Black Water

by Rosemary McCracken

  Black Water

  Second Edition

  A Pat Tierney Mystery – Book 2

  Rosemary McCracken

  Copyright © 2013, 2018 Rosemary McCracken.

  All Rights Reserved.

  SECOND EDITION

  Smashwords Edition ISBN: 978-1-77242-092-0

  Cover design by Ryan Doan

  Carrick Publishing

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you did not purchase this e-book, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the author’s written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Rosemarymccracken dot com

  Contents

  Praise for Black Water

  Dedication

  Begin Reading: Prologue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Praise for Black Water

  “Rosemary McCracken is a master when it comes to showing ordinary people embroiled in extraordinary circumstances. From page one, Black Water draws the reader deeper and deeper into what at first seems to be a missing-person case but--step by step--eventually becomes a gripping tale of kidnapping, fraud and the violent settling of old scores. Pat Tierney, financial advisor, widow and mother faces off against bikers, drug doyennes and a crazed killer in this fast-paced engrossing mystery. It’s a fast read with a beautifully complicated plot and great action near the twisty ending!” —Rosemary Aubert, author of the Ellis Portal mystery series

  “Rosemary McCracken’s second Pat Tierney mystery takes us into the tranquility of Ontario lake country. But the idyllic setting has a dark underside. Human greed and ancient grudges are wreaking havoc. McCracken’s smart and engaging protagonist must discover the truth and restore peace to paradise. She’s more than up to the task.” —Gail Bowen, author of the Joanne Kilbourn mystery series

  “I personally love books where the characters are so believable and well-drawn that they become friends. Black Water is filled with wonderful details of everyday life that melt the curtain between the fictional and the real world. Add to that a suspenseful story and you have a winner all around.” —Maureen Jennings, author of the Detective Murdoch mystery series

  “A man meets a fiery death and in the small world of Braeloch, a northern Ontario town, suspects abound. McCracken’s clever plot kept me guessing right to the end.” —D.J. McIntosh, author of The Witch of Babylon

  “Here’s McCracken back with her second Pat Tierney novel, writing again with wonderful pace and invention. Tierney is a Torontonian, a widow, mother and investment advisor. The new book opens with Pat on the receiving end of more surprises than anybody deserves. She learns that her daughter is gay, which is okay with Pat, but the daughter’s partner has vanished, which isn’t. Worse, the missing partner is linked to a murder up in Ontario’s cottage country. Pat takes on the case, and for the rest of the exceptionally busy book, she bats around cottage country, dealing with a collection of creepy, clever, and criminal locals.” —Jack Batten, Toronto Star

  In memory of my late mother-in-law, Helen Piwowarczyk.

  A true story she told me is at the heart of Black Water.

  PROLOGUE

  Lyle gripped the wheel of the black minivan. Beside him, Ross was yakking about the AA meeting they had just attended.

  A thaw earlier that week had left the highway clear, but the temperature had plummeted the night before. The minivan’s heater was cranked up full blast. “Crazy weather,” Ross said. “One day, you figure it’s time to dig out the summer clothes, next day it’s colder than a witch’s tit. Must be all that global warming crap.”

  Lyle sneezed and reached for a tissue in the box on his lap.

  “Bless you,” Ross said.

  “Fine thing to come down with a cold today,” Lyle grumbled.

  “Yeah, like the missus was sayin’…”

  Lyle tuned out Ross as they approached Braeloch. He had told the Collins girl that he was sorry. But that hadn’t been enough for her. She wouldn’t let it be.

  Lyle pulled up in front of Ross’s bungalow. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks. Be seein’ you next week, then.” Ross stepped out the van and gave a wave. “Take care of that cold.”

  Lyle gave him a curt nod and drove back to the highway. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Almost nine. He’d made it back in good time from the six o’clock meeting.

  “Wish Ross wouldn’t talk so much, but he’s all right,” he muttered as he picked up speed on the highway. “Thank God for the AA fellas. Got me through the worst of it. Confession with Father Brisebois set me square with the Lord, but it wasn’t the same as goin’ over it with the guys. Father, he’s a good man but he don’t understand how the devil can live in a bottle. Pull you in and suck out your soul. The boys do, though. They been there.”

  Lyle slowed down as his headlights picked out the edge of his driveway.

  “She should’ve got the letter by now. She’s gotta understand. She’s gotta help me stop this thief from taking from good folks like Pearl. She’s a big-shot lawyer now, so to catch a thief, that’s her job.”

  He braked suddenly as he pulled into the driveway. He blinked and stared through the windshield.

  The garage door was open.

  “No way. That sucker was down when I left. Gettin’ old but I ain’t senile.”

  He rolled down his window and stuck out his head. He squinted as he tried to see into the depths of the garage where the headlight beams didn’t reach. Tools on the tool rack, snowblower, lawnmower. All in their proper places as far as he could tell.

  “Anyone in there? Show yourself if you know what’s good fer you.”

  He sneezed and reached for another tissue. “Just what I need. Damn punks!” He rolled up the window and pulled into the garage.

  He heard a metallic clatter behind him as he got out of the minivan. He gaped as the wooden garage door slammed down with a thud. He made his way cautiously toward it in the pitch-black garage.

  “Hey!” He pounded on the garage door. “Hey!”

  He groped to find the chain for the ceiling light and yanked it. In the bulb’s dim glow, he saw a large stain on the floor.

  “What the…”

  He touched the walls. Damp.

  He held his fingertips against his nose. “Gasoline. With my cold, I couldn’t smell it. The place is soaked in it.”

  He staggered as pain shot through him. He clutched his chest and bent over. Then he straightened, breathing deeply.

  He heard a whoosh as he lurched toward the garage door. Flames licked its bottom and side edges. He fumbled for the metal handle, then jerked his hand away. It was hot.

  He groped in his jacket pockets, pulled out a pair of gloves and groaned. “Wool. No insulation. No leather palms.”

  He slipped them on but he needed something more for protection. “A rag. If I get a rag around the glove, I may be able to grab the handle.”

  He stumbled and reached out to the wall on his right. “Gotta be one around here. If I could just…”

  He spilled the contents of a plastic storage box on the floor. Half-full paint and varnish cans c
lanked as they hit the concrete. No rags.

  Flames danced on the door and surged up the walls. He groped for the van’s door handle and pulled himself inside. “Get her started. Maybe I can crash through.”

  He fumbled for his key and stuck it into the ignition. He was about to start the engine when he gagged, clutched his chest and gasped in pain.

  He slumped against the steering wheel, unable to lift his hand to the ignition. He knew that when the flames hit the gas tank, the minivan would become a fireball.

  “Lord, please make it quick.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was chilled to the bone when I got home that evening. An Arctic air mass from Nunavut had moved into central Ontario and held the city of Toronto in a deep freeze. Cars refused to start. Streetcars broke down all over the city. Pedestrians hurried along in down-filled coats with scarves over their faces.

  If spring was on its way, there was no sign of it that Friday in March.

  Maxie, our golden retriever, greeted me at the door with a rapturous dance. She wanted to play, but I was in no mood for games. A note on the kitchen counter told me that Laura had taken her for a walk before she’d headed out to a party to celebrate the beginning of winter break.

  I crumpled up the note, grateful for small blessings. The last thing I wanted to do was walk a dog in sub-zero weather. Or make dinner. Tommy, my eight-year-old, was with his grandmother that night so I had the evening to myself.

  On the way to the phone to check voice mail, the hall mirror told me I looked as bedraggled as I felt. Shoulders slumped, mouth a thin slash across my tense face, short blond hair stuck out like a scarecrow’s. I looked older than my forty-seven years.

  I pressed the button on the phone to activate unheard voice mail.

  “Good afternoon. This is Detective Inspector Stewart Foster of the Ontario Provincial Police. I’m trying to reach Tracy Tierney.”

  I swallowed back the panic that was rising inside me. What did the police want with my daughter?

  “Ms. Tierney, we need to speak with you as soon as possible,” the message continued. “I’m in Toronto today. Please give me a call at…”

  I jotted the phone number down on a notepad, pressed a button to save the message and hung up.

  Was Tracy in trouble? I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. The police wanted to speak to her, so I knew that she wasn’t hurt. I figured that the call had something to do with her work. The year before, Tracy had finished law school and she was articling at a Bay Street law firm. She must have asked the police for information. I needed to give her the message.

  Tracy had moved out of the house four weeks before, which was why I was feeling down. She was twenty-four years old, and I was all for her setting up a home of her own. It was how she had left that bothered me.

  The front door opened and a familiar voice called out, “Mom! You home?”

  My heart did a flip-flop and I hurried into the hall.

  Tracy had on her good black coat and a red cloche hat, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold. She held a casserole dish in her hands. She gave me a tentative smile.

  I blinked back tears as I studied my firstborn. Pretty, heart-shaped face. Serious brown eyes—my late husband Michael’s eyes. I moved toward her, my arms outstretched. “Honey.”

  She set down the dish on the deacon’s bench and gave me a hug. “I missed you, Mom.”

  I wrapped my arms around her. Tracy is a petite girl. My younger daughter, Laura, towers over her.

  I didn’t want to let her go, but she pulled back. She took off her hat and shook her head. Wavy brown hair fell around her face. She picked up the dish on the bench. “Cassoulet. Jamie made it the other night. Have you eaten dinner?”

  I moved away at the mention of Jamie—Jamie Collins, a lawyer at the firm where Tracy was spending her articling year. The woman my daughter had moved in with.

  “Mom, we need to talk.” She led the way into the kitchen.

  I thought of the phone message from the police. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Something’s happened to Jamie.”

  I was relieved that Tracy was all right. But looking at her troubled face, I realized this wasn’t just a friend who was in trouble. Jamie was Tracy’s partner. “What’s happened?” I asked.

  She sat down at the table and fixed her eyes on me. “On Wednesday, Jamie got a letter from a guy called Lyle Critchley. Made her really upset.”

  “Something to do with her work?”

  “No. Jamie knew Critchley up north where she grew up. Near Braeloch, one of those towns in cottage country.”

  “I didn’t know that was where she came from.”

  “How would you?” Her voice rose in irritation. “You haven’t spent any time with her.”

  I looked up from my computer and saw Tracy and a striking redhaired woman standing in the doorway to my office

  “Mom, can we come in?”

  “Of course.” I got out of my chair as they came into the room.

  Tracy took the woman’s hand. “Mom, I want you to meet Jamie. Jamie Collins.”

  I took a step back. My daughter had been talking about Jamie for weeks. I had assumed Jamie was a man.

  Jamie held out a hand to me. “Tracy thought it was time we met.”

  I took her hand and looked at Tracy. She was beaming with happiness.

  My head began to reel. “Yes, well, I…” I struggled to find the right words.

  Just then, Rose, my administrative assistant, came to the door. “Keith Kulas is on the line, Pat.”

  I dropped Jamie’s hand and reached for the phone. Keith’s call would give me time to adjust to this bombshell. “I have to take this,” I said. “It’s the CEO.”

  The smile left Tracy’s face and she stiffened. “We’ll leave you to it, then.” She took Jamie’s arm. They walked out of the office without looking back.

  My heart sank as I watched them leave.

  I tried to make amends. Later that afternoon, I phoned Tracy, hoping to get a second chance. “Honey, I had to take that call. It was important.”

  “More important than your daughter and her future?” she asked.

  “Of course not. It’s just…”

  “Just what?”

  It was just too much to take in at the moment.

  “Mom?” Tracy’s voice rose in a mixture of anger and sorrow. “Say something.”

  The call had been a mistake. I should have waited, tried to get my mind?my emotions?around Tracy and Jamie.

  “Mom? Are you still there?”

  “Goodbye,” I whispered.

  “Wait! Mom?”

  I placed the receiver in the cradle and began to cry.

  I had always considered myself a champion of diversity—religious, racial and sexual. My business partner and friend, Stéphane Pratt, was openly gay. I had gay and lesbian clients. It was easy to be open-minded until your own kid came out.

  Two days after their visit to my office, Tracy moved into Jamie’s condo. I threw myself into my work. I didn’t tell my friends about Tracy. I didn’t tell Devon, the man in my life. I hoped my daughter would get over her infatuation.

  But mostly I blamed myself that Tracy felt she had to keep secrets from me.

  “Listen to me, Mom,” Tracy said. “I’m talking to you.”

  I looked at her. She was right. I hadn’t given Jamie a chance. Sure, I’d phoned my daughter every few days to see how she was, but I called her at the office. I either got her voice mail?and my messages went unanswered?or a curt response that she had to run off to an “important meeting.”

  “Ten years ago, Lyle Critchley killed Jamie’s younger sister.”

  That got my attention.

  “Drunk driving. Her family never forgave him.”

  I nodded. I would have trouble forgiving someone who had mowed down one of my girls.

  “And then, out of nowhere, he wrote Jamie this letter. He wanted her help.”

  “Legal help?”

/>   “I’m not sure. She’d run the letter through the shredder when I got home. She was that mad at him.”

  “I don’t blame her.”

  Tracy looked surprised at that, then pleased. She seemed to relax a little. “She spent the rest of the evening on the computer. Yesterday morning, she called me at work and asked to borrow my car.”

  “She was going to see Lyle?”

  “I don’t know. She said she’d tell me all about it that evening, but she never came home and she hasn’t called. She doesn’t answer her cell, she hasn’t answered my emails. And I found a voice mail at home tonight from someone at her office who wanted to know if she was feeling better. She must have called in sick.”

  Her eyes grew large. “Mom, I watched the news when I got home today. There was a fire near Braeloch last night. Lyle Critchley was killed in it. The police found traces of an accelerant. They’re calling it a murder.”

  I gripped Tracy’s hand—hard. That was why the police had called her. Jamie had taken the Honda Civic that was registered in Tracy’s name.

  “She has your car,” I said.

  She pulled her hand away. “So? She doesn’t have a car of her own. Jamie’s a greenie. Walks and bikes wherever she can.”

  “There’s a voice mail for you from the OPP. They may have found your car and traced it to this address and phone number.”

  She went over to the phone and listened to the message. “They want to talk to me.”

  She turned to face me. “What if they’ve arrested Jamie? She and her family hated Lyle. But, Mom, she didn’t kill him. Jamie wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “You’d better call the police officer.”

  Tracy went to the phone, and I let Maxie into the back yard. When I returned to the kitchen, she was leaving a message, giving the number at the condo and her cell phone number.