“Well…” The colour returned to her cheeks.
“I suppose you checked on Jake?” Tretheway said.
“No. Of course not.”
“And me?”
Wan Ho hesitated. “Not really, but…”
“But what?”
“You know what Chief Zulp’s like. He thinks you shouldn’t dabble in…”
“I don’t dabble,” Tretheway said quietly.
“Poor choice of words.” Wan Ho tugged at his collar which was suddenly too tight. “You know what I mean.” He tried again. “He says you’re the Regional ARP Officer, and doing a fine job. But you’re not a detective. And he thinks you should…you know…”
“Stay the hell out of the investigation,” Tretheway finished.
“Well, not in those exact words.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Tretheway said.
“Eh?”
“I have enough to do with my own job.” He spread his arms and looked around. “Right here. And I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with the Chiefs investigation.”
Everyone relaxed.
“However.” Tretheway stood up. Everyone stopped relaxing. Tretheway shook his fat forefinger at no one in particular. His eyes flashed. “As a senior officer of the FYPD, I have a responsibility to the people. If I deem there’s an emergency, I’ll do all the dabbling I want. Murder tends to erase the lines between detectives and traffic cops.”
His great fist banged the desk. Pencils, paper clips and a framed picture of Tretheway’s old traffic division jumped up about an inch from the solid oak table top. “A Third Class inside desk Constable can—hell, must arrest a killer!”
Wan Ho and Jake held their breath. Beezul hitched his pants up. Zoë Plunkitt stared intently into her lap. Tretheway sat down and began to realign his pencils.
“What’s the time?”
“Eleven twenty,” Jake said.
“Close enough.” Tretheway stood up. “Let’s have some fish and chips,” he said. “My treat.”
For the rest of the month, the investigation followed trails that dead-ended, criss-crossed, went in circles or just petered out. Zulp’s large unwieldy unit (not including Tretheway) didn’t lack energy. Their motto —’No Stone Unturned’—was repeated every morning by Zulp at the daily pep talk. Some upturned stones proved interesting, some amusing, but most were unnecessary. Negligible new evidence came to light.
By the beginning of June, the investigation had bogged down. Very little had changed. The Mary Dearlove case was still officially an accident but viewed now with suspicion. Luke had returned to the hotel on a trial basis but still couldn’t, or wouldn’t, remember anything about his grisly sighting. And the Squire’s demise remained on the books as a killing by strange unknowns. This too was being questioned.
The June thirteenth murder shattered this air of indecision.
It was no accident. And it was obviously premeditated.
Chapter Eight
Early in the eighteenth century, Geoffrey Beezul’s ancestors had left the US for Canada as part of the United Empire Loyalist movement. Since 1843, the year the Fort York Yacht Club received its Royal charter, a Beezul had been a member. Geoffrey carried on the tradition, this year as Rear-Commodore. Although his appointment had more to do with keeping the club’s gin cupboard stocked than with seamanship, he did own and skipper a small Rainbow Class sailboat.
The pretty, 21-foot white craft, with keel and Marconi rig, called for a racing crew of three: Skipper Beezul, Mainman Warbucks and Jibman—in this case Jibwoman— Zoë Plunkitt. During the races Beezul was an inept sailor and Warbucks daydreamed but Zoë, the only active female member in the club, ere wed with agility and knowledge, and did her best to keep them from coming in last—which they did often. They raced only once a week except for special occasions, like regattas.
The RFYYC had decided to host the Great Lakes International Regatta to celebrate its centennial on the weekend of June 12-13. On Saturday, ideal weather prevailed. The wind blew a reliable twenty knots, the sun shone and the temperature steadied around eighty degrees.
On the club’s verdant bayside lawn, waiters circulated among the casually arranged tables and chairs, balancing pink lemonade and gins on gleaming silver trays. Ladies wearing flowered summer dresses walked arm in arm with men in white ducks and crested navy blazers. Local politicians, including the Mayor himself, hobnobbed with the officers of the club. Rear-Commodore Beezul had invited all the west-end ARWs, the Tretheways and Jake. Tretheway’s blazer pocket displayed the splendid crest of the Second Life Guards, Household Cavalry.
Everyone jostled pleasantly for a view of the starting line. They waited expectantly to see the puff of smoke from the Committee boat and, seconds later, hear the small cannon’s roar that signalled the start of the first race.
Lightnings, an international class, made up the largest group and started first. They were followed by small Snipes and smaller Penguins. Those with homemade, unique or scarce models fitted into an untidy miscellaneous class. Beezul raced in the last group against eight other Rainbows.
From the first starting cannon to the last finishing bell, all races went off without a hitch. And Skipper Beezul did better than anyone expected. Because of bad decisions by half the fleet, fluky wind shifts and just being in the right place at the right time, he finished second, a personal best.
This pleased Beezul immensely. He couldn’t wait for the Sunday race. That night, as he slid into a dream in which he held the winner’s cup above his head amongst his cheering peers, a small, nagging thought nibbled at the edge of his enjoyment: “If only the weather holds.”
The barometer dropped alarmingly overnight. By Sunday morning the wind was gusting to forty knots, no sun appeared, the temperature had dipped to the high forties and uncomfortable darts of rain were falling erratically. Only the hardiest spectators turned up. The ladies had exchanged their floppy summer hats for bandannas. Woollen sweaters and squall jackets were popular. Topsiders replaced dress shoes. Everyone kept turning a weather eye to the grey lowering skies.
“Doesn’t look good.” Beezul stared skyward from the dock. He had called an emergency pre-race meeting with his crew. The Rainbow rocked alongside.
“Maybe they’ll call it off,” Warbucks said hopefully.
“Surely they will.” Beezul shared his mainman’s hope.
Zoë said nothing.
In the past, when the weather changed suddenly for the worse—not unusual on the inland lakes of Fort York— Beezul simply didn’t race. He would spend the afternoon in the card room with warm friends and gin. But this was different.
“Let’s just go inside,” Beezul suggested.
“Good idea,” Warbucks said.
“We have to race,” Zoë said.
“What?”
“Why?”
“Everyone expects us to,” Zoë said. “We’re in second place.”
“But look at the weather,” Beezul said, sulking.
“They’ve got to call it off,” Warbucks said.
The sound of the fifteen-minute-warning cannon dashed the hopes of the two mariners.
“Let’s go.” Zoë jumped on board. “Where’s my storm jib?”
Warbucks reluctantly maneuvered his boat out of the slip while Zoë snapped on the smaller jib and Warbucks roller-reefed the mainsail to a point where it was hardly worth raising.
“Tremaine,” Zoë complained, “it’s too small. We won’t move at all.”
“We’re going about five knots now on the rigging,” Warbucks said.
“I don’t care,” Zoë said. “It looks dumb.”
“Raise it a little.” Beezul’s voice wavered. “We’re getting close to the start.”
Warbucks complied. The main now carried almost the same sail area as the set jib. Their speed increased. The Rainbow shot across the starting line, which bisected the bottom windward leg of the course triangle, at the same time the cannon roared. It was as though they’d plann
ed it. Zoë cheered. Beezul smiled. Warbucks didn’t hear it.
Beezul and crew tacked wildly back and forth toward the first marker. Three of the Rainbow fleet, racing with sails boldly unreefed, swamped. By the time Beezul somehow rounded the first buoy, there were only six boats left in the fleet, five ahead of him. On the next leg, a straight run before the wet, blasting north wind, two more dropped out with broken whisker poles and torn sails. The remaining four boats, Beezul trailing, rounded the second buoy to a choppy, exciting but relatively safe reach on their way to the last leg. The front runner, Saturday’s winner, expertly rounded the final marker onto the windward leg once again. Numbers two and three weren’t as expert. Reefed but still with too much sail, they also swamped. Minutes later Beezul passed them dead in the water.
Rear-Commodore Beezul looked ahead, past the heaving bow, bucking madly to windward with the boat at a forty-five degree angle. The one remaining Rainbow’s stern showed an insurmountable five-minute lead. But he came next, second, a peak in his sailing career. It crossed Beezul’s mind that his next successful race could be the Nationals or even the Olympics. He smiled and looked towards the shore. I wonder if anyone’s watching, he thought.
Jake stood on the roof of the large lockers with Gum supporting him in the wind. For the last hour, he had been following the Rainbow race through an ancient telescope commandeered from the miniature RFYYC museum and shouting interim reports to the small crowd below on the dock.
“Can you see him?” Tretheway shouted.
“He’s second,” Jake shouted back. “A shoo-in for second.”
Everyone cheered. Tretheway, Addie and the rest of Beezul’s guests clustered around the Rainbow’s empty slip in front of his locker.
As the Rear-Commodore, Beezul rated a large, walk-in locker. The overhead garage door was open, allowing the guests to come in out of the rain and mingle freely amongst the untidy sailing bric-a-brac: half-empty, antifouling paint cans, sandpaper, extra sails, souvenir burgees from visiting yacht clubs, empty gin and vermouth bottles. A clutter of tools lay on the counter next to a dusty wind-up Victrola. Lined up neatly on a hundred-pound cake of ice stood a row of milk bottles filled with a deep purple liquid—Beezul’s famous Bangers. Tretheway remembered later that one bottle had a piece of string tied loosely around its neck.
“Something’s happening,” Jake shouted.
Everyone ran out onto the dock.
“What?” Tretheway shouted.
“I can’t see the first boat.”
“What about Beezul?”
Jake squinted through the glass. “I see him. He’s the only one left.”
No one was more surprised than Beezul. He watched with amazement as the sails on the leading Rainbow disappeared, and the loud snap of the breaking mast carried back to him on the gale force wind.
“My God.” Beezul realized they were first.
After two more tacks they sailed close to the dismasted Rainbow. The disconsolate crew sat, oblivious to the high wind and rain, staring at the stump of a spar. They didn’t look up or wave as Beezul passed.
“Ready about!” Beezul pushed the tiller hard over. “Hard alee!”
The Rainbow’s hull flattened out, turned nimbly through the eye of the wind, then back to a forty-five degree slant in the opposite direction onto what Beezul and crew hoped would be the last tack. They ducked under the boom and clambered up to hike on the other side.
From his position on the wet topsides, Beezul peered through the pattern of sails and shrouds over the pointed bow of the Rainbow to the committee boat now not too far away.
“I think we’re going to do it,” Beezul said.
“Of course we are,” Zoë shouted.
A sudden shift of wind blew spray in their faces. Warbucks smiled the way he thought an old salt would smile and gave the main sheet one last, contemptuous and unnecessary yank. The pulley on the floorboards of the boat gave way completely. What had been, seconds before, a taut main sheet, became a loose snake of manila rope with ten feet of slack. Warbucks shot overboard like a flare from a Very pistol.
Zoë screamed. Beezul froze. They both watched while Warbucks landed in the choppy waters with a splash that was hardly noticeable in the storm. He swung around, still clutching the line now taut to the boom pulley, until he dragged directly astern, adding another white line to the wake. The Rainbow lost surprisingly little speed.
“Stop!” Zoë screamed. “We have to pick him up!”
Beezul tore his gaze away from the hapless mainman to the finish line only fifty yards distant. He checked Warbucks again.
“Hang on, Tremaine!” Beezul held his course. “We’re almost there.”
Zoë’s protests were lost in the wind.
Seconds later, which seemed longer to the three of them— especially Warbucks—the bell rang to signal the first one over the finish line; and this time, the only one. Immediately Beezul turned into the wind. The boat flattened out and came to rest. They hauled Warbucks in. He was stunned but unharmed.
“Are we finished?” Warbucks’s eyes were glassy.
They lowered the mainsail and reset the jib. Beezul steered toward shore while Zoë helped Warbucks unclench his stiff fingers from around the sodden main sheet.
The mood on shore was jubilant. There had been a momentary concern when Jake reported Warbucks’s sudden plunge over the side. But when the pealing bell signalled the winner and Warbucks was hauled back on board, Jake and Gum danced on the roof, hugging each other.
The victorious Rainbow entered the protection of the Yacht Club’s basin to the cheers and happy shouts of the hardy spectators. Beezul couldn’t stop smiling. His crew smiled too, although Warbucks’s eyes were still glazed. As jibman, Zoë fended off the boat’s prow from the dock, then made ready to jump ashore and tie up. Warbucks unchivalrously grabbed Zoë by the collar and pulled her back into the cockpit. He jumped ahead of her onto the dock.
“A Banger!” Warbucks pushed between Garth Dingle and Patricia Sprong, but ran around Tretheway into the locker. “I’m in dire need of a Banger!”
The Beezul Banger tradition had started in a small way about ten years before. After a particularly late finish in a club race, Beezul felt a quick lift was called for for himself and his crew. The ingredients were chosen simply because they were there. A syrupy dark rum from the Islands formed fifty percent of the base. To this was added strong prune juice, a dash of soda water and a liberal shake of Tabasco sauce. A fresh green onion was stirred in with the elements in a large tumbler and remained as an ornament. “They should be served cold, but no ice,” Beezul always said. “No dilution.” And as everyone knew, Beezul was his own best customer. Tretheway for one, could not understand the popularity of Beezul Bangers among club members. But as Jake pointed out, “The price is right.”
Cynthia Moon and Addie were rinsing out dusty glasses at the sink when Warbucks barged in. They watched as he seized one of the milk bottles filled with the inky liquid, tore off the elastic and temporary cellophane top and took several large swigs. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at Cynthia and Addie.
“Does that ever hit the spot!” Two purple rivulets ran from the corner of Warbucks’s mouth into his grey beard, but his eyes had lost their glassiness.
Zoë caught up to him. ‘Put that down.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re drinking too fast. And out of the bottle.”
“She’s right, Tremaine.” Addie handed Warbucks a clean glass.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Warbucks said; he hugged the milk bottle to his chest.
“Let me have it,” Zoë said. “You should get into something dry.”
“Leave him alone.” Beezul came up to them. “A Banger’ll dry out anyone.” He reached for another milk bottle. Cynthia handed him a glass. Zoë took one too.
“A toast to the winning crew.” Warbucks raised his bottle high, and took another deep swig.
“Here, here.” Beezul raised his
glass. So did Zoë, reluctantly. Others joined in. Beezul Bangers were passed around. Someone put a record on the Victrola. Warbucks started dancing by himself. Beezul danced with anyone near him. Garth’s, Pat Sprong’s, Cynthia’s, Wan Ho’s, Jake’s and even Addie’s lips showed the tell-tale purple of the Banger drinker. Tretheway and Doc Nooner stood off to one side sipping Scotch.
“Good party,” Doc Nooner said.
“If he’s any indication, yes.” Tretheway huddled toward Warbucks who was laughing loudly and spinning around by himself.
“He won a race, don’t forget.”
“So did Beezul and Zoë. You don’t see them imitating a whirling dervish.”
“They also haven’t had a quart of Bangers.”
“You’re right.” Tretheway smiled.
Warbucks stopped spinning while the music continued.
“C’mon. Join the party.” He waved toward Tretheway.
“We’re okay, Tremaine,” Tretheway answered.
“Not you. The people behind you.”
Tretheway and Doc automatically turned around. No one was there. The record finished. Warbucks started spinning again. “Love that piece.”
“What was that all about?” Tretheway looked at Doc. Doc raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know.”
The temperature and humidity in the locker room were increased by the natural heat of wet-clothed bodies pressed together imbibing and dancing. People spilled out into the late dull afternoon. Despite the persistent cool showers, their mood remained exuberant.
It dropped temporarily when word arrived of a protest by the dismasted skipper under the rule which dictated that “The same number of crew members must finish the race as started the race.” But this was disallowed by the racing committee with the decision that although Warbucks was ten yards behind the boat, he was still physically attached by the main sheet and therefore technically still part of the crew. It was official. Beezul had won the Rainbow Division.
Beezul’s smile broadened. Even Zoë’s purple lips turned up. But Warbucks seemed to be out of it.
“Albert.” Addie and Cynthia Moon approached Tretheway.
Murder on the Thirteenth (Albert J Tretheway Series) Page 8
