“But why Labrador?”
“Because of Dr. Grenfell.”
“Was that the acquaintance who emigrated to Canada?”
“No, no.” Perrell shook his head. “You don’t know about Dr. Grenfell?”
“Should I?”
“Yes, of course, he’s a legend hereabouts. Dr. Grenfell was an Englishman like me. He came to Labrador at the end of the nineteenth century because there was absolutely no health care here. He had hospitals built, for instance one in St. Anthony in Newfoundland, and one on Battle Island in Labrador. In a hospital ship he sailed along the coast and treated patients. Sometimes he traveled by dogsled. One day he went missing out on the ice and almost died.”
“But that was a long time ago.”
“Yes, he died in 1940.”
“You’d like to be a second Dr. Grenfell?”
“He inspired me. But he had more luck than I had. He married a rich American and lived with her in St. Anthony.”
I find the reference to a rich American interesting.
“Do you smoke?”
He twitches imperceptibly.
“Why do you ask?”
“Do you smoke Karelias?”
He arches his eyebrows. “As a doctor you must set an example, as you most certainly know. The way the police must set an example.”
That’s a non-answer. Was he the one who left the cigarette wrapper in Shannon’s bathroom?
I smile politely. “Correct. That does make the search for a suitable partner in a small community difficult.”
“Are you talking about Ann Smith?”
If he answers a question with a question, so can I. “How did Ann respond to your interest?”
“She didn’t respond. That was clear enough.”
“Ann rescued the fundraising event for the clinic. And then pointed a gun at you. Why?”
“Maybe simply out of youthful impetuousness. You explain it to me, Constable, you were there.”
“For my part, it looked like a threat.”
Carl Perrell whips his head around in my direction.
“What do you mean by that?”
“If somebody aims a rifle at another person, it’s either dangerously careless or a threat. Ann Smith doesn’t seem to be a careless person to me.”
“Maybe she was flushed with victory and wasn’t paying attention.”
He really doesn’t believe that himself. Odd that he doesn’t want to acknowledge the threat. Not to me, at least. I dig deeper.
“Is there something I ought to know?”
He rubs his clean-cut jaw. “Don’t you want to know why Ann is a better shot than the locals?”
“Yes, of course. Can you explain that?”
He laughs dryly. “The obvious reason is that she’s gifted and has practiced a lot.”
“That’s probably true for many women.”
“Not for strangers who spend their summers in Port Brendan.”
I think the time has come for a little surprise attack. “The dog’s head I found on the ice was probably severed with a scalpel. Can you imagine how that’s possible?”
His answer is astonishingly swift. “No. And I didn’t put it there, if that’s what you mean.”
“Can I have a list of all the employees in the clinic? And the part-timers, kitchen staff, cleaning personnel?”
The doctor understands that this is not a question but an order.
“Yes, I’ll do it at once. But don’t forget the doctor’s oath.” He puts his hand on the wheel. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital. Are we done here?”
Most of the time when people want to get away, it’s possible to ask one more question.
“So you think that Mrs. Smith has secrets?”
“Sure. Why is a woman like Ann in Port Brendan? What’s she doing here? You should pursue that question.”
I open the door to signal that he’s now released.
“Maybe because of a man.” I watch his reaction. “Did Bakie and Ann get along really well?”
He looks at me with a furrowed brow and refuses to answer. Then he reverses his car so fast that I’m just barely able to close the door.
The cold hits me like an ice-cold shower. I pull my hood on, which limits my vision, and look down at the shooting area. I can’t see Shannon or Ann. Or the three biathletes. Apart from Gerald Hynes, I don’t find a single familiar face. I want to get away from the shooting noise and climb, with some effort, to the top of the hill and to my car. When I arrive, Rick Stout is standing there. I saw him earlier at the firing range.
“Where have all the people gotten to?” I ask him. “Shannon and Ann and my three guests?”
“Ann took the girls with her to the village, probably. Are you going there? My snowmobile is kaput, and Meeka has the car.”
“Sure. I have to go there, too.”
As we’re bumping along in the car toward the main street, I ask: “What happened to your snowmobile?”
“It’s an old thing, but I’ve always been able to patch it up before. Takes a little longer this time, I need a spare part.”
Rick looks worried. The Stouts are definitely not well-off. Most people have two cars and two cell phones, but not Rick and Meeka. He fishes near the coast with his brother in summer, in a small boat, he told me. He’d earn a lot more on the big trawlers that travel far out to sea and are gone for weeks or months. But he doesn’t want to be separated from his family for such a long time. Not even for money. My father was the same: he could have traveled all over the world as an aircraft mechanic. But he preferred to repair planes for a relatively small company and go home every day.
Rick interrupts my thoughts.
“Well, did the doctor bewitch you?”
I look at him open-mouthed, not knowing which amazes me more: that Rick used the word bewitched or that he took the liberty of using it.
“Rick, with all due respect, that’s none of your business.”
Now it’s his turn to look bewildered.
“Okay, okay, I didn’t mean it like that.”
He’ll certainly tell his friends and relatives how piqued the new Mountie was by his joke. And somebody’s sure to mention that even though there’s a famous nude beach in Vancouver, the people there are nonetheless so terribly uptight.
Rick doesn’t seem to hold it against me. He goes on talking: “There’s no fooling around with Dennis Richards. He’s often intimidated people with his methods.”
“What methods?”
“He once drove Jay Bromin to the garbage incinerator and threatened to throw him in.”
“What was the reason?”
“He thought Jay had stolen his drug money.”
“Dennis deals drugs?”
“Did. Not anymore, as far as I know. That was ten years or so ago.”
“How do you know about the thing with the drug money?”
“From a cousin. He was in the car with Dennis when they went to the incinerator.”
“What’s the cousin’s name?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that; wouldn’t be any use, either. He has a family and has nothing to do with drugs now. It’s an old story. They didn’t throw Jay into the fire; they just scared the hell out of him. The incinerator isn’t working anymore.”
Ten years. That was long before Closs. That’s why the boss hasn’t heard a word about it.
“Thanks anyway for telling me, Rick, I have a better handle on Richards.”
“A hard nut, that one.”
“There seem to be several in these parts. Somebody opened my door and threw dog poop into my house. Who could it have been?”
“For sure it’s the idiots who lived in your house before you. Drunks, they were. Grace Butt finally threw them out. Good riddance!”
“Do those guys still have a key to my place?”
“No. Grace had the locks changed. Why?”
“Because I thought I’d locked the door.”
“Go ask Scott Dyson. He worked at
your house.”
Once again a possible clue leading to Scott Dyson. Maybe the man’s not as harmless as he pretends to be.
The first houses of Port Brendan come into view. I change the subject.
“When does the mummers thing start?”
“Tonight. In the arena. Are you coming, too? You really should come disguised as a mummer. It’ll be a hell of a lot of fun.”
I sidestep the question and just say: “The kids are finally getting their innings. Lilly must be beside herself with delight.”
“And how! You should see her, running around in her costume all day.”
“Will Meeka perform?”
“Right at the beginning. You can’t miss it, absolutely not!”
“Where can I drop you off?”
“At the supermarket. I’ve got to get some batteries.”
“Is Meeka picking you up?”
“I’ll find somebody to take me home. Don’t forget. It starts at eight.”
“Look after your wife and kids,” I shout as a good-bye.
He frowns. “Why?”
Because somebody was murdered a few days ago, I want to say. But I bite my tongue at the last second. Nothing’s going to happen, I tell myself.
“Just a manner of speaking,” I reply, and he shuts the car door.
37
Something’s in the air at the station that envelops me at once like a damp mist. Fred’s in the office—it’s our meeting room as well—looking serious.
“What’s the matter?”
“We found the scalpel,” he says.
“Where?”
“In our mailbox.”
The scalpel is in an evidence bag. A tiny brown spot is visible on the blade.
“This came with it.”
Fred holds out a sheet of paper that’s in another plastic envelope. Somebody cut letters out of newspapers and glued them on. There are three words on the paper: REVENGE IS SWEET!
I shake my head, baffled.
“What in the name of . . . Looks like somebody’s read a lot of old mystery novels. Paper and scissors—who ever does something like that these days?”
The corners of Fred’s mouth twitch. “I completely agree with you. This is a damn poor joke.”
I brush the hair out of my face. Constantly putting on and taking off my hat always loosens strands from my hair knot.
“I’d almost call it a schoolboy prank. But teenagers definitely don’t read old detective novels. That’s an antediluvian method. What are the others saying? Where are they?”
“Down at the firing range. Dennis Richards and a few of his gang started a fistfight. They don’t want to accept the results.”
“The bastards. Just because a woman bested them.”
“I’m not so sure about that. A local woman probably wouldn’t have been a problem.” Fred takes the bag with the scalpel off the table.
I dodge any further discussion. My stomach craves something hot.
“Do you believe the dog was dissected with that?” The word dissected simply slips out. “I asked Dr. Perrell about the scalpel today. He said it wasn’t him. And he pretends to know nothing in other respects.”
“Pretends?”
Fred puts the bag back down on the table. I summarize my conversation with Perrell for him, concluding with: “He’s not very communicative. Doesn’t ask about Bakie. Shows no emotion.”
“He’s a doctor. Looks death in the face more often than we do. Not always room for feelings there. Still, he talked with you in his car for a long time.”
“I hope he’ll send us a list of the hospital personnel soon.” Then something strikes me. “Who told you I talked to Perrell in his car?”
I specifically hadn’t mentioned that detail.
“Closs told me.”
“How come the sarge knew?”
Wendy walks in at that moment with two full cups and puts them on the table. I could hug her, but when I see her looking at the anonymous letter, I quickly turn it over. That shouldn’t have happened. I reach for the cup and thank her.
“This information mustn’t go anywhere,” I say emphatically, pointing to the evidence bag.
Wendy punishes me with an indignant look.
“I’ve been working at this job for twelve years and nobody has ever complained,” she says unapologetically before she disappears.
After she’s left, I close the door.
Fred looks at me, puzzled.
“What was that all about?”
“Yesterday she told Georgina about my whereabouts. I told the boss I didn’t think that was proper.”
“Maybe Georgina got it from her husband.”
“Not if I’m to believe her words. The sarge apparently doesn’t talk with his wife much. He didn’t have a clue that the blue garbage bag was loaned from the clinic.” I avoid the word swiped.
Fred listens with interest.
“I’ve heard she’s often on the night shift.”
My phone dings. An email. I check my inbox.
“Perrell sent me the list of personnel. I’ll forward it to you right now, Fred. How do things stand with the volunteers in the Salvation Army shop?”
That’s where the red sweatshirt with the slogan on it was for sale, but nobody can remember if it was ever sold. Fred ventured a guess earlier that one of the volunteers had snitched it.
“I’ve got a list of them,” he replies. “And the names of the members on the auction page on Facebook where the Olympics cap was auctioned. Just about every woman in Port Brendan is on it.”
That’s the thing about such small communities. People go along with whatever. Nobody wants to be left out. The lists don’t offer us much hope. But we should see if some names are on both lists.
“By the way, I noticed some glossy magazines in Melissa Richards’s living room. The letters on the message could have come from them. What about the surveillance camera at our entrance? There must be something on it.”
“Hmm.” Fred drinks his tea while reading on his phone. “The sarge wants to stick Dennis Richards in a cell. He evidently roughed up Gerald Hynes pretty badly. That’s good. Now we don’t have to keep an eye on him during the opening ceremonies in the arena.”
“Does the sarge think Richards murdered Bakie?”
“Delgado and Sullivan rechecked his alibi. His mother is suddenly not so sure anymore about when her son came home. She got caught contradicting herself.”
“Oops!” My head starts working. Did Richards poison Bakie’s dog, then behead it, deposit the garbage bag with all those things and the dog’s head on the ice, and finally kill the chef? Can’t get my head around it all.
“We don’t have anything concrete that connects Richards to the murder. Only speculation.”
“Closs sees a possible motive. Bakie’s debts to Richards. Bakie’s plan to leave Melissa in the lurch and take off for Vegas.”
Fred doesn’t sound very persuaded.
“How could Richards have known about Bakie’s plan? And if Bakie’s dead, how can Richards get his money now?”
I turn the bag with its colorful letters over again. REVENGE IS SWEET. I simply can’t imagine that Richards would concoct an anonymous message with cut-out letters. Or anything else. I pace back and forth around the office.
“Richards is a braggart. He would have beaten the hell out of Bakie the way he did Hynes today. Taught him a lesson he wouldn’t forget. A frontal attack, with an audience, if possible, not a stab in the back.”
Sullivan barges in.
“We’re all on night shift today,” he shouts. “Boss’s orders. We’re to mingle with the crowd.”
Fred puts down his empty cup.
“Where’s the sarge? And Delgado?”
“They’re still busy with Dennis Richards. The sarge wants to search his parents’ house now. Hynes had to go to the hospital for stitches.”
Sullivan looks at me.
“You had a rendezvous with the doctor? Did you get something out of h
im that we couldn’t?”
I explain to him objectively what happened between Perrell and Ann Smith at the firing range.
“Well, she got a bit cocky,” is his comment. “I can easily imagine that Perrell has an eye for the ladies. And lately the doctor has been after our constable.”
I don’t think that’s funny. Sullivan is amused.
“Gates, don’t take it so seriously. It’s the way people talk around here. There’s no harm meant by it.”
“As you have all my information, my dear colleague, now it’s your turn. What did you get out of Dr. Perrell?”
Sullivan turns serious.
“If you ask me, he didn’t like Bakie. Kris Bakie was a bit of a star, and Perrell wanted to be a star, too. He had his own ideas, and Kris had different ones.”
His opinions are too wishy-washy for me.
“What about the timetable? Who was going to be at the Viking house and when?”
“Perrell corroborated what Shannon Wilkey told you. He originally intended to meet with the whole committee on Wednesday morning at the Viking house. But Ann Smith thought it wasn’t necessary for her to be there. Bakie canceled at the last minute. And Meeka never answered Perrell’s email. She apparently had never seen it. Only Shannon turned up, if you are to believe her. She hadn’t seen early enough, according to Perrell, that he wanted to postpone the meeting.”
“Meeka never said anything about a meeting or its postponement. I’ll talk to her about it.”
Besides, Ann had driven my three young guests to my house in the meantime. A good reason to escape the office and to tell my teammates I’m leaving.
“I’ll take care of the lists of names,” Fred says.
Sullivan pricks up his ears.
“What lists?”
Fred explains it to him.
“And the anonymous note? Are we talking about a woman here?”
“It might be a man pretending it comes from a woman,” I respond.
My answer evidently surprises Fred.
“But you argued against that before. And said a man would never do something like that.”
“Changed my mind,” I say on the way out.
On the spur of the moment, I go to the hospital. I ask at the reception desk for Gerald Hynes. A different woman is sitting behind the glass than before. Curly hair and painted eyebrows. She must be on Perrell’s list.
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 24
