Triple Threat

by Koetting, Alexis

  Jeffers walked carefully over to her and together they looked up at Macie’s body.

  “Typically in a hanging of this nature, ligature marks present as upward-pointing V-shaped bruising. The upward direction shows that the ligature, the cord in this instance, was countering the pull of gravity.”

  “But there is no bruising.” Jeffers said. “Oh, god, you’re not telling me …”

  The coroner gave a slight nod and Jeffers’ shoulders slumped.

  “I’ll know more when I get the body back to the lab, but I can tell you in absolute certainty this man was dead before that cord went around his neck.”

  Jeffers exhaled loudly and ran his fingers through his hair. “All right, people, you heard her. We’ve got ourselves a crime scene.”

  Chapter 3

  I convinced Jeffers to excuse me once the case became a murder investigation. I knew Inspector Morris would have both our hides if he heard I was even within one hundred feet of the scene. This left me with one precious, unexpected hour before I was due at rehearsal.

  I was singing one particularly difficult bit of harmony as I walked through the door of my cottage and narrowly avoided an object hurtling toward my head.

  The sight before me was like one of those cartoon moments when everything is briefly frozen in time and the characters think they’re invisible. I took the blur of beige and fur to be my dear dog, Moustache, thirty pounds of something crossed with a poodle. He was in mid-leap off the landing of the staircase in the hall and his veterinarian, Dr. Gorgeous, was mid-barrel down the steps behind him. The nickname had been affectionately bestowed on the vet by my libido when we first met more than a couple of moons ago. Both dog and doctor had stupid grins on their faces, knowing they’d been caught in the act but hoping I wouldn’t notice.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, as action resumed.

  Moustache slid into the front door and grabbed the stuffed lion that had almost decapitated me. He gave a triumphant snort in Dr. Gorgeous’ direction and ran into the living room. The good doctor at least had the decency to acknowledge my presence.

  “I thought you weren’t coming back till later,” he said and planted a kiss on my cheek.

  “And I thought you had a surgery this morning.”

  “I did, but once we got the little guy on the table, we found there wasn’t any necrosis in the intestines after all. That’s good news in case you were wondering. That also meant the procedure took half the time. My next appointment wasn’t for a while so I figured I could either get caught up on some paperwork or get in some exercise.”

  “In the form of fetch with Moustache?”

  “Well, had I known you were going to be here, I would have come over with something entirely different in mind,” he said, taking me in his arms and kissing me deeply.

  An approving woof emanated from the living room. Moustache liked to take all the credit for getting us together.

  It was a chance run-in with the dog that had left Dr. Gorgeous sitting in a mud puddle. I’d been mortified and begged to make amends. Dr. Gorgeous had insisted I take him for a drink. The drink led to dinner, and the dinner to ten months later. The first time he kissed me I had been rambling on about something not at all important, trying to avoid the inevitable clumsiness that always accompanies the end of a first date and, in doing so, making it even more awkward. He finally took my face in his hands and stopped me mid-sentence by bringing his mouth to my own. My knees had weakened then and did so still.

  “So how was it playing teacher? Were the students all suitably impressed?” he asked.

  I gave him the rundown of my morning. His hold around my waist loosened.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Look, I know it’s not my place,” he said, “but I … I don’t want you involved in this. Not again.”

  “I’m not involved.”

  “Bells, Jeffers brought you to the see the body!”

  “Only because he thought it was a suicide. As soon as he knew it was a murder, I left.”

  “What difference does that make? Suicide. Murder. You’re not a cop.”

  “I know that,” I said.

  “I just … I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  The last case I had helped Jeffers with had ended up with me being rushed to hospital and Moustache, to Dr. Gorgeous. Although he knew some of what had happened, it was not until we were several months into our relationship that I finally opened up to him about the whole story.

  “I’m not involved,” I repeated gently. I took his hands in mine and stared into the green of his eyes.

  “You say that now,” he said, a smile warming his skepticism.

  “How much time do you have before your next appointment?”

  “I still have a few minutes.”

  “In that case, I’d rather not spend it arguing a moot point.”

  His arms went back around my waist. “Why, Ms. James. What did you have in mind?”

  I walked into rehearsal to find my understudy working through one of my scenes with the leading man. Granted, they were off in a corner of the rehearsal hall, away from where the choreographer was finishing up one of the dance numbers, but it still irked me.

  Manda Rogers had enjoyed leading roles in several of the Festival’s previous musicals. When Cabaret was announced as part of this season, everyone, including Manda, figured she was a shoo-in for the role of Sally Bowles. Although I didn’t witness it, I’d heard she’d thrown a tantrum of epic proportions when she got the news the role had been offered to me. To add insult to injury, she had been contracted to understudy my Sally and play the role of Fräulein Kost, a woman moved to “entertain” the sailors in order to survive in 1930s Berlin. The role was written such that Manda could potentially steal any scene she was in if she could just get over her jealousy and focus on her own part rather than mine.

  She caught my eye, ran her fingers through her gorgeous red mane, and turned her performance up a notch. Powell Avery, the man playing Cliff to my Sally, mouthed an apology to me and rolled his eyes as Manda sashayed around him. I gave him a wink and moved to the opposite corner of the room.

  “God, that woman is shameless,” Adam Lange said, plopping down next to me.

  Adam was one of the first people I met when I started at the Festival the year before. His flamboyant exuberance had eased my first-day jitters and we’d become fast friends.

  “You’re the bad guy in all of this,” I said. “I don’t know why she doesn’t hate you. If you hadn’t talked me into doing that Rocky Horror send up at the SNAG, Roberta never would have heard me sing and come up with the insane idea of giving me this part in the first place. And I wasn’t even that good!”

  On certain Saturday nights during the season there are open mic performances in the basement of the Royal George Theatre, thus the acronym SNAG standing for “Saturday Nights at the George.” Adam had roped a group of us into doing a silly performance during one of these and I just so happened to catch the attention of the Festival’s artistic director, Roberta Hayward.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, sister. And besides, Sally isn’t supposed to be a great singer.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I did. And even though the role terrified me, I had to admit I found the challenge incredibly exhilarating. She was a kind of character I’d never played before: eccentric, charming, yet totally unapologetic about using people to serve her own needs. Sally’s approach to life is seemingly unaffected by what’s happening around her. Her world is simply her. Even when met with tragedy or hardship, she appears relatively unscathed. There was something in her ability to pick herself up and dust herself off that I admired. Envied even.

  My eye turned to Manda again. She might be able to sing circles around me, but she was nowhere near the actress she needed to be to pull off this role. No matter how often she dragged poor Powell into a corner.

  Adam caught me watching. “I don’t think
she wants to run the scene as much as she wants to run her hands all over Powell,” he said. “And to be quite honest, who wouldn’t.”

  “Down boy.”

  Manda was notorious for her sexual escapades and had wielded the final blow to many a marriage.

  “It doesn’t look like he’s buying,” I said, and inwardly applauded Powell’s resistance.

  I liked Powell. And I liked working with him. I was happy to see he was smart enough not to be sucked in by Manda’s charms. Adam looked at me and cocked an eyebrow.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding me? The only female Powell’s interested in petting is his cat.”

  My jaw dropped.

  “You look surprised.”

  “I am,” I admitted. “He’s never struck me as—”

  “I know. But that boy’s got ‘man’ written all over him,” Adam said lustfully.

  We both took a moment to admire the view.

  “You ever think of asking him out?” I asked.

  “Look at him! Totally out of my league.”

  “And when has that ever stopped you before?”

  “True,” he said with a wink and moved toward Powell, who now had Manda on his lap. “But first I’m going to get into his good graces by saving him from that insatiable siren.”

  There were two messages on my voice mail when I got out of rehearsal. One, I was expecting. The other stopped me in my tracks.

  Chapter 4

  “Bella, this is Maureen from the education department at the Festival. Terrible what happened to Al Macie. We’re all in shock over here. Anyway, just so you know, the school has cancelled classes for the rest of the week while the police investigate and the grief counsellors are arranged. But they do want to go ahead with the program as planned. There is another teacher coming in to take over Al’s classes. His name is Vincent Leduc. I’ve given him your number and I expect he’ll be in touch sooner rather than later. So sorry about all this but who could ever have imagined? If you have any questions, you know where I am. Bye for now.”

  I hadn’t really expected the Artist-in-the-Classroom program to have been sacked completely, but part of me had been secretly hoping for a little less time in the classroom and a little more time in rehearsal. Things being what they were, I crossed my fingers that Vincent Leduc was as nice and as enthusiastic about working together as Al Macie had been. I erased the message and the system went on to the next.

  “Ms. James. Roger Morris here from the Niagara Regional Police. I understand there’s no need to catch you up on the details of this morning’s events.”

  I braced myself for a reprimand. I knew it wouldn’t be explosive as that wasn’t Morris’ style. He preferred the calm, understated approach that, in my experience, made him more terrifying.

  The message continued. “Sergeant Jeffers has filled me in on your involvement with the school and thinks you may be of use to us as far as this investigation is concerned. I am reluctant to agree with him, as I’m sure you can imagine, but I will admit Sergeant Jeffers has made some valid points and I’m willing to permit your participation … for the time being. He’ll fill you in on the details. I will remind you that your association with this case does not afford you any protection by the system and that you have no special authority whatsoever. And Ms. James,” he paused for what seemed like an eternity, “I trust I don’t need to advise you to exercise caution at all times.”

  There was no goodbye. Just the warning.

  “What’d I tell you about Morris? We’re back in business.” Jeffers sat on my front steps wearing a triumphant grin.

  “I have to hand it to you,” I said. “You’ve accomplished the impossible.”

  “Morris is a piece of cake.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that. He said you’d fill me in on the details.”

  “That, Detective Samuel, is why I’m here. And to sweeten the deal, I’ve got my wife’s famous gnocchi and a bottle of so-so wine.”

  “How does Aria have time to cook with a seven-month-old?”

  “Because our son is perfect. The only child I’ve ever known who actually sleeps when we want him to.”

  “That’s not going to last, you know.”

  “I know. But until that day comes, Aria and I are content to be the two most rested new parents in the world. And the best fed. Let’s get this gnocchi in the oven and get down to business.”

  “No Doc tonight?” Jeffers asked from the living room while I plated the food in the kitchen.

  “He’s got a conference call in an hour or so and an early surgery tomorrow.”

  “You guys thinking about moving in together?”

  “It’s only been ten months.”

  “So?”

  “So?” I said, joining Jeffers on the couch and handing him a steaming plate. “This is the first decent relationship I’ve had in ages. I’m not going to screw it all up by rushing things. It’s enough that we’ve exchanged keys.”

  “I’m only bringing it up because he seems to be here an awful lot.”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Tell me what you know about Al Macie,” I said, cutting off any further scrutiny of my love life.

  “Okay, according to the preliminary tests, it appears he was killed between six and seven this morning,” Jeffers said around a mouthful of pasta.

  “That’s awfully early to be at the school,” I said.

  “I agree. It’s possible he was lured there by his killer.”

  Moustache came galloping into the living room, still chewing the last of his own dinner but not wanting to miss any chance at sampling some of ours. He sat at our feet looking from me to Jeffers and back again.

  “So if he didn’t die by hanging, do we know how he died?” I asked.

  “Crushed windpipe. The coroner’s ruling it a manual strangulation.”

  “But wouldn’t there be imprints from the hands?” I asked.

  “Not if it was a chokehold of some kind. In Macie’s case, it’s likely there was significant pressure on the neck from a forearm. That’s why there’s very little external evidence. The coroner said it could be hours, even days, before bruising presents. If at all. We’re hoping for some marks that might result in a pattern, a shape, anything that might give us a clue as to what the killer was wearing.”

  “Would it have been quick? His death?”

  “Typically in cases like this the victim dies within minutes. He would have experienced severe pain before losing consciousness, and he would have been brain dead before death took hold.”

  “What a terrible way to die.”

  I hadn’t known Al Macie, but the feeling I got from him in our few exchanges was that he was a good man. I hated that he had suffered. I sighed and put my unfinished gnocchi on the coffee table. Moustache made a few unsuccessful attempts to reach the plate before giving up and turning his attention back to Jeffers.

  “This kind of strangling indicates the killer would have been bigger than Macie. Not in height, but in brawn,” Jeffers explained. “It requires a tremendous amount of strength. If they’d been physically matched, Macie would have easily been able to fight off his attacker.”

  “So likely a man.”

  Jeffers nodded. “Pretty strongly built.”

  My mind flickered to the only image I had of him. Hanging from a pipe. He’d had height to his credit but had been very slim and finely boned. A man with any muscle could have easily overpowered him.

  “When was his body found?”

  “About seven thirty.”

  “Wow! That’s a short window in which to stage a suicide.”

  “Which gives me reason to believe it was someone familiar with the school.”

  “And, therefore, someone he knew.”

  “Yep.”

  “God,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s a long list.”

  “And that’s where you come in. We need you to keep your e
yes and ears open for anything people might not want to share with the police.”

  “And you think they’re going to open up to me?”

  “You’re Emma Samuel,” Jeffers said. “Everyone loves getting close to a celebrity.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s true. You’ll see. All you need to do is get people talking. They’ll let their guard down sooner with you than they will with us.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, but I’ll do what I can. Anybody in particular you want me to seek out?”

  “Elsbeth Penner. Seventeen-year-old student who found Macie. She was in considerable shock when I spoke with her and didn’t say much. Her father was with her and he struck me as a tad overprotective. I doubt I’ll get a chance to interview her alone.”

  “Can you give me a description so I know who I’m looking for?”

  “She’s Mennonite. She dresses traditionally. Long dress. Cap. It’s a big community around here.”

  My mind flashed to the girl I had seen crying at the school. “Okay. Anyone else?”

  “Like you said, Samuel, it’s a long list.”

  Chapter 5

  News of Al Macie’s murder rocked the town. Niagara-on-the-Lake is small. It’s a town that has been founded on generation upon generation; if you look through the phone book, you’ll see dozens of Klassens, Enns, and Janzens, to name a few. It is not so small that everyone knows your name or your business, but every face is familiar and what business needs to be known, is.

  To say that nothing happens in Niagara-on-the-Lake would be far from the truth. As one of its newer residents, I’d learned the town had long enjoyed the reputation as one of the prettiest in Canada. It boasts world-famous wineries and is an area rich in history, having been Canada’s first capital as well as home to the country’s first library, newspaper, post office, bank, and courthouse. It is an extremely popular destination for tourists from all over the world. Whether they come for the wine, the history, or the theatre, the steady flow of traffic in and out of the town has become as well known a fixture as its clock tower on Queen Street and its gazebo overlooking Lake Ontario. Something was always happening in Niagara-on-the-Lake, but usually nothing bad.