by Lila K Bell
The drunks were at the bar, the gamblers were huddled over their cards, and my bar stool at the far right end of the bar was empty.
As was the one beside it.
Working to figure out where my emotions landed on the stool being unoccupied, I skirted my way through the tables to my usual place and stared up at my favourite painting. It hung over the bar, a ship lost in a storm with mermaids climbing the sides, lit up by a flash of lightning.
I don’t know why the painting always caught my attention. I guess because mermaids, working so hard to lure their victims into the sea, rely on the darkness to keep their true natures hidden, but now time had stopped, revealing their intentions. Were the men on board any safer for seeing what was coming for them? Was the spell broken by seeing the truth?
In a way, I suppose I liked it because the mermaids represented me so well — living in the shadows, stealing books or searching for evidence — never wanting to be found out.
Not only in my professional capacity, either.
There was also the matter of one Ryan Clark, my fellow bar patron. My barstool buddy. He usually had the second stool from the right, just beside mine, but for two weeks it had remained empty. On the evenings I stopped by, at least.
He was a strange one, that Ryan. Never drank hard liquor on a Thursday, and never came to the bar at all on weekends. The one time he’d made the exception, he’d bought me a drink, things had gotten awkward, and I hadn’t seen him since.
Was it the curse of the weekend drink that had done us in?
With Ryan, one never knew. He was a mystery I hadn’t yet figured out, and at the rate we were going, I wasn’t sure if I ever would.
“Evening, Fi,” Troy said, coming over at his first opportunity. “Your usual?”
“Nah,” I said. “I’m feeling colourful. Vodka cranberry?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
“The whole world’s a little off right now,” I said.
He held up a finger to say he’d be right back, then off he went to prep my drink and take a few more orders.
When he cleared them out of the way, he came back to my end of the bar, set my drink on a napkin and said, “What’s up? City Hall?”
I nodded.
“You said you were done.”
“Personal favour.”
“Oh?”
“My grandfather.”
“Oh.”
Troy got it. I’d talked about Gramps enough with him that he understood how such a request could overthrow every good intention I possessed.
“So what are you going to do?”
I shrugged and sipped my drink. “Look into it, I suppose. It doesn’t look good for Kingslake, but that doesn’t mean the whole story is on the table.” I frowned. “Then again, if they arrested him that quickly, it has to mean they have compelling evidence, right?”
“Sure, but if it’ll make your grandfather rest a bit easier knowing they have the right person — or not — I guess it’s worth poking around.”
I eyed him closely. Was this Troy speaking? The one who thought I’d gone crazy for looking into Brookside’s recent murder spree? Something about this case had turned everyone on their heads.
Probably best not to ask him about it, though. I didn’t want to risk another lecture.
“No Ryan tonight?”
“No Ryan at all. Not for two weeks.”
I sat up straighter. “Not at all since then?”
Troy shook his head and gave me a knowing look. “If he’s avoiding you, Fi, he found a whole new watering hole to do it in.”
Someone called him from down the bar, and he gave me a wink before walking off, leaving me to my drink and my thoughts.
Ryan hadn’t been back at all since our non-date. I hoped he was all right. What if something had happened and we never found out because I had no idea what he did when he wasn’t here?
I did know where he lived, of course. I’d dropped him off at home a few weeks ago to save him from a dangerous motorcycle ride in the rain. That had been the start of the awkwardness between us, so the last thing I wanted was to barge in on his personal space if he actually was trying to avoid me.
Had I said something to offend him? I’d been the one to ask him out to dinner before he’d downgraded it to a drink, after all. Had that scared him away?
I didn’t know whether I should be hurt or angry that he’d disappeared without talking to me about it — if, in fact, he’d disappeared because of me. We’d only known each other for eight months, but surely that was enough regular communication to show a certain amount of honesty when one was upset, wasn’t it?
But what did I know about men? The last relationship I’d had was three years ago with someone who thought the best date idea was to check out the most expensive restaurants and judge their wine selection. I’d lied and told him I’d developed an allergy to grapes just to get out of seeing him again.
With more questions than answers, and more confused feelings than clear-headed plans, I finished my drink and headed home.
The lights were off by the time I made it back, so I climbed the tree in the backyard and let myself in through my bedroom window. If I didn’t have to let my parents know I’d been out until the wee hours, I wasn’t going to. They didn’t need more ammunition against me and my “difficult behaviour.”
I closed the window behind me to keep out the confirmation that fall was indeed coming to a close, and changed into my purple flannel pyjamas.
There’s something about flannel that chases away the worst parts of the day. The softness, the comfort, they were like a cozy hug, and right now I needed it.
Of all the times and all the cases that could have pulled me back into the investigative mindset, it had to be this one. Figuring things out with Ryan wasn’t complicated enough, and neither was trying to make Sam believe he could trust me again. Nope, I had to throw another murder case in there to just be the cherry on the sundae.
Not yet ready for bed, I went into my reading room, tugged on my copy of Lady Susan and opened the bookcase door to my secrets within.
Before, I’d been hiding here in an effort to figure out what I wanted to do with my future. Tonight, I just wanted the reminder that some parts of my life weren’t complicated. Stealing books was easy. The evidence of that sat on the shelves on either side of me. In here, I could be confident that I wasn’t a complete failure at life and relationships. Here I was Queen of the Page. The Midnight Minstrel, nightmare of all book-owning individuals. I was someone.
Out there… At the moment I had no idea who I was.
But I did know I had a mission to fulfill, and I wouldn’t be able to do it lounging around in a dim, carefully ventilated room. Lewis Carroll had no advice to offer, and neither did Jane Austen, Shakespeare, or Stevenson. They were great friends when I needed insight on the morals of the world, the absurdities of the every day, but less helpful when it came to specifics.
Where was the Bronte novel about the ex-thief looking to clean up her act in a way that wouldn’t get her in trouble while the guy she was crushing on vanished without a word?
That was the book I needed.
Then I could just skip ahead to the end and figure out, not only what to do about Ryan, but maybe the truth about Amelia Wright’s murder, as well.
If only it could be that easy.
Not even Poe could come to my aid. In his version of body-buried-beneath-the-floorboards, the murderer had confessed within a few hours. I doubted we’d be that lucky.
Unfortunately, if I wanted to get to the end of this misadventure, I was going to have to act it out for myself and face whatever consequences awaited me.
I would do it for the only person in my life who’d earned it.
I just hoped I didn’t break Gramps’s heart in the process.
5
Bright and early the next morning, I drove to the police station and asked to speak with John Kingslake. If my mission was to prove he didn’t do
it, then he struck me as the best place to start.
Sam had already admitted Kingslake hadn’t confessed.
Now, if I were the one sitting behind bars for the murder of my girlfriend, picked up so quickly following the discovery of her body that I could only imagine they had some real evidence against me, I feel like I would be working pretty hard to convince everyone they were wrong.
The police hadn’t wasted any time. Lying now if he had done it would only stretch things out, drag his reputation even deeper into the mud.
If he hadn’t, however, why wasn’t he saying anything? Proclaiming his innocence from the rooftops? Calling in his lawyer so he could at least get out on bail?
My goal was to get him talking, perhaps lead him down avenues he’d be more willing to discuss with the granddaughter of an old friend rather than the police. Maybe he could help me navigate this minefield without setting off any social bombs.
That would be a nice change.
I didn’t get off to a great start. At my request to speak with Kingslake, Sam was the one to escort me to him, and at the sight of me, he appeared less than impressed.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to speak with Mr. Kingslake,” I said. “Gramps asked me to stop by. He wants to make sure his friend is holding up all right, if he needs anything. And you know Gramps, he’s not really up to making the trip himself.”
I hoped Gramps wouldn’t hold it against me that I played up his infirmity.
Probably not. If anything, he was more likely to limp in here dragging his sore leg behind him if it gave me easier access to the truth.
“Is there any problem with me going to see him?” I asked.
“Of course not,” said Sam. “I’ll take you down there, but you’ll only have about fifteen minutes or so to talk to him.”
“That’s fine.”
Hopefully that would be enough.
Sam led me through the station and I did my best not to imagine what it would be like to come in here under other circumstances. So far in my twenty-five years, I’d managed to avoid stepping foot into this place for anything other than socially acceptable reasons, and I hoped to keep my streak.
Though my odds dropped with every step I took on this case.
The door closed behind me, and I jumped at the harshness of the metal clang in the otherwise quiet space. The other cells in the jail were empty, and I don’t know if that made Kingslake a more pathetic figure or less so.
He sat on the edge of the cot, the brown blanket stretched across the bed looking none too warm or comfortable. His face was buried in his hands, and he started when Sam addressed him.
“You’ve got a visitor, Mr. Kingslake,” he said. He looked at me. “Fifteen minutes.”
I nodded at the reminder and watched him leave until the door closed behind him. A shudder ran through me as I waited for a lock to fall, but it never came.
My breath came out in a whoosh as I tried to calm myself down, and my relief was closely followed by a sense of guilt that I was the one worried when John Kingslake was already here, locked behind bars.
“Mr. Kingslake, I’m Fiona Gates, Philip Courtney’s granddaughter.”
His expression lit up. “Phil Courtney? How’s the old son of a gun doing? I haven’t heard from him in a dog’s age.”
I smiled. “He’s all right. Keeping fit, roaming town, watching movies.”
“Same old Phil,” he said, and his smile faded. “I guess he’s heard what happened.”
“He did. He sent me to see how you were doing.”
“All right, I guess,” he said, and leaned back against the wall. His face scrunched with discomfort and he resettled himself on what had to be a very flimsy mattress. “As best I can under the circumstances.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. I understand from Gramps that you knew the woman they found quite well.”
Any stoicism John had tried to maintain slipped as his lip wobbled, and he pressed his forefinger to his mouth. His throat bobbed with a swallow and he blinked the tears from his eyes.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Amelia was very important to me. The most important person in the world, really. I can’t believe… yet at the same time…”
He bowed his head and gave it a shake before meeting my eye again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not easy for me to talk about.”
“I understand,” I said, and glanced toward the door. “That’s why I’m here. Gramps sent me to you because he believes you’re innocent.”
John’s eyes widened. “He does?”
“He doesn’t think you could have killed anyone, especially not Amelia.”
All right, that last part was a bit of a lie, but it wouldn’t do to start spouting off Gramps’s doubts when the man was already down.
“So he sent you?”
Confusion crossed his face and I shifted my weight on my feet. I hadn’t expected this part to be so awkward.
“To help. I have a… developing skill set, let’s say. I’ve proved to have a sort of knack at finding out the truth behind these things.”
The last thing I wanted was to sound confident or like I was making any promises. Because I wasn’t. I couldn’t promise anything beyond the fact that I would ask a couple of questions and see what I was able to find. Period. I didn’t want anyone putting their hopes on me.
“I don’t really see what you could do.”
That stung. I might not have wanted him to throw himself at the bars in gratitude for getting him out of jail, but at least a little nod in my direction would have been nice. An “ah yes, I see what you mean. Go and work on my behalf, and maybe start here.”
Whatever.
“I can be discreet,” I said, “and I can ask questions you wouldn’t want the police asking. Keep things off the record. I’ve found those sorts of questions can sometimes get way more information out of someone than an official approach.”
He frowned. “Discreet? What do you mean?”
“You know, your relationship with Amelia. If it’s not wide knowledge already, I’m guessing you don’t really want it to be. Is that part of the reason you’ve stayed quiet so far?”
John rose from his cot and paced the short length of his cell. “That has nothing to do with it,” he said, turning back to face me. “I’m not ashamed of my relationship. There was nothing to be ashamed of. She was single, I was a bachelor. There was an age difference, yes, but it didn’t bother her, so why should it matter to anyone else? She was twenty-four years old, more than old enough to make up her mind about what she wanted.”
He pressed his fingers into his eyes, but tears still slipped over his cheeks. “The only mistake I made with her was timing. I wanted to marry her for goodness’ sake, but it was the middle of the mayoral campaign and I didn’t want to be distracted from either the election or the wedding planning. Maybe if I hadn’t — if I’d — what’s the point in thinking about it now? Right in the middle of all this, she disappeared. I thought —”
He dropped back on the cot. “I thought she’d run away because of me, because of something I said or did. In a way it’s sort of a relief to know that’s not the case, but now I’ll never have a chance to make things up to her.”
His final words bubbled out between sobs, and he bowed his head in his hands.
My heart broke for him, it really did. He didn’t sound like a man who would have caused the woman he loved any intentional pain, but what did I know of human nature? Only that it was inconsistent, that a person could show the same degree of grief whether they were guilty of not, and that anyone was capable of anything.
Still, I hoped he hadn’t done it. For him to feel Amelia’s loss as deeply as he obviously did, it would be so much worse if he’d caused it all himself.
Worse for Amelia, obviously. That was a given.
Despite his grief, I understood why the police had kept their focus on him. There was something he wasn’t saying.
“May I
ask why you’re not out on bail? Have you had your lawyer in to see you?”
A man like John would easily have the money to get himself out of here until his trial, so why was he still sitting in this awful, tiny room?
He shook his head. “What do I have out there waiting for me? An empty house, the suspicion of my neighbours. I’d rather stay here and avoid the worst of people’s judgement.”
I could understand that, to a point. An elected official for fifteen years, plus all his charity work after that. He was a man defined by his role in Brookside society, and now it had been taken from him.
Still, an empty house seemed a lot better than a jail cell. Softer sheets, for one thing.
“What do you remember about the time she went missing?” I asked. “Was there anyone she was fighting with? Anyone upset with her?”
“No,” he said, wiping his eyes. “No one. Nothing. She was loved as a coworker, a friend, a daughter. No one would have wanted to hurt her.”
I didn’t point out that someone had, but maybe I’d have to if it finally got him talking.
“What about the City Hall building? There are three offices facing the courtyard. One was yours, I’m guessing, but who did the other two belong to?”
“No one,” he said. “Those offices were empty.”
His answer was terse, his attention focused on the corner of his cell.
Lying again? Why?
“If you want help, you’ve got to give me something to go on,” I said. “If you two were as close as peas in a pod, you have to have some idea who might have done this.”
“I don’t,” he said. “It was a long time ago, but I don’t remember anyone having that sort of a grudge against her.” His frown deepened. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t involve myself in such trivial gossip that might get an innocent person into trouble.”
He let out a breath and raised his soft gaze to mine. “I appreciate your offer, Fiona, but I have faith in the justice system. The police will find out who murdered my Amelia.”
I admired his confidence, but wondered if it came from bravery or stupidity. Did he not realize the cops weren’t looking at anyone else? He was it. End of story. If he didn’t want to talk, the doors would close on him that much sooner.
