Black Water

by Rosemary McCracken

  “What’s the roadside number?” I asked.

  “1-9-0-5-6.”

  “Here,” I said when we’d rounded a bend. Crime-scene tape was stretched across the driveway ahead of us.

  She pulled onto the shoulder of the road. A stone house was set back on the wide lot.

  “From here, we can’t see if the cat’s around.” She pulled back onto the highway.

  The driveway on the next property was plowed, but the walkway to the house hadn’t been cleared of snow.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” I said. “Let’s park here.”

  She swung into the drive.

  I looked at the expanse of trees and snow that separated the property from the Critchley place. “We can’t walk through the woods.”

  “We’d be up to our armpits,” Celia agreed.

  The temperature had risen since I’d set out that morning but I pulled on my tuque as we walked along the highway.

  “Do you think this is illegal?” Celia asked, as we ducked under the crime-scene tape.

  “Probably.”

  We grinned at each other.

  The Critchley drive hadn’t been plowed. Celia led the way down it, walking whenever possible on patches of gravel that had started to appear through the snow.

  “I wonder if the police found tire tracks or footprints here after the fire,” I said.

  “It was cold that night,” Celia said, “but there’d been a thaw at the beginning of the week. Rain too. Might have cleared the snow from the drive.”

  My eyes were riveted on the charred remains of the garage at the end of the drive. We slowed our steps as we approached it. Celia stood still for a few moments, her head bowed.

  I shivered. A man had died a terrible death in that building.

  I turned and looked at the house. Its first story was constructed of gray stone. A second story with dormer windows was clad in white metal siding and capped with a sloping red metal roof. The house was attractive, cared for; it may even have been loved.

  “No sign of a cat around,” I said.

  “I’d like a look inside the house.”

  “Not a good idea.” But I was curious as well. I wanted to know more about Lyle Critchley.

  I’ll be back. That’s what Lyle had said when he left the branch. He had an appointment with Soupy, but his words sounded like a threat.

  “The police probably have the place locked up.” Celia headed for a wooden porch that had been built onto the back of the house. “But let’s try the back door.”

  “There’s a police investigation going on.” But I was right behind her. For all my preachy talk, I was as ready to snoop as she was.

  Inside the porch, shovels, hoes and rakes hung on the walls. A pair of work boots stood at the back door to the house.

  An orange cat squeezed through a hole at the end of the porch, brushed against our legs and let itself into the house through a flap in the wall.

  “Lyle didn’t have to put out the cat,” Celia said. “It comes and goes as it pleases.”

  “There’s probably a bowl on the floor inside. The police may have put food in it.”

  “I doubt it. And if it hasn’t been fed, we can’t let it starve.” She put a gloved hand on the doorknob, then quickly withdrew it.

  “They’ll have dusted for prints by now,” I said. “It’s been a week since the fire.”

  She grabbed the knob, and it turned.

  The house smelled stale and musty. Dead air. I shivered and not because the heat had been turned down low.

  Copper pots and pans hung from the kitchen ceiling. A shelf over the stove held a row of cookbooks. A rack of knives stood on the butcher-block countertop. Not even the film of white power that dusted all the surfaces could hide the fact that some serious cooking had been done in that kitchen.

  The cat meowed and rubbed against my legs. There was no cat bowl on the floor. I opened cupboards with the tip of a leather-clad finger. No boxes of kibble. No tins of cat food.

  “Here.” Celia fished something out of the dishwasher.

  “Careful.”

  “Like you said, the police have finished in here.” She held up a white plastic bowl with “Cleo” stamped on it in big red letters. “We have the bowl. Now where is the cat food?”

  “Probably downstairs.” I turned on a light at the top of a flight of stairs. “I buy big bags of chow for Maxie and keep them in a bin in the basement.”

  Bowl in hand, Celia headed down the stairs, the cat close behind her. I stepped through the kitchen doorway into a room where a maple dining set held pride of place. Beyond it was the living room. A flowered chintz sofa and matching armchairs were grouped in front of a brick fireplace. They were attractive, comfortable rooms, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that told me anything about Lyle Critchley.

  Several framed photos on the mantle caught my eye. I crossed the room to look at them.

  A large picture in a gilt frame displayed a couple in out-of-date wedding finery. A much younger Lyle than in the photo The Toronto World and the TV station had run, and a woman I assumed was Edna. They looked happy and hopeful. Another photo showed them later with a baby in Edna’s arms.

  Sadness washed over me. A few years after Tracy was born, I’d had a miscarriage that had left me inconsolable for months. But the sadness had gradually lifted and Laura had arrived. Lyle and Edna never learned what had happened to their son. And they never had another child.

  Lyle was a lonely man who came to the branch looking for help or maybe just a diversion. For some inexplicable reason, I felt we had let him down.

  The mantle held several other photos. A much older Lyle with a woman of around the same age, probably his sister. Photos of places I didn’t recognize. A picture at the far end of the mantle caught my eye. Three people, in their twenties or early thirties, smiled at the camera, their arms on one another’s shoulders. Lainey Campbell was in the middle, Lyle and Ted on either side of her. The photo had probably been taken in Lyle’s dancing days.

  “Come take a look down here, Pat,” Celia called from the basement.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the basement divided into two rooms. The area to the right was an unfinished furnace and laundry room. A big bag of dry cat food sat on the washing machine.

  “Look in there.” Celia inclined her head to the room on the left side of the stairs.

  The cat let out a rasping noise, something between a meow and a squawk.

  “Cleo, I hear you.” She dipped the bowl into the bag of chow and set it on the floor.

  I went into the room she’d indicated. The ceiling track lighting had been turned on. Pine paneling covered the walls. A large wraparound desk stood in the center of the room. It held two printers and two fax machines. The desktop in front of the chair was empty. All surfaces were filmed with white powder. “Looks like the police took the computer,” I said.

  With a gloved finger, I opened the drawers of a large filing cabinet. They were empty. “They took the files too.”

  Celia circled the desk. “What do you think the police found in Lyle’s computer and files?” she asked.

  A light clicked on in my head. “They may have found the letter he sent Jamie.”

  Celia bent over the desk between the two fax machines. “What’s this?” She blew on the powder that covered an open newspaper. “The Highland Times. Why didn’t the police take this?”

  “Don’t touch it,” I said. “Can you read the date and the pages it’s open at?”

  “March 2. Pages six and seven.”

  “Last week’s issue. We’ll look at a copy in the public library.”

  The cat followed us up the stairs.

  “Should we take Cleo with us?” Celia asked at the top of the stairs. “We can’t come over every day to feed her.”

  “We’ll have to take her,” I said, although the last thing I needed was something else to look after.

  “It may just be for a few days.” She gave me a sidel
ong look. “Someone may want to adopt her.”

  Fat chance of that, I thought as I returned to the basement for the cat carrier I’d seen. While I was there, I grabbed the bag of chow.

  “Adult female,” Celia said when I returned from the basement. “About three years old.”

  I hoped Cleo would get along with Maxie, but I somehow doubted it.

  I kept my eyes on the highway as we walked down the drive. I hoped the police had urgent business in a distant part of the township.

  “If the police come along,” Celia said, “we can say we’re on a rescue mission.”

  “I’d like to see the March 2 edition of The Highland Times,” I said to the fortysomething brunette behind the information desk at the Braeloch Public Library.

  “You’ll find the two most recent issues in the reading room.” She inclined her head toward an adjacent room.

  An elderly man in an armchair raised his eyes from the newspaper he held and nodded at us. I took two newspapers from a rack and pulled up a chair at the long table in front of the window. Celia sat down beside me.

  The entire page six of the March 2 issue was taken up by a photo spread of a craft and bake sale at Highland Ridge, the old folks’ home Veronica had mentioned. I wondered if Lyle had attended the sale. Vi, Ted’s wife, lived at Highland Ridge, and Lyle probably knew other residents there. The bottom half of page seven carried an ad for a local carpet and linoleum business. On top of it was a roundup of events scheduled around the township during winter break. On the far right side of the page, a single-column article reported on a township council meeting that had been held that week.

  I scanned the article. “This is it.

  “ ‘One of the topics under discussion was a proposal to construct a satellite tower for high-speed Internet access on Three Hills Lake,’ ” I read in a low voice. “ ‘The tower would be lit at night to warn low-flying aircraft.’ ”

  I turned to Celia. “We need one of those towers at Black Bear Lake.”

  I picked up where I’d left off. “ ‘The proposal was approved despite a letter from a property owner at the lake who claimed that the tower would lower real estate values.’ ”

  “Lyle didn’t live near a lake,” Celia said.

  “He owned four lots at Three Hills Lake. Lainey said he was against the tower.”

  I turned to the Letters to the Editor page. Three letters were on the page, one of them written by Lyle.

  “ ‘The Glencoe Highlands is renowned for its natural beauty,’ ” I read. “ ‘Metal towers will ruin this wilderness paradise. The township needs to restrict these eyesores to towns, and ban them in the countryside.’ ”

  We looked at each other.

  “The people who wanted a tower at Three Hills Lake wouldn’t have liked Lyle,” I said.

  “But would they have wanted to kill him?”

  “I doubt it. Most people want to be as connected as possible these days, and Lyle may have held up the tower a bit, that’s all. Three Hills Lake residents probably dismissed him an old crank.”

  I picked up the current edition of The Times, the March 9 issue. Its front page carried the small item about the fire that I’d read online. I turned back to the article about the council meeting in the previous issue. “The proposal to build the tower was approved the week before Lyle was killed.”

  “Then we can rule out a killer at Three Hills Lake.” Celia got out of the chair. “We’d better see how Cleo’s doing.”

  “Time for another visit?” I asked as we left the library. “It’s time I met Al Barker.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On Main Street, I spotted Laura and Tommy leaving Joe’s Diner with a young man with a long, dark ponytail. “Kyle!” I cried.

  “What—” I heard Celia say.

  But I was sprinting down the street. “Laura!”

  She saw me and said something to Kyle, who turned and waved. “Hey, Mrs. T!”

  Laura looked sheepish. “Kyle came by today.”

  “And we went to Joe’s,” Tommy said. “I had a banana split.”

  “What brings you this far from home?” I asked Kyle.

  “I hadn’t seen Laura in ages. So I took Mom’s car and drove up here.”

  “Ages? We’re talking, what, four days?” I said.

  The diamond stud in Kyle’s earlobe twinkled in the sunlight as he nodded. “Yeah, about four days.”

  “You’ll need to head back within the hour,” I told him. “I don’t want you on the roads around here in the dark.”

  “Can Kyle stay with us for a few days, Mom?” Laura asked. “Tomorrow is Friday. The week’s almost over.”

  “He needs to get his mother’s car back to her.”

  “No problem, Mrs. T,” Kyle said. “It’s Mom’s old car. She just got a Ferrari.”

  “Kyle can take us out on the snowmobile,” Tommy said.

  Three pairs of eyes looked hopefully at me. I realized that Laura and Kyle had this all planned out.

  Celia inched the Hyundai down a slippery lane that snaked through the forest. “We slide off this road, we’re stranded,” she said. “We don’t know if anyone’s home at the Barker place, and our cells may not pick up a signal out here.”

  I didn’t like the lane either, but I needed to talk to Al.

  After several more minutes of twists and turns, a weather-beaten red barn came into view. Behind it was a white house, badly in need of a coat of paint. Snow-covered fields stretched out behind the house, and behind them was a dense forest. A split-rail fence edged the front of the property, but the gate stood open. On one gatepost, a metal sign cautioned against trespassing. Beware Of Dogs warned a sign on the other post.

  Celia ignored the signs and drove into the muddy yard where a wiry figure was replacing the windshield wipers on a blue Ford pickup. Celia pulled up beside the truck.

  I rolled down my window. “Hi!” I said.

  A barking German shepherd bounded from the house and headed straight for our car. A shrill whistle brought the dog to a stop.

  “Fang, sit!”

  The dog sat but kept his eyes on us.

  “Can’t you read them signs? Fang don’t like strangers.” The voice was husky but it belonged to a woman. She was dressed in cut-off jeans, work boots and a green-plaid jacket. A battered baseball cap covered her hair. Her face was an older, weathered version of the girl in the yearbook.

  “You’re Al Barker,” I said.

  “Might be.”

  Fang growled. Cleo squawked in her carrier cage on the back seat.

  I didn’t like the look of Fang, but I got out of the car. “My name is Pat Tierney. Can you tell me where I can find Jen Collins?”

  Al’s cobalt-blue eyes took in my navy wool coat and polished boots. “You’ll find Jen down south. Toronto.”

  She saw me looking at the barking dog, but she made no move to calm him.

  “No one’s heard from her for days,” I said. “Her mother’s worried.”

  “Jen’s a big girl. Shouldn’t have to report to her momma every day.”

  Fang bristled and showed his sharp teeth. I moved closer to the car door.

  “A lot of people are worried about her,” I went on. “Including my daughter, Tracy. Can you tell me where she is?”

  Al studied my face. Then she pulled off her cap and thick, fair hair tumbled onto her shoulders. She was about to say something when a black van with ELK TV emblazoned on it in gold careened down the lane.

  Fang started to bark fiercely.

  “Sheee-it!” Al slammed the cap back on her head. “Last thing we need.” She turned to the dog. “Fang, stay!”

  The dog stood beside her and snarled at the van.

  The passenger door opened, and Mara hopped out. “Al, is Jen Collins here?”

  “Get outta here!” Al roared. “This is private property.”

  Damn it, Mara! Al was about to tell me something.

  Al glared at me. “Both of youse!”

  With that, s
he stomped off to the house, the muscles in her bare calves pumping like pistons.

  Fang barked at Mara and me, then trotted after Al.

  Mara groaned. “I heard that Al and Jen were an item before Jen went to Toronto.” She looked up at the house. “Do you think she’s in there?”

  I ignored her question. “What does Al do out here? Is this a working farm?”

  “You don’t know?”

  I shook my head.

  “Al and Ruby Taylor run a grow-op.”

  I looked at Mara in disbelief. “Out here?”

  She nodded. “Everyone knows about it. So when a stranger asks questions…”

  It explained the reactions I got when I mentioned Al.

  “Al and Ruby are nervous,” she said. “There’s been talk of bikers trying to move in on them.”

  I groaned inwardly. If Jamie was staying with the two women, she might be digging herself into a deeper hole with the law. And with bikers involved, the situation could turn violent.

  “The police haven’t clamped down on the grow-op?” I asked.

  Mara’s cell phone rang. She fished it out of her jacket pocket and checked a text message on the screen. “Sorry, I gotta run.” She sighed. “New sponsor just let us know about a ribbon cutting. Station manager wants it on the news tonight.”

  I nodded and opened the car door.

  “Hey,” Mara called, “maybe we should team up. Share what we know about Jen.”

  I waved at her and got into the car.

  Celia turned the key in the ignition. “A woman came out on the veranda while you were talking to Al, before ELK TV showed up. A tall, slim gal with short black hair. Didn’t stay out long.”

  Tall and slim, only the hair color was wrong. “That might be…”

  We looked at each other.

  “She changed her hair color,” I said.

  “She wants to lie low.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” I said as we pulled out of the yard. “There’s something else we have to worry about.”

  “The grow-op.”

  “You know about it?”

  She nodded. “I hear things. I don’t know why the police haven’t shut it down.”