by A J Maybe
Probably because the place still smelled of frying donuts.
After fiddling with the dodgy lock, I plugged in the laptop and waited to get connected to the internet.
The Familiar Faces had a new story up.
The Mask Murderer Found?
No, not yet, but a local private investigator (name withheld to protect the vigilant) has contacted The Familiar for help with her inquiry into the death of Rex Bales. Follow us on social media to join the hunt!
Here’s a recap on what we know so far:
Rex Bales was murdered in Sherwood Park on Sunday. OPP have not released the exact time or cause of death, but all indications point to suffocation by luchador mask in the early evening. The investigation appeared to focus on the eastern side of the park, near the wishing well.
Mr. Bales was seen arguing in Soggy Notions with several professional athletes, including Blessed Freddie Best, Roger “Trucker Man” Stanson, Darby “The Ring Rocket” Fuller, Jimmy Kiss, Luke “Lion Tamer” Turner, and his brother Ty Bales. (Please note that Ty is a semi-professional athlete, at best.)
These men exchanged heated words with the victim, and all were asked to leave around 4:00. However, Turner and Ty Bales negotiated with bar staff and remained at their booth until 6:30, nearly the same time the victim was discovered. Both have been questioned by police but neither are currently in custody.
Each of the athletes named above had taken to using Sherwood Park as a training facility while in town. There was likely DNA all over the place, but The Familiar’s intrepid reporters couldn’t get past the forensics trailer or the crime scene tape to confirm this.
OPP have seized the food truck formerly operated by Barry Bales. The victim had recently bid to purchase the truck, losing out to a non-Covey named Piper Mars.
“Okay, Leo,” I said, “So I know more than The Familiar does.” However, the detail about Luke and Ty staying at Soggy Notions through the dinner hour was news to me. Did that mean they were off the hook? Is that why they’d been released?
I had to admit, that between this alibi and Ty’s speech at the park, it seemed less and less likely that he was the killer.
Plus, if he’d slipped away from Kasper’s on Monday night to deliver the messages-on-a-bottle, surely his obnoxiously loud truck would have woken one of them. I was about ready to cross Ty off the list.
I switched over to the email tab and saw a string of messages from “THE FF”, plus two from Brennan. I opened the first one from the Familiar, the one I previewed one line of before the power went out.
Hayy! Yeah for sure! Let’s bust this thing wide open! National media will start tuning in real soon. We’re onboard. We’ll tease our readers immediately. Pls send a link where they can sign up ASAP.
There was no sign-off salutation. I clicked through to the next one.
Let’s compare notes ASAP! Txt me at 555-705-1134
And the next:
Hello? Waiting for your reply.
“Jeeze,” I said, scruffling Leo’s ears. “Ever anxious, eh girl?” The Familiar was all gung-ho, but I’d finally admitted to myself that murder investigations are best left to professionals. The best I could do was help.
And helping the professionals started with a phone call.
My stomach tingled. I recognized the tingle as the beginnings of a fight-or-flight response brought on by the idea of revealing my past to someone, even if that someone was the terse, robotic stranger named Derek at the front desk of the OPP detachment.
I was about to open Brennan’s first email, delaying the call just a little longer, when I heard tires crunching on the gravel driveway. My stomach tingle instantly bloomed across the rest of my body. The fight-or-flight response actually includes a third possible reaction, and that’s freezing. Golden Leo only cocked her head in curiosity but I froze, suddenly rigid as a statue.
“Who is it, girl?” I hissed. The dog’s tongue lolled carelessly. “Fine, I’ll do it.” In a crouch, I scampered to the door and stole a peek from the very edge of the window.
“Oh,” I said, relieved. “It’s just Jimmy.”
But then...wait. Why was Jimmy here?
Then it hit me.
Jimmy, the one who first told Kasper about the murder.
Jimmy, the one who was in Soggy’s that afternoon, and left early enough to commit the crime.
Jimmy, who changed his appearance immediately afterwards, who talked too fast, and who was eager to get the Cupcake Machine away from the OPP, wasting half his day to help me with the attempt.
Jimmy, who loved and respected Barry more than anyone, who idolized him, even. Who was so invested in Barry’s happiness that he concocted a plan to create a whole fleet of Cupcake machines. Jimmy, whose entrepreneurial hopes were dashed when Barry relapsed back into addiction.
Did he know about the pills? It must’ve broken Jimmy’s heart to see Barry fall from grace like that.
Jimmy, who was too small to overpower Rex, but had been at Kasper’s place and could have overheard my plans for a grassroots murder investigation. Jimmy, who had a history of clubbing unsuspecting lugs with his megaphone. He’d admitted to that himself. Maybe he’d finally done it for real, and left Rex to drown in the fountain.
That didn’t exactly explain the cinnamon, but as the auctioneer, Jimmy certainly had access to the food truck.
And in about four seconds, I can ask him about it myself. Right before he adds me to his list of victims.
This all washed over me, like a wave, and the fight/flight/freeze response hit me like a hammer. It chose “freeze” again and I curled up against the kitchen cupboards, pulling Leo by the collar. She was all too happy to curl up into my desperate hug.
We were out of the sightline from any window, but as I trembled there, I thought longingly of the short hallway on the other side of the kitchen island, thinking of the bathroom door and its fully functional lock. Beyond that, the disused front door offered a second choice — I could’ve shoved aside the trunk full of blankets blocking it and leapt from the doorway to the grassy front yard, then bolted into the woods.
Not a great option, but better than cowering against the kitchen cupboards. But I was stuck with my choice: if I moved now, he’d see me through the window in the door. Better to stay hidden. Maybe he’d think I wasn’t home and I could get a chance to think properly. Or call the OPP, like I should’ve done the second I walked in the door.
Oh baskets, Piper! I berated myself. Couldn’t even let the internet addiction rest for 5 minutes, could you?
I couldn’t call now. The phone was all the way across the living room. The old-fashioned, corded beast would be like a leash, tying me up in full view of the back door. It would take 40 minutes to get a squad car out here, and by then whatever was going to happen would’ve happened.
Knock-knock-knock.
I held my breath and willed Leo to stay quiet.
Knockity-knock-knockity.
That was a pretty jaunty knock for a killer.
“Piper?” he called. “Hello? Piper?”
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.
“C’mon Piper. Your car’s here.”
Maybe I went for a walk! Or a bike ride! I thought, trying to convince him to give up, using mind control powers that I didn’t actually have.
It occurred to me that, between the mounds of dog fur in the passenger seat, the dented rear panel, and the drops of blood on the steering wheel, my car probably made it look like I’d already been ‘taken care of’. So go away, Jimmy Kiss!
Instead, the doorknob rattled. For a second, the lock actually held and I dared to hope that it would do its job. Then the knob turned the rest of the way.
I leapt up as the latch clicked, and spun to face the cupboard. Leo ambled to the door and I saw Jimmy eyeing her with a clouded brow. I didn’t like that look. I could picture what would happen next to the poor, unassuming creature, who wouldn’t suspect evil in anyone, and I knew I had to act.
Forget freezin
g. Forget fleeing. It was time to fight. Sherry’s hefty flour container sat in front of me. I thanked my forgetful self for not returning it, and clutched it in both hands.
I lunged for the door as Jimmy pushed it open, his eyes still glued to the dog, and raised the porcelain bludgeon over my head.
Jimmy cooed at Leo and my brain stuttered. He hadn’t flung the door into her, he wasn’t growling at her. He even had a hand down, to offer Leo a sniff.
His pose offered me a dandy, wide open shot at his head. This was my chance, probably the only chance I’d have to get the jump on him but…
“Cinnamon.” I said. The flour container made me think of it: Flour. Powder. Particulate. Coughing, choking, the cinnamon challenge.
Jimmy startled and blinked at me in confusion. He didn’t even raise a defensive hand against my pending attack. “Cinnamon? Is that her name?”
Oh right, he doesn’t recognize Leo in her new form.
My chest literally hurt as my heart beat against my sternum and every muscle tensed, this time frozen with indecision.
Cinnamon. “Yeah, Cinnamon,” I said, looking at Leo. “You like it?”
“The dog’s cute,” he said, face full of uncertainty and concern. “But I’m highly allergic to the spice, truth be told. What’s going on, Piper?”
I believed him. I lowered the porcelain jar. If Jimmy was allergic to cinnamon, he couldn’t be the killer.
“Cinnamon… it’s an old addict’s trick. AA meetings always have lots of coffee on hand, but for a long time when you stop drinking, you crave a stronger flavour. Something that almost hurts to drink. Add enough cinnamon and it does the trick.”
Jimmy blinked at me again, likely wondering what I was babbling about. He eyed me with real concern, like the genuinely kind man he was. And I’d almost clobbered him with a flour jar. “That, uh, works?”
“So I’m told. And you know who taught me that?”
Jimmy looked helpless. “Kasper?”
“No. It was the man who murdered Rex Bales.”
19
Storming Off
Jimmy stepped inside. “Wait a sec, did you think I killed Rex?! Is that why you were about to smush me with that thing?”
I returned the flour jar to the counter sheepishly. “Uh, maybe. I mean... you wanted the cupcake business to work, and then, Rex’s bylaw, and Ty just told me about Barry’s problem and his relapse — you knew about that, right? And at first I thought Ty was the killer! But you loved Barry too, maybe as much as Ty, and certainly more than Rex, that utter pylon, and—”
“Phew, Piper, calm down. Rex wasn’t all bad, you know. He wasn’t thrilled about that bylaw. He hated to push it through, actually, but he thought it was one step toward bringing the Bales name to new heights. Rex thought the unicorn truck was... unbecoming, you know? Ty said the same thing, when Barry first got it. But even just the idea of selling cupcakes for a living — it didn’t fit with Rex’s view of what a manly Bales man should be doing in his retirement years. Rex thought he could elevate the family and make more money by rising up in St. Mauvais politics, by getting chummy with Mancini, the restaurant mogul.
“But at the same time, Rex felt bad about the whole thing. He even went to live with Barry when Ty told him the pills were back on the menu. Piper, this is supposed to be top-secret, but Rex called on me at first, because Barry trusted me so much. Rex thought I could help Barry get clean again, but he lost patience and thought my methods were too soft so he hired the best rehab guy there is. Spent absolute heaps of money to bring him to the Cove, put him up in a nice place for a three month contract. Rex basically bought Barry his own private rehab. You met the guy, actually.
I nodded, knowing exactly who he meant.
“It’s Robin Jarvis.”
Of course it was. And that’s where the Seshman’s bottles came from. Jarvis would know all about my past. I had pushed it out of my mind, but I guess the first person I’d really revealed my own addiction to wasn’t Brennan — it was Jarvis. I’d spilled every bean as I filled in the sign-up forms and surveys required by that awful, awful show of his. All my contact was through the show’s producer, but Jarvis would have access too, no doubt.
“Yeah, he’s a big deal on the internet, I’m told.”
“That he is. His show gets millions of views each week. And that’s how I learned the cinnamon trick. On one hand, he physically and emotionally abused his so-called patients, but on the other hand, he preached a very long, gentle weaning-off practice. He deals with hoarders, mainly, but he also talks about his personal experience with alcoholism. Which is where I learned the cinnamon trick.”
Jimmy blinked at me again. “But you said…”
“Yeah. I said Rex’s killer taught me the cinnamon trick. We did a little snooping, Sherry and Kasper and I. You know Rex wasn’t choked to death? And he didn’t suffocate in that mask. He asphyxiated on cinnamon and drowned in the wishing well, after he was knocked out by a smack on the head!”
“Sweet Gordie Howe,” Jimmy swore.
“I bet Jarvis’ crazy rehab tactics went sideways,” I said. “Barry falling down those stairs, high as a kite… that wouldn’t be good for Jarvis’ reputation.”
“And coroners around here are happy to overlook things like that if there’s no reason to make a fuss about it, but Rex would’ve known. And, people don’t realize it, but Rex took Barry’s death as hard as anyone. Maybe Rex was threatening to go public with it.”
“And Jarvis... his whole life depends on his credibility as an addictions counsellor. He’d do anything to protect his reputation,” I said. And I knew about feeling like your image is everything, didn’t I? “He’d kill for it.” There wasn’t a doubt in mind.
I recalled what Sherry had said about his interview with the police. They didn’t have anything on him and had very little reason to suspect him. Coupled with Jarvis’ capacity for charm, I’m sure he had them totally bamboozled.
“But the police have already questioned him,” I told Jimmy. “And let him go.”
“They let me go too, ‘pending further evidence’, they said. They told me not to wander too far from the Cove, but word on the street — according to Edie and Dottie — is that Jarvis packed up and left last night.”
I swore.
“Honestly though, Piper? We’re just batting things around. This is pure conjecture. Jarvis taught a cinnamon trick in his course, and Rex had a mouthful of cinnamon? That’s a flimsy connection.”
“Yeah, but Jarvis even carried around a shaker of the stuff. It was empty, too!” I protested. “I saw him downtown, knocking out the last little bits into his coffee! Edie and Dottie witnessed it too, I think. They called him ‘fancy’.”
“That’s still weak, Mars,” Jimmy said. “I mean, I get that you’re trying to get that truck back, so finding some other source for the cinnamon would really help you out, but…”
I put up my hand. “Honestly, that’s the OPP’s problem. I’ll give them what I know and they can track down Jarvis, maybe search the place he was staying at… they can do whatever they want. I’m done playing detective. And my truck? I get it when I get it.”
That was the moment I decided I was going back to St. Mauvais with my head high, even if I didn’t have a cool story to tell and a new business to celebrate. Even if I was just broke, washed out, and going to sell lottery tickets and energy drinks in my mom’s store.
I’d escape to the Cove for kitchen witch lessons on weekends, but I couldn’t exactly go around bragging about that.
Then I had a notion. Maybe I could prove the Jarvis connection. I should’ve left it for the police, but curiosity outweighed my willpower. “Hey, follow me,” I told Jimmy. I darted outside, down the porch steps, and skirted around it to where I’d kicked the Seshman’s bottles.
Two of them had landed with the message facing up. “‘Stop looking’?” Jimmy said.
“Yeah. I was asking around, trying to find the killer.”
“And t
his ‘twenty-eight thousand’?”
“And eight hundred. Long story, but it’s the exact number of bottles I smashed when I lost my old job,” I said.
He rolled over the last bottle with his toe. “And this date?”
I tilted my head to finally read it properly, and something clicked in my head. “Huh,” I said. It was the date of my forklift accident, but that wasn’t all that happened that day. “That’s when a whole skid of really fancy cinnamon got delivered to my apartment. Only about five people know about that — this practically proves it was Jarvis!”
Jimmy shrugged, unimpressed.
“I’ll show you. Maybe there’s a little physical evidence on the bottles,” I said. That was my hunch in the first place. Best not to touch them though. Better leave it to the police.
I kneeled and motioned for Jimmy to do the same. I folded down and stretched my neck until my nose was a half inch from the glass and sniffed mightily.
Yes! Smoked cinnamon! Beyond the stale, yeasty alcohol smell and the hint of permanent marker fumes from the message on the glass, the spice was plain as day.
“Sniff!” I commanded, and I shoved the back of Jimmy’s head like I was baptising him in the scent. He recoiled instantly and a strangled cry escaped from his throat.
“Uchh, that’s cinnamon!” he shouted, as if I’d pointed a gun at him.
“You can smell it too, right? Mixed with the boozy scent, of course, but it’s smoked cinnamon. It’s a signature spice, quite rare, especially in Carterton Cove!” I just knew this was fantastic evidence. Only one particularly fancy Bridge Trash visitor carried smoked cinnamon in his man-purse.
“I’m extremely allergic!” Jimmy moaned. “I just told you that!” He turned crimson and started coughing.
“C’mon Jimmy, it’s just the smell! You didn’t even touch it.” I don’t think.
“What do “ —cough! hack, hack, cough!— ” what do you think ‘extremely’ means?!” He ran to his truck, spitting on the way, and yanked a water bottle from the passenger side. He swished and spit, coughed, then swished and spit again.
