The Minstrel & The Campaign

by Lila K Bell

  ***

  Emotionally bruised and battered, I sought solace in the loudest, more anonymous place I could think of: my regular stool at the Treasure Trove.

  Troy took one look at me when I came in and brought me my drink without a word. I sat and sipped it as I replayed my evening through my head. Veronica gone, Detective Curtis catching me out once again.

  I’d thought I was getting better at solving crimes, but it turned out I’d just been blessed with some beginner’s luck. This time around, with no leverage and doing everything I could to stay out of Curtis’s way and not disappoint Sam, I’d run myself in circles.

  Even if I broke Carlson’s alibi, was I any closer to finding out who’d killed Amelia? Was Veronica’s disappearance evidence of her guilt?

  And now that Curtis had discovered I was snooping around, what were my chances of continuing on? I took her at her word: a single complaint against me, and that was it. One more strike and I was out.

  The temptation to throw up my hands and admit defeat was real, dangling right in front of me like a particularly yummy looking carrot, but I couldn’t. Not while my promise to Gramp was still the stick urging me on. My vow to him meant more than any threats Curtis made or any frustration holding me back. I just had to remember why I was doing this.

  Movement stirred in my periphery, and I turned to find Ryan sliding onto his stool.

  I waited for him to say hello, to make some teasing comment about the fact that I hadn’t noticed him arrive, but he said nothing until he caught me looking at him.

  “I hated to interrupt whatever was going through your head,” he said, and though he smiled, it lacked the warm flirtation I was so used to seeing.

  Anger sparked in the middle of all my discouragement, a tiny ember flickering in a puddle of gasoline.

  He wasn’t even going to ask what was going on? Forget where we stood on the relationship front, a friend would ask. Unless he didn’t even see us as that.

  “You didn’t,” I said, and turned away from him.

  Fine. If he wanted to play it like this, so would I. Not friends, then. Barely even bar buddies.

  “Hey,” he said, nudging me with his knee. “What is it?”

  Oh, so now he was going to ask? Only after he was rebuffed?

  The ember glowed, burning hotter.

  What was I? His ego booster? Someone who was here to make him feel better, but when I actually showed any real interest, oops, better dial it down a notch?

  Well, I was more than just some floozy he could flirt with for a lark. I had feelings and he had toyed with them, and I was done.

  “It’s nothing,” I said, as the glowing ember caught fire. “It’s all nothing, isn’t it? God, Ryan,” I turned to face him. “I am so tired of the back and forth between us. On Monday you’re interested, on Tuesday, you don’t want to talk to me, on Wednesday you just don’t want me to ignore you. What is going on here?”

  I hadn’t expected it all to spill out like that.

  If anyone had asked me a few days ago what my feelings or thoughts were toward Ryan, I would have called them friendly at least. Confused, Interested. I never would have suspected anger rested beneath it all.

  Now that I’d started, though, I couldn’t stop. Not even the shocked expression on Ryan’s face was enough to shut me up. “I have enough mysteries in my life — I don’t need you to be one of them. So which is it? Are you interested in me or aren’t you?”

  Directness. That was one way to get an answer. Maybe one I should have tried on every suspect in this case. Then I wouldn’t be here, taking all my frustrations out on the man in front of me, watching the lines around his eyes tighten and his nostrils flare.

  He pushed his drink away and got to his feet. “How can I answer that, Fi?” he asked, looming over me. I refused to be cowed and drew back my shoulders, meeting his gaze. “I don’t even know you. You talk about mysteries? You keep so many secrets, half the time I can’t tell if I’m talking to a human being or a paper doll. My life is too damned complicated to add your crazy to the mix.”

  He grabbed his jacket and threw a few bills on the counter. “See you later, Troy.”

  Then he left without another glance in my direction.

  I bowed my head in my hands. Tears threatened to fall, but I held them back. I refused to be hurt by a man who didn’t know what he wanted.

  I refused to cry when I’d been the one to push the issue.

  Exhaustion weighed me down, and I doubted all of it came from the last ten minutes.

  “Another?” Troy asked, gesturing to my drink.

  “No,” I said. “I should probably go home before I step on any more toes. I think my father has a bottle of scotch hidden somewhere in the house.”

  I looked up just in time to catch a flicker of sympathy cross Troy’s eyes, but he said nothing about what had just happened. I wouldn’t hope that he hadn’t heard it — most people in the bar probably had — but I didn’t need him offering commentary.

  I paid him for the drink and headed home, kicking myself for not keeping my mouth shut.

  But if I’d hoped to find solace in the comfort and quiet of my bedroom, the car waiting for me in the laneway put an end to it.

  Sam got out as I approached, his hands flexing and relaxing by his sides.

  I braced myself for the storm, and it came down in a fury.

  “Seriously, Fi?” he demanded. “Curtis told me she found you at Moore’s house. One of the other guys on my team asked if you’d gotten your information from me. Do you know how this looks? I’ve been assigned to three murder cases this year, and you’ve shown up at every single one. My team thinks I’m feeding you information. What do I need to say to make you to stop?”

  Curtis’s own words echoed in my ears, and I resented having the same lecture spewed at me twice in one day.

  “Forget how this makes me look or the possibility I’m going to get fired, there’s also the fact that you told me you weren’t looking into this one. Again. You lied to me. Again. Does our friendship mean so little to you? You’re just as selfish as every other rich person to walk out of Brookside, you know that? You don’t think about what your actions mean, just what someone can do for you.”

  I started back, stung. We’d had this same conversation at the Brooks funeral, when he’d accused me of hiding behind my money and putting his sister at risk. I’d known that wasn’t the end of the argument, that the second half would be waiting for me, but I hadn’t expected to be ambushed in front of my house.

  “When I told you I wasn’t looking into it, I meant it,” I said, though I knew it was futile. He was too angry to listen to reason right now. “But Gramps —”

  “No, no, let me guess. Your poor invalid grandfather asked you to look around. I don’t want to hear it, Fi. I don’t want to listen to you pinning the blame on him. It was your choice, and now look at where we are. John Kingslake is going to be transfered on Monday to await his trial. Whatever you were hoping to find, whatever you were hoping to prove, you’re out of chances. And if Curtis decides to bring you in, I won’t do anything to stop it. In fact, I’ll happily be the one to slap the cuffs on you myself.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he wasn’t finished yet. “From here on out, I want you to stay away from Sybil, too. Thanks for proving I should never have trusted the two of you together in the first place. The last thing my sister needs is an influence like you.”

  He stormed away, threw himself into his car, and backed out of the laneway so quickly he slammed into Mrs. Johnson’s garbage can. It fell over with a clatter, but he sped away without stopping to pick it up.

  I stared after him until his taillights disappeared around the corner, and then finally dragged myself into the house and up to bed. My plan had been to fill Gramps in on the new mystery of Veronica’s whereabouts, but now I just wanted to pull the blankets over my head and go to sleep.

  Somehow, in the course of a day, I’d alienated most of my friends and
wound up in the one situation I’d hoped to avoid.

  I’d wanted to walk away. I’d planned on it. But in the usual way of best intentions, everything had gone to the dogs.

  Hopefully a good night’s sleep would help clear out the cobwebs in my brain and the morning would shed some new light on the situation.

  Regardless of what happened — regardless of Curtis’s threats or Sam’s anger — I wasn’t done here. Not yet. Not until I’d proved John hadn’t murdered Amelia and the real guilty party took his place in that cell.

  17

  “Mom says Kingslake was a real hound,” Frances said as she sipped her diet cola. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he chased half his constituents when he was mayor. Amelia probably found out, threatened to go to the papers, and he killed her.”

  “From what I hear, Amelia was the one with the loose morals,” said Jeannie. “Mom says she used to flirt with my father all the time. Maybe that was why Kingslake did it. He didn’t want everyone to know he couldn’t keep his fiancée interested.”

  “How could she be? Daddy told me his finances were a mess. Funds missing that he couldn’t account for, money draining away. He was on a losing streak and hadn’t accepted it yet.”

  The two women laughed, and Lucy said, “It all happened a long time ago. The details are bound to be a bit hazy. What’s the point in trying to guess?”

  Frances rolled her eyes. “Lucy, you are such a doll. No one’s that evil in your eyes, are they? Everyone is just doing the best they can.”

  It was Saturday afternoon, and brunch at Get Crackin’ was in full force. I hadn’t wanted to come, but when Lucy called to make sure I was joining them, I didn’t have the heart to say no. Besides, I wasn’t exactly accomplishing much sitting around my room beating myself up for the way I’d approached things with Ryan or handled the situation with Sam.

  At least this way I got food.

  I watched the conversation without adding much to it. Not because I wasn’t interested. Normally I didn’t care much for Frances and Jeannie’s particular brand of gossip, but today it was just what I needed. They had access to information I would never be able to get on my own.

  Since the papers weren’t saying much, I hoped the rumour mill would churn out something I hadn’t heard yet. For all I knew, a tiny grain of truth would be mixed in with the absurd.

  Poor Lucy, though, looked super uncomfortable. She’d already picked her way through her salad and was now nibbling individual crumbs from the breadsticks. Anything to keep her attention focused on the table rather than on the chosen subject of conversation.

  So far my gossip mongering hadn’t achieved much. It was disheartening to hear how firmly the social opinion was set against John. So many of his loyal supporters had turned away from him at the first hint of scandal, and I suspected it would take more than an acquittal to clear the air for him. The real murderer would have to be dug up and presented to the altar as a sacrifice instead.

  That was how small towns worked, after all. Brookside might appear like a quiet tourist town with quaint little storefronts and smiles from all the locals… but behind the smiles, everyone was out for blood.

  “I doubt he was as bad as all that,” I said, feeling it my responsibility to speak up for the man, even if just for Gramps’s sake. “From everything I’ve heard, they really loved each other. He was heartbroken when she disappeared.”

  Jeannie hooted a laugh. “Sure, because of course he’s telling the truth about how things were. How do you explain his black eye, then? Or the fact that, from what my dad says, he was barely involved in the search for her when she first went missing?”

  I held my tongue. They didn’t need to know about Victor, and I didn’t put much credence into what they said about John’s involvement. Gramps said he’d torn Brookside apart when she vanished, and I was far more inclined to believe his story than that of Jeannie’s father.

  “What about the hockey tryouts coming up?” Lucy asked, once more attempting to shift the conversation. This time, her strategy worked.

  Frances clapped her hands. “Only a few more weeks before the arena’s packed.”

  “Do we know who’s going for the team?” Jeannie asked.

  It was an annual Brookside tradition. Every year, the men’s team held tryouts for the township hockey team, and every year all the women went to watch them play.

  It was a point of contention that not nearly as many men showed up for the women’s tryouts, but I felt that was more a reflection on the men in this town than anything else.

  Personally, I didn’t care any more about hockey on a rink than I did for it on the screen in the Trove, but today the subject perked me right up. In a wave of memories, I pictured Frances’s father’s home office and the series of hockey tournament trophies he kept on the shelf. He’d been captain of the team for fourteen years and its star player the ten years before that.

  Or so he always made a point to remind us whenever we came over.

  “Hey Frances, did your father ever play with Robert Carlson?”

  Frances stumbled over the sentence I’d interrupted, her expression a combination of insulted that I’d cut her off and surprised at the question.

  “I don’t know. Probably. There’s only one team. Why?” A sly glint appeared in her eye and the corner of her mouth curled into a smile. “Fiona Gates, do you fancy our mayor-to-be?”

  What could I say? No, I suspect him of being involved in Amelia’s murder. That would go over really well with this group. Considering who Carlson’s grandfather was, I was sure Jeannie and Frances’s parents were ready to lick the man’s boots. Lucy’s parents as well, probably, but she didn’t seem ready to walk in their footsteps for the heck of it.

  So, left without many other options, I coyly cast my gaze across the room and fluttered my eyelashes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Fi, I never would have thought he was your type! Too bad he’s married.”

  “Why should that stop her?” Jeannie asked with a laugh.

  “At the very least I guess he can be sure of your vote. Not too surprising with that charming smile of his.”

  Yeah. So charming. Not a sleazy, cheating liar at all, nope.

  I grinned at Frances. “I don’t suppose your dad has any team photos from back in the day? Carlson’s handsome enough now, but I’d love to see what he looked like twenty-five years ago.”

  Frances giggled and took my hand. “I’m sure he does. They take tournament photos every year, and they never lost a game while they played. Come on. Let’s go ask him.”

  ***

  “Daddy, are you home?” Frances called as we stepped inside.

  “Back here, pumpkin,” he answered from the back of the house.

  Frances nodded her head toward his office. “Come on, you lovesick fool.”

  I forced a grin and followed her across the marble-tiled foyer, past the gilt mirror and ostentatious art that passed for fashionable. It had only been a few months since I’d been to Frances’s house, and yet I didn’t recognize a single thing.

  Knowing her mother, they’d fully renovated with the season change. Out with last year’s trends and in with the next.

  I was surprised they didn’t get lost in their own house.

  Leonard Wimbelton’s office, however, hadn’t moved even a fraction of an inch since I’d been in high school. It remained an homage to his youth.

  Although the smiling jock, captain of all the teams, had more or less faded into an accountant with an ever-widening gut and thinning hair, the evidence of his success was in every photograph, degree, and award hanging on his walls. Celebrities, prime ministers… and all visible to see on a video conference call.

  What drew my eye today was the row of trophies sitting on the bookcase. Wood, metal, and glass, all different styles for all different types of events.

  Something like that had killed Amelia.

  I imagined what it would have taken to wield the heavy thing hard enough to
crack someone’s skull, the weight of it coming down on her head. Had she seen it coming or had someone come up from behind and taken her by surprise?

  My stomach turned, and I drew a deep breath to settle it.

  At least this time I hadn’t had to see the body.

  “What are you doing home so early, sweetie?” Leonard asked, coming around his desk to kiss Frances’s forehead. “I thought you ladies were going out shopping. Don’t you have a credit card to max out?”

  “Maybe later,” Frances said with a grin, and I did my best to give appear amused. “First I wanted to stop by to check out your old hockey tournament photos. You know — the group shots you guys all used to take after you won.”

  Pride sparkled in Leonard’s eyes, but he hid it under a mask of surprise. “Those old things? What put them in your head?”

  “Oh, you know, someone,” she jerked her head in my direction, “voiced some curiosity about how handsome Robert Carlson was back then. I had to show her she couldn’t think too highly of him.”

  Now my smile was beginning to hurt. It was one thing to let Frances think what she wanted, but Leonard Wimbleton, much as he was a great accountant who, I’m sure, would take his clients’ dirty secrets to the grave, was as gossipy as an old biddy. Thanks to Frances, I could now expect my little ruse to spread across town by dinner time.

  Worth it, I told myself. It’s all worth it.

  Or it would be if my visit here confirmed Carlson’s alibi. Only Veronica could confirm or deny where he’d been earlier in the evening, but I could hopefully prove where he was the rest of the night.

  As long as Leonard felt like talking.

  “That’s easy enough,” he said with a smirk, and reached into his drawer to pull out a scrapbook thick with memories.

  Seriously?

  I couldn’t remember half the names of the people I trained with on the cheerleading squad my senior year and he’d archived his entire athletic history.