shed a few tears for them. We might have our differences, but they did keep me alive until I was old enough to do it for myself. I had to give them credit for that.

  I reached Jennifer’s Tea Room and was pleased to discover it almost empty. Not great for Jennifer, of course, but I had no doubt that by afternoon each table would be full. Her high tea luncheons were to die for. She had these chocolate-lavender cupcakes that — anyway.

  I settled for ordering a scone with a cup of tea and waited for Jasper to make an appearance. Usually he served as cook, but when it was quiet like this, he’d come out and serve as well. It was a smart way to keep costs down, and he benefited by the extra tips.

  It took fifteen minutes, but he finally emerged with my lunch, and my stomach leapt with joy at the sight.

  “This is the high point of my day,” I said, my mouth watering at the scent of blueberry and vanilla.

  “I do have that effect on the ladies,” Jasper said with a charming smile. No wonder he and Jeremy got along. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. Then I waited a beat before adding, “Actually, yes.”

  My acting lessons in high school hadn’t been for nothing.

  Jasper paused beside the table and looked down at me, his expression open and friendly.

  “I just wanted to offer my sympathies. I know you’re a friend of Jeremy’s, so I’m sure his father’s death must have come as a shock to you, as well.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Jasper said, my offering clearly taking him by surprise. “Absolutely. He was a decent guy. Always treated me well, anyway.”

  “How is Jer holding up?” I asked. “I popped in on him yesterday, but I don’t think he’d really processed anything yet. I’m sure he regrets not being there with his dad that night. I understand he was at the Historical Society Gala with you?”

  “I wouldn’t really say with me,” Jasper said. “I picked up a catering gig that night, so we ran into each other and spent a few minutes catching up. But he’s doing all right, I think. I don’t know that he and his dad were very close by the end of it.”

  Interesting.

  “That’s awful. It’s so hard when relationships drift apart like that. Especially with a parent. We might hate them sometimes, but there’s still this expectation that they’ll be there for us when we need them, right?”

  I did my best to keep the sympathy bright in my voice, but inside my head, my thoughts were spinning. Somehow I had to keep the conversation going and figure out where Jeremy had gone during dinner. I felt like I’d talked myself into a corner and now had to shoehorn in what I really wanted to know.

  But then Jasper’s brow furrowed, and he said, “Funny you mention being with his dad that night, because I could have sworn he had a meeting with his old man.”

  I could have kissed him.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. He got a call in the middle of dinner, then left the party to deal with it. When he came back, he looked awfully happy.”

  “You don’t know what the call was about?”

  “Nah, he just said he was close to getting his dad to finally come around about the house. Jer’s been after that thing for years. At this point he’d probably have to tear it down and start from scratch to make anything out of it, but maybe that’s his plan.” Jasper shook his head. “I don’t think he counted on his dad being murdered as a way to get his hands on it. He didn’t want it that badly.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t. Man, he must be feeling extra guilty that he was pushing so hard when, at that very moment, someone might have been...”

  I trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Yes, I was playing a role, but in truth the situation left my stomach a little unsettled. Even if it hadn’t been Jeremy who’d gone to the house to do the deed, it was still tragic that he was so giddy about booting his father out of his home just to claim a bit of extra real estate.

  A clamour rose from the kitchen, and Jasper looked over his shoulder. “I should get back there. Do you need anything else for your tea?”

  I assured him I had everything and soon found myself alone in the shop, enjoying my lunch and pondering my most recent disco
very.

  Not even Jeremy could be that cold, could he? To leave a dinner, murder his father, and come back smiling because he was going to get the house? Even if Jasper was right that the two weren’t getting along, that sort of sangfroid would require a degree of… evil. And while I would never describe Jeremy as a saint, I’d never detected that level of demonic presence in him, either.

  Then again, I didn’t know him all that well. He’d just been something pretty to stare at during algebra.

  Maybe it would be worth a another conversation with him. Not at his apartment this time — I’d made that mistake once. Somewhere neutral, where he might not read innuendo into everything I said. Possibly it was because of our history together, but I felt the need to give him a chance to explain himself. As much as I didn’t like the guy, I also didn’t like the thought of having gone to school with a murderer. Of having kissed one, once upon a time.

  So I finished my lunch with more haste than I would have preferred and, riding on the sugar rush, headed back out.

  From what I remembered, Jeremy worked as an an engineer at some sort of infrastructure development company. Considering it was the middle of the day on a Tuesday, I figured I might be able to catch him at work.

  A quick internet search helped me find him, and soon I was on my way across town to Brintel, Inc., a swanky office building in the heart of downtown.

  I was greeted on the fourth floor by a receptionist in a form-fitting dress, her hair done up in a modern bouffant, with red lipstick that would have made Betty Boop jealous. She gave me a once over and I stared back at her, refusing to feel self-conscious in my jeans and T-shirt. I was rich. I didn’t need to make a display to prove it.

  After her attempt to send me away by saying Jeremy was in a meeting — her story falling flat when he strolled out of his office to refill his water glass — she escorted me into his office and left in a huff. It took all I had not to smirk at her retreating back.

  “Two visits in two days? It must be my lucky week,” Jeremy said, leaning back in his chair and resting his hands over his stomach.