Omand's Creek: A gripping crime thriller packed with mystery and suspense

by Don Macdonald

  She led them into the living room. Shelter felt his shoes sinking into the deep pile. Two couches upholstered in shiny gold and cream stripes faced each other across an oval coffee table. The furniture looked as if it had never been used, and when Shelter sat down, the stuffing was stiff against his backside. He and Traverse turned down an offer of iced tea.

  “My lawyer was alarmed when I told him I was meeting you this afternoon. But I don’t give a damn. My husband’s the one who should be worried.”

  “Mrs. Craig, we have some questions to ask about an affidavit you filed in your divorce proceedings against your husband,” Shelter said. “You’ve made allegations about tax evasion and assets held in a shell company.”

  “Oh, they aren’t allegations,” she said. “They’re facts. My husband is quite allergic to paying taxes. He always has been.” She looked from Shelter to Traverse. “It’s so short-sighted of Bill to cut corners. I tried to get him to stop, but he just laughed at me. Now he will have to pay the price.”

  “How did you learn of these matters?” Shelter asked. “Do you work in the business?”

  “Our construction company was founded by my father. When I was younger, I worked in the office. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, and my father thought it was a good idea for me to understand how the business works. I trained as an accountant.”

  She rummaged in a handbag, bringing out a package of menthol cigarettes, and lit one. “Sorry. A disgusting habit,” she said, exhaling smoke away from the detectives. “I started again after I kicked Bill out. So that’s another thing I can thank him and his little cunt for.” As she drew on the cigarette, her eyes narrowed through the smoke and the corners of her lips turned up, evidently pleased by her profanity. “I made a habit over the years of going through his papers and asking about various deals. You can’t be too careful. I inherited half the company from my father; he has the other half. So you see, I have an interest in knowing what he’s up to.”

  She leaned forward and tapped her cigarette on a heavy crystal ashtray. “Of course, I knew the work on the house and cottage was all done under the table,” she said. “But he’s also adept at making arrangements to win contracts.”

  “What kind of arrangements?” Traverse asked.

  “Rigging bids with other contractors. And bribing public officials.”

  Shelter glanced at Traverse. “Oh, yes,” she said. “It goes much further than what’s in the affidavit. We had to be careful, though. I didn’t want to be sued over something I couldn’t prove.”

  “What can you tell us about Agassiz Holdings?” Shelter asked.

  Craig ground out her cigarette and leaned back, crossing her legs. “He was stupid enough to leave his email account open. That’s how I found out about his affair with that woman in the first place. I also found a message from Alistair.”

  “The lawyer,” Shelter said.

  “Yes. Revolting human being. He’d written it in a cagey way. No details, but it referred to Agassiz Holdings and a $1.5 million wire transfer to the Bahamas. It’s all done with front names, but our supposition is he’s been hiding money down there.”

  “In the affidavit, you mentioned other individuals might be involved with that company,” Shelter said.

  Craig shrugged. “We don’t know who’s involved. But now that you’re on the case, perhaps you can find out. Do you have enough here to charge him?”

  Shelter and Traverse had been vague about their interest in Bill Craig. Now, Shelter considered whether to tell her they were homicide detectives and run the danger it would become a topic of gossip.

  “We’ll definitely have to look into that,” he replied. “Are you familiar with a man named Charlie Osborne?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. Who is he?”

  “He is a band councillor for the Lone Pine First Nation,” Shelter said.

  “An Indian?” She raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about him.”

  Shelter nodded and made a note. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Craig?”

  “The night I put him out of this house. That’s been six months.”

  “We’re interested in who he does business with and who he socializes with. Are there any names that come to mind?”

  “We’re in the construction business, but he doesn’t like to mix with that gang,” she said. “He’s got a few cronies he plays golf and drinks with in the city and at the lake. And, of course, there’s his horses. He’s always at the track. But I don’t know anything about that side of his life.”

  “If you could make a list of his friends and associates, we would appreciate it.”

  Shelter examined her face as she took out another cigarette and lit it. The smoking was deepening the lines, aging her. She turned slightly to face Shelter. “Do you think my husband killed Crystal Rempel and Monica Spence?”

  Shelter blinked, looked at Traverse, and then back at the woman, who hadn’t taken her eyes off him. When she spoke, the tone was harsh. “When the police call out of the blue, of course I’m going to have my lawyer find out who they are and what they’re up to.”

  “We’re just following up various leads, Mrs. Craig.”

  The same cynical chuckle. “You wouldn’t be asking me all these questions if you didn’t think Bill was involved.”

  “We can’t discuss our investigation,” Shelter said. After a moment, he asked, “Did you speak to Crystal Rempel?”

  She ran a hand up and down her arm as she considered the question. “Yes. She contacted my lawyer, and we spoke by telephone a few weeks ago. She said she’d seen the papers we filed in the divorce.”

  “How did she find them?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. She said she had information about my husband that might help my case. And that I might be able to help her with something she was working on. She wanted to meet.”

  “Did you agree to meet her?

  “Yes. She was to call me back with a time and place. But she never did.”

  “Did you ever speak about her to your husband?

  “I don’t speak to him except through my lawyer. And the answer is no.”

  Shelter closed his notebook. “It’s important our conversation remains confidential.”

  She considered this. “It’s important I get control of my father’s company back from that man. I’ll do whatever is necessary to do so, including going to the press.”

  “Please don’t do that, Mrs. Craig,” Shelter said. “It won’t help you, and it could jeopardize a murder investigation.”

  “We shall see, Detective. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have to pack for the lake.”

  In the passenger seat, Shelter was lost in his thoughts, trying to pull the pieces of the case together. He glanced at Traverse and said almost in a murmur, “Okay. We’ve got to get Bill Craig in for an interview. MacIsaac can’t stall any longer.”

  Traverse nodded and turned the car onto the Maryland Bridge. The sun was still high, but the trees along the river cast long shadows, and the breeze was slightly cooler than earlier in the afternoon.

  “I’ve had it, Gabe,” Shelter said. “Can you drop me off at home? I’ll call MacIsaac and brief him on what she had to say. I’ll write up the interview in the morning.”

  When Shelter came through the front door, the curtains were drawn and the house was in semi-darkness. He threw his briefcase on the couch, kicked off his shoes and wiggled his toes with relief. “Hello!” he called. Silence. His brow wrinkled. He called out again as he climbed the stairs two at a time. The door to Kelsey’s room was open, but her bed was empty. He stood on the landing and called out, “Kelsey!” Nothing.

  Then from below, a faint “What?”

  He found his daughter still in her pyjamas in the cool, musty basement rec room. A sitcom rerun glowed on the TV in a corner of the room, but Kelsey was intent on her phone.

  “Why didn’t you answer me when I called you?” Shelter asked, trying to keep his voice even.
<
br />   “I did,” she shot back. He again noticed the nose ring and two piercings in her ear. He felt a sharp desire to go up to his bed and close his eyes.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  Kelsey, her face illuminated by the glow of her iPhone, ignored him and continued to punch in a text. Only after she’d finished did she look up and offer, “I’m fine.” Her phone pinged with an incoming text, and Kelsey’s eyes were back on her phone.

  “Put that thing down,” Shelter said.

  “No,” she said in a tone that suggested his command was absurd.

  “I said put it down,” Shelter said, his voice rising.

  “Jesus. Relax.”

  “Don’t tell me to relax. What you did last night had us all scared to death.”

  “I was fine. I said I’m sorry.”

  “I want to be able to trust you.” He became aware of how angry he was and tried to bring himself under control. “You ran away without...”

  “I didn’t run away, Dad. I was going to call you.”

  Shelter was astonished. He realized she didn’t understand how much trouble and pain she’d caused. How serious it was. Even as upset as he was, he knew taking away her iPhone was the nuclear option. He could ground her, but would she obey him?

  “Who are you texting? Is it James?”

  “That’s none of your business. And no, it’s not James. He’s gone.”

  “Stop speaking to me in that tone,” he said, making up his mind. “I don’t want you to go out for a few days. Grandma Roberta is going to come by and get you lunch.”

  She kept her eyes on the TV, refusing to look at him. “You can’t keep me a prisoner.”

  “I’m painfully aware of that. Now call your grandparents in Gimli and apologize for what you put them through.”

  She looked up at him with alarm. “I’ll do it later.”

  “You’ll do it now,” he said. “They’ve been worried sick, and I promised you’d call.”

  Kelsey rolled her eyes but didn’t protest further. Shelter dialled the number to the house in Gimli, and after a few words with Joan Arnason, he handed the phone to Kelsey. When she said hello, it was in a shy little girl voice, as if she’d been caught stealing candy.

  Shelter wondered how Christa would have handled the situation if she were alive. She would have known what to do to express disappointment without pushing her away. After the call, Kelsey went to her bedroom while Shelter poured a double vodka and tonic and made a perfunctory search of the kitchen for something to make for dinner. No delicious food had magically appeared in the cupboards or fridge overnight. He found a menu for a pizza place in one of the drawers.

  The order placed, he dialled MacIsaac’s cellphone and filled him in on the interview with Shawna Craig. MacIsaac conceded the bid-rigging and bribery allegations were serious and instructed Shelter to contact the RCMP commercial crime division to let them know and see what they had on Bill Craig. “I’ll make some calls,” MacIsaac said. “But plan on bringing him in as soon as we can tomorrow.”

  “I’ll start preparing for the interview.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The next morning was overcast and cooler. Shelter was dressed for work and spooning coffee into a filter when he felt his phone vibrating in his pants pocket.

  “Hello, Mike,” Gordy Taylor said in his familiar baritone. “I just got off the phone with Neil. He was telling me about your conversation with Shawna Craig. You’re bringing Bill in today?”

  Shelter wondered where this was heading. It occurred to him that Taylor was calling to make him put off the Craig interview. “He’s involved in business dealings with this guy Charlie Osborne from the Lone Pine reserve. They were both in a hotel room with Monica Spence and Rory Sinclair. And Crystal Rempel was looking into it. So we’ve got connections among all of them.”

  “I personally think Bill Craig is a bastard,” Taylor said. “We’re on a couple of boards together. Your father knew him too.”

  Shelter expected more about Craig, but Taylor paused for a long second before asking, “What about this Osborne character? How close are we to bringing him in?”

  “We’ve been trying to track him down, but he’s not making it easy. We think he’s up on the reserve, and we want to get up there and interview him.”

  “Alright, then. How’s that daughter of yours?”

  Shelter was surprised again. How could Taylor have known about Kelsey running away? Had MacIsaac heard about it and tipped him off? He weighed confiding his worries about Kelsey to Taylor. Shelter respected his opinion, and the police chief knew Kelsey as well as if she were his own granddaughter. He’d watched her grow up during many dinner parties over the years both at his home and Shelter’s parents’ house.

  “You heard what happened?” Shelter asked.

  “No. What?” The alarm in Taylor’s voice was instantaneous.

  “She took off from Gimli with a boyfriend I didn’t even know about.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah. I tracked her down, and the boyfriend took off. She’s at home now, and I’m going to keep her with me.”

  After a pause to digest the news, Taylor said, “I know it can’t be easy for you, raising her alone. I fought with both of mine at that age.” The son and daughter he’d raised with his first wife were now adults who’d started their careers. “When they were teenagers, I put them to work to keep them busy. Made sure they had summer jobs. I got Richard going on a lawn cutting business, and Julie was a lifeguard. It helped keep them out of trouble.”

  “Kelsey’s going to be at loose ends,” Shelter said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”

  “Maybe I can help. We need someone to walk Heidi.”

  Heidi was Taylor’s Golden Lab, a dog Kelsey had known and loved since she was a little girl. “She’s getting old and can’t make it through the day anymore without going out for a pee,” Taylor said. “Janet has to come from the office on her lunch hour to let her out. If Kelsey could come by in the morning and later in the afternoon, that would help us out and give her a bit of spending money. She could even stay for dinner if she wants. We’d love to have her.”

  Shelter felt relief spreading through his body. His shoulders dropped as he let go of tension he wasn’t even aware he was holding. Taylor’s house wasn’t too far, and he was sure Kelsey would love to spend time with the dog.

  “That would be great. Let me talk to her about it tonight, and I’ll get back to you. Thanks, Gord.”

  “Don’t mention it. It’ll be a pleasure to have her around.” After a pause, he added, “It sounds like you’re on the right track with this case. Keep it up.”

  Shelter wolfed down a bagel and drank his coffee standing at the counter. He called his mother and arranged for her to come over at noon and make lunch for Kelsey. Before leaving, he peeked into his daughter’s room and could make her out through the gloom under a sheet. He’d intended it to be only a quick glance but found himself looking at her for a long time before gently closing the door.

  After the morning status meeting, Shelter called Craig’s office and was told he was in a meeting. Shelter thought it would probably take him about an hour to talk to his lawyer and get back to him. He was right, almost to the minute. His telephone rang, the caller ID showing the name of Craig’s company. Shelter took a deep breath and reached for the phone. It was the beginning of a chess match.

  “Michael Shelter.”

  “Bill Craig. I hear you’re looking for me.” The tone was chipper, friendly.

  “I’m with the police homicide unit. And we’d appreciate it if you would come downtown to answer a few questions in connection with an investigation we have underway,” Shelter said, maintaining a neutral, polite tone.

  “What investigation is that?”

  “The murder of Monica Spence last month. I guess you’ve probably seen it in the news?”

  “Yes. But what could it possibly have to do with me?”

  “Let’s
cross that bridge when we come to it. Will you come down this afternoon?”

  Craig hesitated. He could either refuse to cooperate and signal he had something to hide. Or he could agree to come in and risk saying more than he wanted to. How arrogant was he? Did he think he could outsmart the police?

  “No problem,” Craig said. “What time do you want me there?”

  The meeting was set for 2:00 p.m. Shelter and Traverse spent the morning and right through the lunch hour preparing. They went over newspaper clippings and press releases on Craig and his company. They reviewed the evidence they’d collected so far and drew up a list of questions. They were simple, open-ended. Twice a year, Shelter ran a two-day training course on interviewing. It was hugely popular, a plum reserved for rising stars in the department. He’d earned a reputation as the best interrogator in the service by doggedly pursuing and wringing confessions out of dozens of suspects, applying low-key psychological pressure. The last thing Shelter wanted was a Hollywood-style grilling — accusations, charged words and leading questions. All those tactics would do was drive Craig into a defensive shell. The blander the questions, the more likely he would get him talking and giving up critical information.

  Craig arrived twenty minutes late dressed in a navy-blue suit, expertly tailored to hide his belly. He was just over six feet and still powerfully built in his early sixties. With a quick glance, he inspected Shelter from head to toe as he approached the detective. Shaking hands, Shelter’s overwhelming impression was of whiteness. An ivory shirt open at the neck, gleaming teeth and a fringe of snowy hair around a bald, tanned head. He was accompanied by Derrick Alistair, who looked to be about the same age. His charcoal suit was expensive too. It was accented by a discreet blue striped tie and matching puff in his breast pocket. He was even taller than Craig and had a priestly presence, pale and thin with an eagle’s beak, ruddy cheeks and an annoyed squint behind gold-framed glasses. He was a tax specialist, and Shelter wondered if either of the men had been in a police station before. Craig would have been better off hiring a criminal defence lawyer for the occasion.