by Lila K Bell
“Gramps? What’s wrong?”
Of all the people in the house, my grandfather most respected my privacy. He knew I lived my own life and never tried to govern it beyond a few words of advice or concern every now and then. He was the centre of my world, the reason I continued to live in a house where half of its members only acknowledged my existence when I acted in a way that pleased them, which wasn’t often.
If he was in trouble, there was nothing I wouldn’t do to set things right.
At the sound of my voice, he stirred from his contemplative pose and offered an attempt at a smile that didn’t quite make its way to warm. If anything, it was distracted.
Charlie rushed between the two of us, prepared to switch allegiance to anyone who would give him the attention he sought, and finally dropped down with a huff beside Gramps when he didn’t get it. I was too concerned and Gramps too caught up in whatever was on his mind to give him proper scratches.
I dumped my bags in the corner and grabbed a seat on the bed across from the chair.
“What’s going on? Are you feeling okay? Is Bea gone for the day?”
Bea Thompson was Gramps’s home care nurse and more a mother to me than my own. She wouldn’t have left him sitting here like this waiting for me to get home.
“I’m all right, chickadee,” he said, taking my hand in his and giving it a pat. “I’m — I’m worried about a friend of mine.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve heard about the woman they found under the old City Hall?” he asked.
I grimaced. Of all the people I thought would make my struggle to stay away difficult, Gramps was at the bottom of the list. When I’d told him after the Brooks case that I was done, he’d been happy. He hadn’t liked the thought of me going out chasing murderers.
For good reason, I suppose. I’d almost been killed once already.
So what had caught his interest about this one?
“John Kingslake, a man I’ve known since university has been arrested for her murder,” he said, and passed a hand over his face.
Charlie whimpered and edged closer to him, resting his head on Gramps’s foot. The sight warmed my heart. The beagle had only been with us for about two months — since I’d brought him home from Barnaby Coleman’s house — but he was already head over heels for my grandfather, and I was glad Gramps had such furry unconditional emotional support. This news had really shaken him.
Heck, it had shaken me.
The police had already caught the man who’d done it? Maybe it would be easier to avoid getting involved than I could have wished.
“I’m so sorry, Gramps,” I said. “That’s a real shock.”
“That’s not the shock, chickadee,” he said. “It’s —” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s just that I don’t think he did it. The man I know, he wouldn’t have it in him. It just… it doesn’t seem right.”
I stared, waiting for him to get to the reason he was here. Was he looking for comfort? Did he want me to speak with Detective Curtis?
“Fi, I have a favour to ask.”
“Of course,” I said. “Anything.”
“I need you to look into this for me. John Kingslake did not commit murder, and I need you to prove it.”
2
I was floored.
Was he serious? Was he having a stroke?
I stared deep into his eyes for confirmation that he’d lost his mind or was pulling my leg, but his expression was grave. Against all the odds and all my expectations, he really meant it: he wanted me on the case.
I thought about how worried he and Bea had been over my poking around in the Brooks murder. Bea had sat me down over her famous chocolate chip banana bread, for goodness’ sake, and that was not a weapon she used lightly.
In spite of all his concerns and cautions, here we were.
Right after I’d promised Sam that I would stay far away from the investigation.
Right after I’d looked him in the eye and sworn I had absolutely, positively zero per cent interest in the matter.
He was going to hate me.
But what could I do? Much as I cared about Sam, there was only one person in the world I would drop everything for, and he was sitting right in front of me.
“All right, Gramps,” I said. “I’ll nose around and see what I can find out.”
He squeezed my hand. “Thanks, chickadee. It’s not that I doubt what the police found. If Detective Curtis is as much like her mother as I believe her to be, she did the best job possible. But there has to be something she missed. John… he’s just not that sort of person. More the type to do something stupid, usually out of kindness without thinking of the consequences, and leave himself open for trouble than to actually cause the trouble, if you know what I mean.”
I frowned. “Kingslake. Didn’t he used to be mayor?”
“For fifteen years,” said Gramps. “He would have held the position at the time the poor woman was put in the ground. I hate to think about that. He might have been there when it happened — it might have been him in the ground.”
“We’ll figure this out,” I said. But I couldn’t make promises without letting him know how badly the odds were stacked against us. “You know Detective Curtis warned me away. I might not be able to get as close to this as I need to.”
“Just do the best you can, chickadee. That’s all I ask.” He pushed himself out of his chair, his knees cracking, and reached for his cane. Charlie got to his feet, his ever-wagging tail already in motion. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Of course,” I said, standing to put my arms around his neck. “Always.”
He hobbled out of the room, moving more slowly than I liked, and closed the door behind him and his white-and-brown shadow.
I dropped back on the side of the bed and stared after him.
Life has a habit of playing tricks, doesn’t it?
I’d been so sure I was safe. My self-control had been in good shape, my lips sealed, my curiosity tamped. Not even Sybil — not even Sam — had been able to get past the guard I’d put up around myself.
And just like that, the walls had come crumbling down. One little request, and I was back in the game.
This woman had been buried for twenty-five years. A quarter of a century, resting as someone’s dirty little secret, a constant source of guilt following their footsteps, much as my need for action haunted mine.
How very Poe.
Only this would be better than reading about it in a stolen copy of completed short stories. This would be figuring it out for myself.
An involuntary smile worked its way across my face. Finally, I had an excuse to go and check out the crime scene that would be at the top of everyone’s gossip list.
***
That evening I tried to relax, knowing I should take time to create a game plan before I went diving into anything, but when I tried to sit down with a book, my mind refused to settle on anything other than the missing woman.
Finally I gave up trying to stay still and donned my Minstrel’s garb of black yoga pants, black T-shirt, and black jacket to fend off the late-night chill in the air. I pulled the strap of my satchel over my head, settling the bag in the small of my back, and grabbed my mask and gloves just in case.
I didn’t expect I would need much for a quick reconnaissance, but it was better to go prepared.
Ready to go, I slid open my bedroom window and ducked through to the roof. A quick hop to the nearest branch, a smooth shinny around the trunk, and I was over the fence and standing on the corner of our street.
From there it was a short five-block jog to the Treasure Trove, where I kept my beat-up Toyota, Bessie, parked for easy access. She grumbled as I started the engine and rolled sluggishly out of her parking spot.
It had been too long since I’d given her a good run. There was less need of a secret vehicle when most of my dealings were out in the open.
I drove across town to the old City Hall building and parked Bessi
e a few blocks away, taking advantage of the shadows of cedar hedges and leafless, clawed trees to guard me from view as I went the rest of the way on foot.
The crime scene was taped off, but it was the work of a moment to scale a nearby tree whose thick branches stretched out over the hedge wall that wrapped around the courtyard. The beam of a flashlight swung toward me and I ducked behind the trunk to escape notice.
Of course they’d left someone to guard the place and prevent people like me from getting too close. If not, each tree on this street would play host to some journalist or other hoping for a quick snap.
In that light, they should be grateful I was just trying to get a quick lay of the land, right?
Not that there was much to see. As soon as the flashlight beam shifted, I peeked out from under the branch to make out what I could. A large white tent blocked off the hole where the woman had been found, and the tent flap faced the back door of the building. No way to see in, and there was no chance of me making it into the courtyard without being caught.
Still, my vantage point offered me some pretty good information. The whole courtyard was closed in by hedges, which meant the only access point was through the building. At the time, that would have been City Hall, which meant open to the public during business hours. Since I doubted the woman had been murdered just after the lunch rush, I was likely looking for someone who worked there.
A strike against John, but surely the mayor wouldn’t have been the only person in the building.
Three office windows overlooked the courtyard, which likely meant all three offices had been empty at the time. There was no way someone could commit murder and bury the body under the foundation without someone looking up from their desks to see it.
A cold wind gusted through the bare branches and worked its way under my collar. I shivered and huddled against the trunk, not yet ready to call it a night.
I had to get closer. Waiting until the crime scene was cleared and the guard was no longer necessary would be smarter, but I didn’t know how much time I had before John’s trial date was set, and once that happened my role in this would be over. Playing in the police playground was one thing — it was a whole other thing when lawyers got involved.
I grabbed my mask, pulled it down over my face, and waited until the officer stepped out of view, then I eased out onto the branch and dropped to the grass below.
The flashlight beam passed over the far wall, and I used the opportunity to skirt my way along the hedges, closer to the door. My pulse raced with the sheer joy of adrenaline pumping through my blood, and I pulled my gloves out of my back pocket.
As the officer moved closer to the tree that had been my way in, I reached the door.
Locked.
Damn.
I didn’t have much time, every passing second an even greater miracle than the last. At least at the moment the crime scene tent stood between me and my uniformed friend, and his flashlight beam through the canvas was a good indicator that I still at another moment or so.
The desire to pop my head into the tent to see what might have been left behind was great, but I would learn more by going inside.
I twisted my satchel around and pulled my lockpick kit free. The slim picks felt as natural between my fingers as paintbrushes to an artist, and they created a simple but beautiful picture as they slid into the lock, which released with a satisfying click.
The flashlight beam swung along the wall I’d followed, and I held my breath. A few more feet and I would be in the periphery of its glow. There was no way I’d make it inside fast enough.
As it reached the edge of the walkway, it stopped, lingered. My heartbeat drummed in my ears, my hand frozen on the handle.
Then it shifted the other way, and I released a breath as I opened the door a crack and slipped inside.
The building was quiet, my soft footfalls the only obvious noise. Canvas, scaffolding, and drop cloths made up much of the large space ahead, but the empty offices appeared untouched by renovations.
I walked the short hallway and poked my head into the rooms that faced the courtyard. To the left of the back door was the office I assumed would have been the mayor’s. It was large, with windows facing the street and the courtyard. So if John had been here, he would have seen everything.
Unless he was out back doing the murdering.
But that line of inquiry wouldn’t exactly help Gramps.
A second door across from the courtyard windows led to an open room that I guessed had served as a reception area. No doubt for John’s admin assistant.
I passed through that office and crossed the hallway. Two more offices, both of them with a view to the courtyard, but no indication about who might have used them.
John would know. No doubt he’d have a good idea of anyone who’d been working that night. At least now I’d have an idea on how to guide my questions.
Having learned all I could from my visit, I peered out the window, but couldn’t place where the officer was.
I shifted my position to get a better view, and my heart jumped as the back door opened.
Crap. I’d left it unlocked.
I hoped beyond hope he didn’t remember he’d locked it.
“Hello?” he called.
Well there went that hope.
On tiptoe, I crept to the office door and peered through the crack as he made his way down the hallway, throwing his flashlight beam through every room he passed.
When he reached the one where I now hid, I held my breath and pressed my back against the wall behind the door, crossing my fingers he wouldn’t come inside. The flashlight beam passed across the far wall, hit the window, then disappeared. Footsteps moved farther into the main room.
Knowing this would be my best chance, I slipped around the door and darted for the back.
I grabbed the door handle, pulled it open, and a fresh gust of wind caught the door from my hand and threw it back to hit the wall.
“Hey — stop!” the officer yelled, and ran toward me.
I was already halfway across the courtyard. The fence was in sight. My branch. Freedom.
I urged my legs to move faster and threw myself at the hedge. More shouts and the bouncing flashlight beam chased me, but I’d had too much of a head start.
My lungs ached as they rushed to suck in the cold night air, and spots filled my vision by the time I’d climbed high enough to reach the branch.
Another moment and I was over the side and jogging down the street. Running footsteps hit pavement as the officer came after me, likely having come through a side door I hadn’t noticed, and I darted into a laneway to duck behind a parked car.
The officer rushed past, and I took the opportunity to go back the way I came and take another route to Bessie.
By the time I sank into the driver’s seat, I was shaking with the exhilaration of what had passed. A laugh bubbled inside me even as I cursed myself for taking the chance. It wouldn’t have been worth it if I’d been caught.
Still, I hadn’t been, and I’d learned enough to get started.
Sybil would be so mad at me if she found out.
Though, of course, I had no intention of letting her know.
***
I started my next day just as I would have without Gramps’s request hanging over my head.
First stop: the gym, followed by some time with my parkour instructor, and finishing up in time for my yoga class at ten.
If my amateur sleuthing had taught me anything, it was that it paid to be in good shape. There were only so many times you could climb up and down a series of balconies before you appreciated the importance of good upper body strength and limber muscles.
Yoga was its usual quiet affair, but So Smoothie, Brookside’s best smoothie bar, was a hotbed of gossip and information.
“She’d just been dumped there,” my friend Frances Wimbleton said. “They found her under the foundation of the courtyard, can you believe that? And no one had any idea!”
“Someone did,” said Jeannie Melbourne. “The person who put her there.”
Lucy Hart grimaced. “That’s a horrible thought. The poor woman. I wonder who she was.”
“The police haven’t announced it yet?” I asked. If anyone knew the latest news, it would be these three. The only person who might know more was my mother, but the lack of speaking to me made it difficult to ask what I wanted to know.
Besides, if I let on that I was looking into this, I didn’t put it past her to lock me in my room, seal the doors and windows, and leave me there to waste away.
“Not a peep,” Frances said. “Mom and Dad have their theories, of course.”
Jeannie rolled her eyes. “Of course they do. Based on what? The Brookside Examiner, no doubt.”
Offended, Frances flipped her curly hair over her shoulder. “My parents don’t read that trash. They get their information from the chief of police himself. Now, he’s not saying much, but enough that they’ve put together what they think happened. John Kingslake’s been arrested, right? So of course it was someone he was having a relationship with. He didn’t want word getting out that he was with this person, she threatened to go to the media, so he killed her. It’s so obvious, or else why would the cops have arrested him?”
She dusted her hands off as though it were a done deal.
“I hope that’s not the case,” Lucy said, the only one among them who had a heart made of flesh and blood and not painted with her favourite colour nail polish. “I don’t really care who did it or why, I just can’t believe it happened at all. Three murders in as many months?”
“To be fair, one of the three is over twenty-five years old,” I said, and she gave me a gentle smile.
“There is that.”
“I think it’s all so dreary. They caught the man who did it — I say we just move on. Have you guys heard about Jason Bradley’s new car?”
