Lake on the Mountain: A Dan Sharp Mystery

by Jeffrey Round

  No reply, no return. These were words Dan found unacceptable. Because they meant that somewhere someone wasn’t trying hard enough.

  “The gardener’s name was Magnus Ferguson. He showed up on one other report….”

  “Unusual name, Magnus.”

  “… so it shouldn’t be too hard to find.” Sally smiled. “It wasn’t. Last known address: Surrey, B.C., about five years ago.” She stood before his desk, pad in hand, waiting.

  Dan felt that tingle of excitement that came when something suddenly appeared within reach. Sometimes things took years to budge then suddenly the floodgates opened and it seemed as though they’d always been there, just waiting to be discovered. A single piece of thread that had seemed innocuous at the time might turn out to be a special material manufactured by only one company and sold in just a handful of locations. And suddenly you had a piece of a puzzle that unlocked a significant clue.

  “Did you phone to verify that it’s the same person?”

  Sally shook her head. “There’s no Magnus Ferguson listed in all of B.C. I didn’t have time to check the rest of the country.…”

  “But you will.”

  She groaned.

  “And you’ll have it for me by when?”

  She grinned. “Probably by the time you get back from seeing the ferryboat captain in Picton. I’ve booked you an appointment for tomorrow.”

  “Sweet,” Dan said. “When and where?”

  “Two p.m.” She looked down at her pad. “It’s got an unusual name,” she said. “Ever hear of the Murky Turkey?”

  Dan smiled. “Sally, I’m promoting you. You can stop cleaning chamber pots and start sharpening pencils effective immediately.”

  He drove along the same route he and Bill had taken to the wedding. The ghostly forms that had been obscured by mist then were revealed now, innocent and unprepossessing in the fresh light of day. A simple fall landscape, seemingly devoid of mystery.

  He was early. He reached Picton at noon. He thought over his plan again and continued on to Lake on the Mountain. He parked in the same lot and sat looking out over the water before walking to the resort.

  “I’d like to rent a boat,” Dan said to the man puttering around in the garden shoring up trellises.

  The man gave him a sharp look. “What sort of boat would that be?”

  “A boat to explore the lake,” Dan said.

  The man grinned. “Well, that should be simple then. We’ve only got one kind. It’s a rowboat. You looking for a good workout for your arms?”

  Dan smiled. “A little exercise never hurt.”

  The man left his trellises and went inside. Five minutes later, standing beside the boat, the man sized Dan up and offered him an orange life vest. “Keep this thing on at all times when you’re in the boat — it’s the law.”

  Dan placed it over his head and secured it around his chest.

  “Can you swim?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “All right, then I won’t worry about you.” The man held up an orange plastic capsule. “There’s a nylon rope and a whistle in here. You run into any trouble, you blow it as loud as she can blow. I usually rent them for an hour,” he glanced over at the parking lot, empty but for Dan’s car, “though I suppose you can take your time. I’ll tell the crowds to wait till you get back.”

  Dan did a wonky duck waddle getting in, then settled in his seat and pressed an oar against the shore. The boat shifted off the rocky bottom. After a few tentative strokes, he found his rhythm and the craft surged forward.

  He scanned the caramel-coloured rock passing underneath him. Without warning, darkness opened wide under the boat. Dan had the sensation that he’d jumped off a cliff, his fall arrested by the placid green surface of the water. The darkness went straight down with no sign of anything below. He peered into the depths, adjusting his vision, but saw nothing. It looked bottomless.

  He turned his head and glanced up at the passing clouds then shifted in his seat and resumed rowing toward the middle of the lake. He couldn’t shake the sensation that the world had fallen away beneath him.

  The Black Swan winked at him as he approached. It looked no different than it had a month earlier. Not surprising — it probably hadn’t changed much in the last hundred-and-twenty-five-odd years. Dan spotted Terry Piers right off, a grey-haired man in a heavy grey-and-orange sweater, sitting upright at the bar and talking non-stop. A wrinkled smile and periwinkle eyes greeted him. Dan felt the strength in his grip, heard the thunder in his tone. Captain Bligh on shore leave. An eye patch and a tri-cornered hat were all he needed to complete the picture. Hale and hearty at seventy or more, he’d probably see a hundred before he was done, without giving up either smoke or drink. In fact, they probably fortified him.

  Dan ordered a pint of Glenora. The former captain pooh-poohed him for buying that “local crap” before lifting his glass to a portrait of Elizabeth II on the wall behind him. It was the young queen, very glam, around the time of her coronation: glowing, radiant. Long before she was sideswiped by her annus horribilis and her star-struck wretch of a daughter-in-law. Dan let Terry regale him with talk of the “old days” on the ferry watch before launching into the subject of his inquiry.

  When he spoke Craig Killingworth’s name, Terry grew thoughtful. “Oh, yes, I remember him,” he said softly.

  “In the report on his disappearance you said he went over to Adolphustown on his bike that weekend but didn’t return.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you were sure it was him?”

  “Aye. Not a doubt.”

  “And was he carrying anything — luggage, or any sort of baggage?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “But you said you thought he was heading for Kingston?”

  “Well, not exactly.” Terry scratched his head and looked off into the distance of time, as if to remember what it was he had said. “You see, if you were heading to Toronto or anywheres west of here, you’d head north up to the 401. If you were to take the ferry across to Adolphustown, well, from there you’d be travelling east to Kingston and the like. But only if you wanted to go that far. What I said was that if he didn’t come back, then he was probably headed that way or farther.”

  Dan considered this. “Could he not have come back across in a car?” he asked. “He might not have been on his bicycle. Perhaps you didn’t see him in the back of a car?”

  “No sir, that is not likely. Have you been on the ferry?”

  Dan recalled the outdoor deck with its three short lanes and twenty-one-car capacity. “Yes.”

  “Then you know it’s small and everything’s in the open. For one thing, I could see anyone inside those vehicles. For another, I knew him well enough by sight. If he came across on the ferry without me seeing him, well then he’d have to be tied up in a trunk.”

  “And you’re sure of the date you said you saw him crossing on?”

  “Absolutely sure. You see, we were keeping a log to chart the sort of traffic that came across. There was only one other bicycle that weekend, come across from Adolphustown later that evening, and it wasn’t him.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t mean to doubt you, but why are you so sure? I mean, if it was nighttime — a hood or a cap, the darkness. It might be hard to be certain.”

  “But I was certain. For two reasons,” Terry began. “As I said, I knew Craig Killingworth on sight. Well enough, you’d say, though I couldn’t have called him a friend. But his face was known around town. And at that time he’d lived here many years. It’s a small enough place, and you know who you know real well.”

  And a wealthy man would always be known, Dan thought, though he didn’t voice his assumption.

  “He was a very friendly man,” Terry continued. “He’d always call out to you on the street, say hello, ask about the weather, that sort of thing. You know how it is in small towns — or I’m sure yo
u can guess, if you don’t.”

  Funny, Dan thought, how the rich and the dead are always exalted in their eulogies. Men who assaulted their wives and abandoned their families were remembered for a friendly greeting on the street, while for the most part the abuse and threats went unrecorded. He smiled. “So if he’d gone across on the ferry, you’d have no doubt he would have greeted you.”

  “As I said….”

  “But you said there was a second reason you were sure it wasn’t him you saw returning with the bicycle.”

  “And I was coming around to that.” Terry winked. “In my own fashion, of course.”

  Dan waited as Terry took a quaff of his beer and set the glass down.

  “The other reason I am sure it wasn’t Craig Killingworth I saw with the bicycle that night was because it wasn’t a man. It was a youngster. Last run over on the ferry but one.” Terry looked triumphant.

  Dan thought it over. “Did you recognize the kid?” he said at last.

  Terry shook his head. “Afraid not.”

  He had one final stop. He drove back along the parkway to the OPP detachment on Schoharie Road. Inside the long grey bowling alley, flanked on either side by an empty parking lot, Dan’s name elicited an immediate response. Saylor came through the door, pressed smartly into his uniform, greeting him as though he were a long-lost friend.

  He ushered Dan into a spacious office the colour of unfired pottery. A policeman’s sanctuary. He’d covered his walls with posters, handwritten notices of crimes, some recent and others from long ago, alongside the Xeroxed faces of people wanted in connection with any number of incidents. Some of the reprobates scowled at the camera while others smiled, seeming to enjoy their little moment of notoriety. The usual detritus of police station life.

  Saylor was clearly glad for the interruption in his routine, where Dan might find himself pressed to make even a fifteen-minute opening in his day. Small town-big town, he mused. That was the difference. In smaller places you had time for people, even if they were casual acquaintances.

  “Good to see you, buddy. What brings you out here?”

  “Just passing by,” Dan said. “I thought I’d drop in and say hello.”

  “You got the file I sent you?” Saylor asked.

  “Yes, I did,” Dan said. “Thanks for being so prompt. I’m looking into it now.” He paused. “I take it there’s been nothing further on the Ballancourt case?”

  Saylor looked at Dan curiously. “No. It’s still closed. Were you expecting a change of direction on it?”

  Dan affected an in-confidence tone. “Am I the only one to think it was awfully convenient for Lucille Killingworth to have a judge around to back up the claim of death by misadventure?”

  Saylor shrugged. “The thought occurred to me.” His expression brightened. “I still think my theory was pretty ingenious.”

  A knock came at Saylor’s door. A head poked in, white-haired, intense. Dan recognized him immediately. It was the serious-looking man who’d danced with Lucille Killingworth on the boat the night of the wedding. The man with barracuda eyes.

  “Oh, my apologies,” he said. He didn’t seem to recognize Dan. “I’ll come back later, Pete.”

  Before Saylor could introduce them, he’d vanished around the door. Dan waited a beat then tried for casual. “Who was that?”

  “That’s Commissioner Burgess,” Saylor said, grinning. “The big shiny brass in this small town.”

  “I think he was at the wedding,” Dan said nonchalantly.

  “Yeah.” Saylor kept his voice low. “He’s a friend of Lucille Killingworth’s.”

  Dan nodded. “Can we step out for a coffee somewhere?”

  The Royal Café in downtown Picton was another holdover from Victorian times. A tin ceiling held onto its silver paint, but only barely. Large flaps hung down here and there, as though the sky had given way.

  “Shoot,” said Saylor. “It’s free to talk in here.” He turned his head to the back of the café, where an older woman stood wiping cake crumbs off a table. “Maggie’s deaf,” he said with a wink.

  “That file you sent me — did you check to see if it was intact before it went to the courier?”

  Saylor looked at him. “I never even thought to look,” he said. “Wasn’t it all there?”

  Dan shook his head. “Most of it, but there was one document missing.”

  “Any idea what was in it?”

  “It was labelled M.H. Possibly someone’s initials. Maybe a clerk’s. My guess is it had something to do with the assault charges Lucille Killingworth filed against her husband. I was hoping you could take a second look for me.”

  Saylor looked perplexed. “I’ll try,” he said, “but I sent everything there was. I can get one of the junior officers to look around and see if it was misfiled, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. It was in a bunch of boxes that got shuffled off to a storage unit more than ten years ago. I had to get special permission to open it.” He shrugged again. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Dan was silent for a moment. He looked up at Saylor. “Did you ever meet Craig Killingworth?”

  “No,” Saylor said. “But my brother went to the high school where Craig was principal. I remember there was some scandal and he disappeared for a few months in the middle of a school year. Then came the assault charges and he lost his job. Suspended, actually. It shocked a lot of people.” His tone became reflective. “You never know about people — the secrets they hide.”

  “I guess not,” Dan said.

  “Last month I got called to a place just outside town. A mechanic, one of the toughest guys around, hanged himself in his barn. Of all the people you might expect to commit suicide, he wouldn’t be anywhere near the top of my list.”

  “You’re right,” Dan said. “You never know. I’m curious though, why was a rich guy like Killingworth working as a school principal?”

  Saylor’s face frowned in concentration. “I guess because it was her money,” he said. “I think she expected him to earn his keep.” He stopped and looked over at the counter. “Maggie!” he called in a loud voice.

  The old woman looked up. “Yes, Pete? Did you call?”

  “I did, Maggie. I’m just wondering if you remember the Killingworths.”

  “Who?”

  “Killingworths,” he said, even louder. “The husband disappeared about twenty years ago. He was the school principal.”

  “Oh, yes!” she said, her face suddenly transformed by memory. “Other side of the reach.”

  “Rich family, weren’t they?” Saylor asked.

  The woman nodded slowly. “Oh, yes,” she concurred. “It was her father’s money. Nathaniel Macaulay. I don’t think you’d remember him. It was Nate’s great-great-great-grandfather who founded Picton. The Reverend William Macaulay. With a Crown grant of four hundred acres. I’m surprised you don’t remember your local history, Pete. Nathaniel must have died twelve, fifteen years ago. Something like that. You could check on the gravestone if you wanted. He’s buried up the road at St. Mary Magdalene.”

  “Thanks, Maggie.”

  She turned back to her work.

  “There you have it,” Saylor said. He checked his watch. “I’d better be getting back before I’m missed.”

  Out on the street, he shook hands with Dan. “Are you single, by the way?” He winked. “I could set you up with my brother.”

  Dan grinned in embarrassment. “Thanks, but I’m not on the market at present.”

  “Too bad,” Saylor said. “For him, anyway.” He nodded to a young couple passing on the sidewalk before turning back to Dan. “Just a word of warning,” he said. “It’s a small town here. Watch your back while you’re snooping around. Especially with Commissioner Burgess a friend of Mrs. Killingworth.”

  “Warning noted,” Dan said. “Thanks for everything. I’ll be in touch.”

  “And thanks for coming by,” Saylor said, as though it was Dan who had done him the favour.

  Sal
ly gave him a glum look on his return the following morning. She’d retired the blue, orange, and violet for an all-black outfit. She was a veritable Queen of the Night, with a stroke of magenta eye shadow. Mourning or colour fatigue, it was hard to say. She sighed and plunked her notebook onto his desk. Dan glanced up, trying not to look amused by this expression of exasperation.

  “I can’t find him anywhere,” she said.

  “Who?” Dan said, playing dumb.

  “Oh, great! You don’t even remember what you asked me to find for you.”

  “Fill me in,” Dan said.

  “I can tell you without doubt there is not a single Magnus Ferguson listed with any public telephone directory in the entire country,” she said. “I have now checked the records dating back ten years.” Dan whistled. “Not only that, I’ve also called all one hundred and fifty of the ‘M. Fergusons’ listed and not one of them claims to be or to know a ‘Magnus.’ And now, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to go back to cleaning chamber pots.”

  He laughed as she flounced out of his room and then turned right back around. “Oh yeah — and this very creepy guy has been trying to get hold of you since yesterday. He refuses to leave a message.” She placed a name and number on his desk and left.

  Larry Fiske. Dan didn’t recognize the name. He dialled the number and reached the reception desk at the firm of Fiske and Travis. Dan was put through immediately. Fiske identified himself as a lawyer representing the Killingworth family. Of course, this was the mysterious “Larry” that Thom and his mother had discussed during their meeting with Dan. Finally, Dan thought, he was going to be told Lucille had hired him to find her missing husband. He had more than a few questions, and was still undecided whether or not he’d willingly continue with the request to find Craig Killingworth.

  “Mr. Sharp, I’m told you have been very loyal to the Killingworth family.”

  That had been Lucille Killingworth’s phrase, Dan recalled. He needed to make clear his position once and for all. “Mr. Fiske, I would not describe my actions as being loyal to the Killingworths,” he said slowly. “When I met with Lucille and Thom last month I was simply doing them a favour. In a personal capacity.”