The Minstrel & The Campaign

by Lila K Bell

  But I was already in trouble with the good detective. What was one more push?

  Sam bowed his head and let out a sigh, when he raised his gaze to mine it was full of resignation. With a hint of amusement? “I have to say, Fi, you’ve got a good nose for this stuff.”

  I stopped, stunned. Had he really said what I thought he had, or had my sanity snapped under the pressure?

  “Of course she does,” Sybil said, putting me at ease that, if I were imagining things, someone else shared my delusion. “What have I been telling you?”

  Sybil’s defense almost made me feel as warm as Sam’s praise.

  “Thank you,” I said. “That means a lot.”

  “I’m not saying you’re not a huge pain in the butt, or that one day you won’t get in serious trouble for it.”

  “Understood.”

  “But,” he said, and I raised my eyebrows. “Maybe having you to bounce ideas around with isn’t the worst thing. As long as Curtis doesn’t find out. And my sister stays out of trouble.”

  I couldn’t help the smile that stretched across my face. Did he really mean that? I was in the clear with at least one of my friends?

  “I promise to do my best,” I said, and I’d never meant anything more. “But for now I think I can help you wrap up this case. You might not be able to make a play based on circumstantial evidence… but I can.”

  19

  It took a bit of preparation, a lot of unpleasant phone calls and quite a few assurances to Gramps that I hadn’t lost my mind, but the next morning I made a call to Robert Carlson’s office.

  Of course, as it goes with all big plans, my strategy was ruined when I learned he was out of the office for the day.

  “May I take a message?”

  By the tone of the question, I knew I was speaking with Ms. Creepy Smile. Even down the line, I could picture her bright white teeth, as though they’d seared a place in my memory.

  I shuddered and said, “No, thank you. I don’t suppose you could tell me where he is?”

  “Unfortunately not. He’s on personal time.”

  “I understand. Thank you for your help.”

  Disappointed, but not discouraged, I hung up. Gramps looked at me with concern. “He’s not there?”

  “No,” I said, “but we’re not out of the game yet.”

  I grabbed my phone from its charger and opened my Twitter app. If there was one thing locals loved, it was flagging celebrities. While Carlson was not nearly as big a deal as he claimed to be with his family tree, I was certain that as a name on the ballot, he would have a few fans marking his trail.

  Sure enough, it only took me a minute to peg him down.

  “There we go. Vincent’s Driving Range. Our good man is practicing his golf swing.”

  Gramps frowned. “Is that smart, going after him like this? You know what Sam said — if you push him hard enough to go the police, Curtis won’t hesitate to lock you up.”

  “Are you saying I can’t count on you for bail money?” I asked, feigning shock. When Gramps didn’t laugh, I rested my hand on his. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Besides, I doubt we’ll be out there for long. Have you stepped outside today? It’s freezing.”

  I grabbed my jacket and keys, gave Bea a hug as she saw me to the door, and drove to the range, making a few more calls along the way.

  As I’d hoped, the driving range was dead. There was only the guy behind the counter, who rented me whatever he thought I needed for a day of hitting balls with metal sticks, and Robert Carlson.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said as I set up at the station next to his.

  “Miss Gates,” he said, no less surprised to see me than I was to be here. Especially with a club in my hand.

  I’m going to be very honest before things get started — I don’t know the first thing about golf.

  I know the grass is called the green. I know you don’t want to hit the ball into the sandy areas. I know that the aim is to get the ball into the hole. Now, at a driving range, I assume it’s to hit the ball as far as you can, so I figured it couldn’t be that difficult.

  My first swing proved me wrong.

  “I guess it’s a good thing I’m here to practice,” I said. “What brings you out here on a day like this?”

  My fingers had already gone cold, and I wondered how tricky it would be to swing a club while wearing winter gloves.

  “Getting my arm back for hockey season,” he said, and I’ll give him full credit: if he was annoyed by my being here, he didn’t show it.

  “Trying out for the team?”

  He laughed. “No, Miss Gates, I’m afraid those days are behind me. I do play a few pick-up games now and again, though. Keeps me in shape and ready for next year’s golf season.”

  “Sounds smart,” I said, and took another swing at the ball. At least this time I managed to knock it off the tee. “Well, I’ve clearly got my work cut out for me. I have to say, when my grandfather suggested I come out here and take a stab at it, I didn’t think I’d be so in over my head. Serves me right for making fun of the game in front of him.”

  Carlson took his swing and the ball sailed through the air, disappearing against the heavy white-and-grey cloud cover.

  “I don’t suppose you could show me a couple of things?”

  I batted my eyelashes and gave him my flirtiest smile. Why not? Frances already suspected I was attracted to the man, and who knew if her father had passed the joke along at last night’s social function. It could well be that Carlson himself had heard the rumour that Rose Gates’ daughter was looking to be his next fling. If I could use it to get the information I wanted, I wasn’t above the act.

  I left my station to stand closer to his, playing up my interest as he showed me the proper stance, the trick behind his swing.

  “It’s all in the hips, you know,” he said, exaggerating the movement for my benefit, and I forced myself to giggle, an inane, irritating sound I would probably regret the rest of my life.

  “You don’t have a lot of competition in Brookside, do you?” I asked. “A man of your skill — you must leave the rest of them behind.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t know if I’d go that far. But I have won the annual tournament ten years out of the last thirty.”

  My jaw dropped. “Ten? That’s crazy! I don’t think I saw any golf trophies in your office. You should be proud to display them.”

  “I used to have them up,” he said, queuing another ball, “but I don’t have enough room for them anymore, so they’re in my basement at home.”

  He swung and the ball flew.

  Golf remained a mystery to me, but the longer I watched, the more I understood why people might enjoy spending their afternoons at the range. It had to be cathartic.

  I wanted to ask more about the trophies, but unless I got really specific, there was no way I would find out what I wanted to know with this particular angle. Instead, I rearranged my features into an expression of remorse.

  “I heard they’re getting ready to send John to prison to await his trial.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “I suppose. Still, I’m sorry your mentor came to that kind of end. It’s got to be hard for you. Even a little bit?”

  “I don’t see why it should. I liked Amelia, but it all happened a long time ago. I haven’t spoken to John in so long, he hardly seems like someone I knew.”

  Nice concern for the man who kickstarted your career there, buddy.

  The devolution of his tone and opinion of John since the first time I spoke with him astounded me. Did he think I was some flighty blonde who didn’t remember a conversation from one day to the next?

  “What about Veronica?” I asked.

  He missed his swing, reset his stance. “What about her?”

  “I hear no one’s seen her in a few days. Do you think she left town? Not able to watch her old crush get locked up for the rest of his life?” I frowned. “You don’t think she was involved, do you?�
�

  “Veronica? Who knows,” he said, and this time his swing struck home, though with less accuracy than his previous rounds. “It’s possible. I did tell you I suspected there was something between them.”

  “Did you?” I asked, surprised. “I thought you said you and Veronica had been seeing each other.”

  A flicker of panic, and then he laughed. “I forgot you wheedled that bit of information out of me. You’re a sly one, Miss Gates. I’d love to have you on my campaign team, if you’d consider it.”

  This was my second job offer since I’d started the crime solving path of my life. Or was it my third? At least if things didn’t pan out, I’d have options.

  But not with this guy. I didn’t trust him as far as I could send him with a golf club.

  I thought about what Gramps had said last night about Carlson having plans of his own while organizing John’s campaign. Although I had no evidence of it, I would never get a better opportunity than right now to ask.

  “I’ll bet that’s not the only affair you had going behind John’s back all those years ago, was it?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “An ambitious man like you, you wouldn’t be satisfied with letting anyone else take the spotlight.”

  That much he’d told me. So far I was still on firm footing.

  “You already know me so well,” he said, and dropped another ball at his foot. “I am not.”

  “So I just can’t picture you working for someone else. You would have been starting your own career, wanting to bring yourself forward enough under John’s guidance to learn, and then surpass him as soon as the opportunity presented.”

  Another comment popped into my head, one I’d taken as a throwaway remark at the time — Frances’s father mentioned Carlson’s excuse for not getting to the tournament that night. Saying he’d had to go to the bank. What if that hadn’t been a lie?

  What had Frances said John’s finances? That funds were missing? Money draining away? John didn’t strike me as an unorganized man. If he’d been in charge of his own campaign funds, I’d bet every penny would have been accounted for.

  A curtain of revelation dropped over me, and in its folds the entire picture of what might have happened rolled across the stage. All the hints and clues I’d struggled with all week were now neatly ordered, one after the other, each stepping stone leading straight to Carlson’s door.

  “Running a campaign of your own must have taken a lot of money back then. No one knew who you were, you were just getting started. Did you have the money to front your own running? I imagine it would have been difficult to raise it going door-to-door with a torn ACL.”

  Was the heart under the floorboards beating loudly in his ears now? His eyes had grown wild, though he was obviously working hard to keep the rest of his expression neutral. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t keep the shake out of his hands as he swung again and missed.

  Ga-thump.

  I made another leap, all pinpoints of evidence-based light disappearing behind me as I stepped into the darkness of pure speculation. “What would the police find if they dug through John’s accounts from back then?” I asked. “Would they find any money missing? How much effort would it take to lead back to you, Rob?”

  Ga-thump.

  “What about those trophies, Rob?” I needled him. “Was it really John’s trophy they found buried with Amelia? Or was it one of yours?”

  Ga-thump.

  He made no response, and that heart beat so loudly it echoed in my own ears. It got to a point where I wondered if wishful thinking had pushed me too far, but then he turned on me.

  His smile was still in place, but there was a wildness behind his eyes, and I took a step back. I shouldn’t have. Stepping back showed him he’d frightened me, and his smile grew wider.

  “You do enjoy asking questions, don’t you?”

  “Only the ones I feel need to be asked,” I said.

  He stepped forward, I stepped back. Not far behind me was the front desk. One good scream would be all it took to bring someone out here to help me. Whether the guy got here in time was another question, and not one I was willing to ask just yet.

  “So what is it?” he asked. “What do you want to know? What answers would satisfy that dangerous curiosity of yours?”

  I doubted he was asking out of the goodness of his heart. Oh, I had no doubt he’d tell me, but with that look in his eye, he didn’t mean to give me a chance to do anything with the information.

  Or so he thought. I had options. I could run. All I needed was his confession, then I could bolt across the range and lead him on a merry chase to the police. He might consider himself fit with his hockey and golf, but I’d scaled the sides of buildings. I could outrun him.

  So, really, there was only one question to ask.

  “Why did you kill Amelia?”

  If I’d expected to catch him off guard, I failed. He didn’t even do me the courtesy of looking impressed that I’d found him out.

  “She caught on to what I was doing. I’d planned to jump ship and run as John’s opposition, but I needed the money to do it. Lucky for me, I was responsible for John’s campaign funding. It all went through me, so how would anyone notice if some of it went missing? But she started staying late, keeping an eye on me. And one night she caught me reworking the tallies from a fundraiser. She threatened to go to the police. John had left. I thought Veronica had left. I pleaded with her not to say anything. I told her there would be more than enough for John’s campaign — I just wanted to give myself a chance. I told her she could pretend she’d never seen anything. If John lost, her wedding would come that much faster.” He scowled. “The way she looked down on me, as though I was a turd under her shoe. So I grabbed her. She shoved me away and hurt my knee. I’d just had surgery and she knew it. The pain was unbearable. She got away from me and went out into the courtyard. I went to my office and grabbed my golf trophy.”

  My mouth went dry as the scene played out in my mind. She’d probably gone outside to clear her head and decide what she was going to do. She knew he was upset, knew she’d have to explain to John that his aide had attacked her, but as she stood there, John’s jacket around her shoulders, indignation burning within her that someone she and John trusted had betrayed them, the last thing she would have believed was that Carlson would go so far as to kill her.

  “What’s that look on your face, Miss Gates? Did you expect me to let her walk away and turn me in? Me? Robert Carlson? My name means something in this town, and she was about to ruin me. So I went out to her. She was just standing there, staring at the sky. I hit her over the head. I don’t know if that killed or her not — I didn’t really care. I know I should have done a better job at getting rid of her, but she’d been so helpful as to stand right next to the hole in the courtyard. I dragged her into it and covered her as best I could. My knee was killing me.” He rubbed it with his free hand, as though even after all these years that ache was still there.

  A tell-tale throb.

  “What about Veronica?” I asked as I took another step backward. I had to be ready to run. His fingers had tightened around his club, and I needed to make sure I had a good angle to gain some distance between us. “Did she know about the money? Did she know it was you arguing with Amelia instead of John?”

  “The nosy harpy,” he said. “She suspected something, though she never came out and accused me. That’s why I paid her to start her own business. It was fine until she started asking questions. All these years, and all she had to do was keep her mouth shut.”

  “Where is she?”

  His gaze drifted to the sand trap, and my stomach dropped. I’d really hoped she’d just skipped town.

  I didn’t wait for him to admit anything else. I broke into a run, but he was faster than I’d expected and his club had good reach. It hit the back of my neck, and I sprawled across the grass, seeing stars. I rolled onto my back, just in time for the club to come down at me aga
in. I dodged, and it got me in the shoulder. White hot pain burst down my arm.

  Refusing to let him kill me without a fight, I swung my legs and tangled them in his, bringing him to the ground. The club was within my reach, so I grabbed it away from him and used my good hand to push myself into a crouch. Getting the rest of the way to my feet was a challenge, but gentle hands grabbed me before I could fall.

  “Are you all right, Fi?” Sam asked.

  “Fine,” I said, relieved that my words weren’t slurred. “I’m fine.”

  “Robert Carlson, you are under arrest for the murder of Amelia Wright,” Detective Curtis said as she rolled him onto his stomach and pinned his hands behind his back. “And by the sounds of it, soon to be for the murder of Veronica Moore.”

  I staggered on my feet but relished the satisfaction of what happened. Carlson, his family name, and his smug face was finished, and John Kingslake would soon be a free man.

  20

  I sat in the ambulance while I waited for someone to tell me I was good to go. A goose egg on the back my head and a nasty bruise on my arm were the worst of my injuries, and I was eager to get as far away from all this medical gear as I could.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t reach you sooner,” Sam said.

  He leaned with his shoulder against the door, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets.

  “Hey, I’m not dead, am I? You got to me in time. I’m just glad you heard everything.”

  “You did a good job.”

  “You did, indeed,” Detective Curtis said as she approached. “I appreciate your help, though pushing a suspected murderer to the point of violence was probably not the smartest way to go about it.”

  “It was worth it if it keeps an innocent man from going to prison for the rest of his life.” I didn’t mean to sound rude, but I was tired and sore, and it annoyed me to be thanked after so many weeks of being trash-talked for doing the exact same thing.

  Curtis only raised an eyebrow at my response. “That would have been a real shame. Good thing there was someone around whose hands weren’t tied.”