by Gwen Gardner
We certainly should have. “Well, she’s all right now, thank God!” I said.
“But wait,” she said excitedly. “The best part is they’ve arrested him on the suspicion of my father’s murder, in addition to attempted rape. That’s why there’s so much activity going on – they’re gathering evidence. They’ve been watching him for a while.”
“That’s brilliant,” said Simon. “And about time, too. Wankers!”
We laughed, relieving pent-up stress.
Badger came over with the boys, Harry and Henry. A tired grin spread across his face.
“It’s over,” he said. He looked satisfied. Relieved. So why was I feeling so uneasy?
“I know. Congratulations mate.” Simon shook Badger’s hand. The children clung to Badger’s legs.
“I’m so happy for you,” I said to Badger. Tears blurred my vision. I hugged him tightly. I was happy. Truly happy. So why couldn’t I shake this feeling? Now that the investigation was over, it felt anticlimactic. That must be where my uneasiness came from. All the work we did, and we hadn’t solved the crime. The police solved it after all. Somehow, it felt wrong.
A watery sun peeked over the horizon by the time we reached home, exhausted. We ate a quick breakfast and each went to our rooms to sleep.
Perhaps this time I can sleep. I changed into my pajamas and fell into bed.
I fell instantly into a deep, almost unnatural sleep.
Claude Burns is sitting at the end of the bar, already unsteady on his stool – the clock behind the bar flashes 11:27 a.m. Claude is laughing, talking to Charlie, gesticulating a funny occasion with his hands – there is no sound – or rather the sounds are muted, as if under water.
Bart Bagley is on a stool at the other end of the bar, reading a newspaper. The date on the newspaper is August 20, 2011, which flashes like the clock behind the bar. Bart opens the paper and begins to read. 11:29 flashes on the clock behind the bar.
Charlie goes into the back, damp towel thrown over his shoulder.
Bart yells something indistinguishable, anger apparent in his every move, tension emanating from his body, like a shaken soda about to bubble over. He throws the newspaper on the bar, grabs his briefcase with one hand and is dialing a number on his mobile with the other.
Claude, the only other person in the room, watches him go.
....Claude is sitting at the end of the bar...
....The clock behind the bar flashes 11:27...
....Bart sitting on a stool at the other end...
....August 20, 2011 flashing on the newspaper...
....Bart opens the newspaper...
....Bart throws down the newspaper...
....Bart throws down the newspaper...
....Bart throws down the newspaper...
I tried to wake up but the dream held me prisoner and wouldn’t let me go.
Wake up, Indigo, wake up! A voice broke through the muted sound in the bar. Wake up, child, you’re dreaming something fierce! Wake up!
I swam my way up through the dream, struggling to break through the surface. Forcing my blurry eyes open, I found Franny standing over me, shaking my shoulder, concern etched onto her smooth face.
“I’m awake,” I muttered, “I’m awake.” I struggled to sit up, pulling the blankets up to my chin, shivering from the unnatural cold. Wisps of condensation issued from my mouth. Spirit energy always made me so cold.
“It’s about time,” said Franny. “You were moaning something terrible, and I couldn’t get you to wake up.” She was in full dress, bosom heaving, her hair piled artistically on top of her head.
“What time is it?” I asked, squinting at the bedside clock through sleep-hazed eyes.
11:29. My heart jump-started. 11:29, like in my dream! With my mind still fuzzy, I tried to make sense of it. The dream repeated itself, over and over again. Flashing generally only occurred when a significant message was being passed to me.
My mind raced to reach the conclusion I was looking for, my reason bogged down by sleep.
Bart. It’s telling me something about Bart – something important. But what?! 11:29 is when Bart left the pub – in a hurry. But how could that help us?
My mind searched frantically for the answer. I was missing something.
Franny hovered worriedly, watching the emotions cross my face. “Sometimes it helps to talk it out. I’m not being nosy or anything, I promise. I only want to help, dear.”
I had forgotten she was there.
“I don’t know if you can help, Franny.” I shook my head in frustration. “I had a dream – a vision, I mean. It’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t figure it out.”
“What was it about, dear?” Franny sat in the chair, or rather floated about three inches above the chair in a seated position, and leaned forward. “I can help you work it out.”
“The dream – it kept repeating over and over. Claude telling a joke, Bart reading the newspaper. Bart storming out. Over and over.” I ran my hands through my hair and tugged in frustration, willing my brain to think.
“Hmm,” said Franny, concentrating. “Joke, newspaper, storming out. Joke, newspaper, storming out.” And then a look of consternation crossed her face. “Why did he storm out, dear? Do you know? That could help us.”
“I don’t know...” I began. And then it suddenly hit me. “The newspaper. He was reading the newspaper - then he threw it down and stormed out. Whatever upset him is in the newspaper – August 20th, the day he disappeared!”
I threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. I pulled jeans and sweater out of the trunk and tugged them on.
“You’re a genius, Franny!” I jerked on my jeans. “You did it – you figured out the final clue – I could kiss you!”
Franny’s face beamed.
“I can’t believe the answer was in front of me the whole time.” I went to my clothes-less closet and grabbed boots, tugging them on over mismatched socks. “Every time I see him he’s reading the newspaper – it’s like his only reality, that newspaper. It’s been staring me in the face this whole time.”
“I’m so glad I could help, dear. You will be careful, won’t you?” she asked with worried eyes. “I have grown rather fond of you, you know.”
“You are such a sweetheart, Franny,” I said, stopping in my preparations to consider her. “You would have been a great mom.”
Franny’s eyes welled with tears, if that was even possible. She pulled her hankie out of her bodice and sniffed, dabbing her eyes. “That is possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” Her voice was choked. And as with any situation with high emotion, she couldn’t hold her form and disappeared.
I went to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee before going back upstairs.
I tapped on Simon’s door, but didn’t get an answer, so I opened the door quietly - I didn’t want to wake up Uncle Richard down the hall. I waded through clothing and magazines and who knows what, over to Simon’s bed and shook his shoulder. When he didn’t budge, I shook harder.
Simon jumped, hair covering his eyes, as he pulled the blankets to his face in protection from an unknown threat.
“Wha...?” he mumbled, confused.
“Get up, get dressed,” I whispered. “We have work to do.”
Simon groaned and pulled the covers over his head as he lay back down. “Not today. It’s Shunday, go back to bed.”
I shook him again. “No, get up! The police have it wrong. Gerry didn’t do it.”
“What do you mean?” A sleepy frown appeared between his eyes.
“Get up – the coffee is on – and be quiet, will you? We don’t want to wake your dad.”
Simon came downstairs five minutes later, and I quickly explained my dream while we ate toast and sipped mugs of hot coffee.
“I can’t believe this clue was in front of me the whole time and I never got it! We need to get the newspaper for August 20th and figure out what article Bart was reading that morning that upset him so much
.”
Simon nodded sleepily, washing down dry toast with his coffee.
“I can’t think of any reason for his upset unless it had to do with one of his projects,” I added. “That leaves Gerry out.”
“If that’s true, then the murderer is one of his work colleagues,” said Simon.
“That’s right – Felicia Bartlett, Dexter Najeem, Stephen Clarke or Andy Hall,” I responded.
“That doesn’t narrow it down much.” Simon frowned.
“It will. As soon as we see that newspaper.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Missing Clue
A quick check of the mailbox for yesterday’s mail contained the letter from the planning department I had been expecting. My fingers itched to rip into it, but I controlled my quickening heart and slipped the letter into my pocket.
I knocked on Badger’s door and waited. Scuffling noises and children’s laughter seeped through the door. Harry and Henry pushed at each other to be the one who opened it.
Henry flung his arms around me with a yelp, and Harry, not to be outdone, did the same. The boys had been watching Sunday morning cartoons, still in their pajamas and hair tousled.
“Hey! What have I told you about opening the door before you know who it is?” Badger said, pulling the door wide to see who was there. He was shirtless and wore a pair of sweatpants low on his hips.
Aiyiyi. Eyes up, Indigo Eady, eyes up.
I smiled wide and unnaturally. “Hi! We hate to barge in like this, but we need to talk.” I walked past him followed by Simon. “Is the coffee this way?” I asked, pointing toward the kitchen.
“Uh, yeah.” Badger scratched his neck. “Help yourself. I’ll be right back.” He walked down the hallway, and was dressed and groomed when he returned five minutes later. I hoped he hadn’t gone to the trouble for me.
Simon and I removed our outer clothes, and I had the coffee brewing before he returned.
“How’s your mom?” I asked, leaning back against the sink. I was more tired than ever. We all were.
“She’s pretty exhausted with everything going on. None of us got any sleep last night.” He yawned. “We all took the day off, so she’s still sleeping.”
Simon and I exchanged a meaningful look. We had planned on a day off, too.
Badger intercepted the look. “What?” He looked back and forth between us.
Riley stumbled sleepily into the kitchen, wearing green pajama bottoms with a red pullover sweatshirt. She tried to smooth down her hair, which stuck out at odd angles. “What’s going on?” she mumbled, going straight to the coffee pot. “What are you lot doing here?”
“Indigo was about to explain.” Badger looked to me to continue.
We sat at the table while I explained my dream.
“I knew it!” said Riley. “I wasn’t completely satisfied with the police conclusion. It didn’t feel right, but I wanted it to be over so badly,” she wailed.
“Me, too,” agreed Badger. He looked completely downcast.
I nodded in agreement.
“I’d like to go through those articles pinned to the board in your dad’s office and then go over to the pub and look at that newspaper dated August 20th if it’s still there,” I said.
“Oh,” said Riley, getting up from her chair. “Those are still in the folder – we haven’t put them back up. I’ll get them.”
She returned with the folder and the portfolio, and laid it on the table. “I’ll get dressed and then we can go.”
Harry and Henry were left with strict orders not to open the door, and to keep the noise level down so they didn’t wake their mom.
Badger, Riley, Simon and I bundled up and walked over to the pub. I phoned Cappy on the way and told him to meet us there.
If the workers were surprised at our arrival, they didn’t show it. Badger and Simon went through the stack of newspapers until they found the correct date, and brought the newspaper to the snug where Riley and I waited with Cappy.
The room was cold, but nobody built a fire, so we stayed bundled up.
Badger laid the newspaper flat on the table and we crowded around. We found it on page B3. A construction project to build a hall to host renaissance dinners, complete with jousting reenactments and other entertainment. Unlike other renaissance festivals, this one would be permanent.
Simon looked up and around the table. “That’s what they’re building over on Broadmoor Street – you know, where that whole block of buildings crumbled last fall. Now they’ve got a seven foot wooden barrier around the whole block and you can’t see what they’re doing.”
“That makes sense,” said Badger. “They’d need a whole block for a project like that. It’s got to be huge for all the things it’s going to hold.” He let his finger slide along the list of expected features. “Vendor stands to include magic and games, pottery, renaissance clothing, spear throwing, axe throwing, bow and arrow shooting, face painting, puppet shows, fortune telling.”
“Harris Construction is the builder – does that sound familiar to anyone?” I asked. They shook their heads. “I wonder why this article upset your dad so much?”
Next, we searched through the folder of articles and photos. We found several references to Harris Construction and the Renaissance project, which we set aside.
“Hang on!” said Badger, picking up one of the articles. “That’s Andy Hall.”
Riley looked over his shoulder. “It is!” she exclaimed. “What’s he doing with Harris Construction? He works for Shoreline!”
“A bloke can work for more than one company,” said Cappy.
“Oh! Wait!” I pulled the package out of my pocket. “This,” I waved the envelope, “came in the mail yesterday.”
They looked at me uncomprehendingly.
“From the planning department!” I exclaimed. “This should have the names of the people behind the project that had upset Shelly so much! If it’s the Renaissance project, we’re in luck. It couldn’t be a coincidence.” I ripped into the envelope, my shaking hands making me fumble.
“And if it’s Andy ‘all, we’ve got our murderer,” said Cappy.
“Exactly,” said Badger. “But until we know why, we can’t prove anything.”
I ripped the envelope open, the others scrambling for position to read over my shoulder. I skimmed the first page and flipped it over, continuing to speed-read. Then another page. And another. Finally, I flipped to the back page.
A cumulative gasp filled the room.
Andrew Harris-Hall was the name at the bottom of the page.
Silence filled the room.
At long last, we had a name, and we weren’t sure how to react.
Shock, grief, sadness, surprise, denial.
“He was dad’s friend,” whispered Riley. She turned to me. “Are you sure? You honestly think it’s him?”
“Nothing else makes sense,” I said.
“But Gerry...” she began.
“Is mentally ill,” I responded.
“Bloody hell,” whispered Badger.
“But what proof do we have?” countered Riley, still unwilling to believe that Andy was the murderer.
“Nothing definitive – yet,” I said. “But look at what we have. Where’s the investigation board? – let’s fill it in and I’ll show you.”
Simon unrolled the tattered butcher paper across the table. Badger and Riley held down the curled ends.
I took the pen offered by Riley and wrote in the newest information we uncovered.
We stared at the board.
“There,” I said, pointing at the center of the board, and then drawing a large red circle around the information I had pointed out.
“On Tuesday, August 16th, a man goes into the MEC complaining that he hasn’t been paid. Something about it upsets Shelly and she rushes out of work early.
On Wednesday, Bart has lunch with Andy – the waitress says they had a fight, possibly about a project.
On Friday, there’s a party f
or Claire – Bart and Shelly whispering intensely about something in a corner.
On Saturday, August 20th, Bart, reading the newspaper at the pub – we now think he came across the Renaissance project article – gets angry, throws down the newspaper and rushes out. He was dialing someone on his mobile as he went, presumably Shelly or Andy – or both.
It’s not only the timing, either,” I said. “For me, it’s the dream I had. Not a regular dream, but an insistent message that won’t be ignored. It kept repeating, hammering the message into my head. All of this is not a coincidence. It can’t be.” I tapped the board. “Something about the Renaissance project upset both Shelly and Bart. They’re both dead.”
“And now,” added Badger, “we have to find out what upset them. Then we’ll have the motive.”
Cappy frowned. “‘ang on. Didn’t you go meet Andy with Badger and Simon? What about that whole Psychometry thing?” He turned my hand over to reveal the scars. “You didn’t get anything?”
I tried to remember. “I’m not foolproof, you know. It doesn’t always work. Still, I don’t...wait! My hand was bandaged, remember? Blistered, from meeting Nat. I didn’t shake Andy’s hand.”
“Blimey,” said Cappy. “We might ‘ave solved this thing a whole lot earlier if you ‘ad.”
“Well, she didn’t, so let’s move on,” said Riley testily.
“Right. We need to learn all we can about the project,” said Simon decisively, rolling up the murder map and sliding it into the hardboard tube.
“You’ll do no such thing,” said a stern voice an instant before he loomed in the doorway.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Interference
Detective Sergeant O’Boyle filled the doorway, arms crossed, legs spread, jaw set. An impressive figure to be sure, with forearms like Popeye sticking out from his rolled-up sleeves. His red hair and freckles didn’t do anything to soften the effect.
My heart sank. We were well and truly screwed.
