Everyone was relieved to hear the news. They had been sympathetically sharing Louise’s misery the last few days. Now, seeing her face lit by an enormous smile, they agreed that a celebration was in order. Roger decided to stay home and make supper while the three women went to The Global Village. He wasn’t, as Eina explained, “into going out for coffee, and besides, he’s probably had enough of our company.”
“No complaints here,” Margaret said. “Anybody that’s willing to cook dinner can do whatever he wants.”
As the only one who knew where they were going, Eina drove Louise’s car downtown, to the Finnish section of town, where buskers, craft shops, and artisans all competed in close quarters. One of the old, walk-up buildings featured a colourfully painted mural, depicting a multi-racial crowd at a marketplace. The banner hanging above read The Global Village.
“There it is,” Eina said, parking the Mazda across the street from the coffee shop.
“Looks like fun,” Louise commented, peering from the passenger side.
“Wait until you see the inside.”
The sounds of African reggae greeted them as they stepped inside. Brightly coloured 1960’s-style retro basket chairs were clustered on the wood floor, with tiny tables situated between them. Indian batiks, mixed with paintings by local artists covered the walls in an eclectic display. Under a glass counter top, next to the desserts and cash register, a variety of paper beads, hemp Tshirts, baskets from Guatemalan collectives, and handcrafted jewellery made from glass and twisted copper were displayed artfully.
“Oh, this is fun,” enthused Louise. “A feast for all the senses.”
Margaret was equally impressed. “I can see why people like to come here,” she said. “It’s more interesting than most coffee shops.”
“They also have poetry readings here, and free concerts on the weekends as well,” said Eina. “I’ve heard there’s a book club that meets in the back room as well. And Connie sells crafts from developing nations, as well as some things by local artisans.”
“The coffee’s all fair trade? What a fabulous idea!”
“Yes, Connie certainly seems to have a social conscience. Strange, considering who her brother was,” Eina whispered as they approached the counter to order their drinks.
“Look at that!” Louise said, pointing at the sign over the pastry display. “Guilt-free brownies? Does that mean they’re low-calorie?”
“Everyone asks that,” the young woman behind the counter said with an apologetic smile. “No such luck, I’m afraid. It means that they’re made with fair trade cocoa.”
“In that case, I’ll buy one for each of us,” Louise said.
They carried their lattes and brownies to a table by the window. “She certainly has a flair for decorating,” Margaret said. “I wish there was something like this back in Jackpine.”
“Yes, you could display your art in a place like this,” said Louise, cutting off a morsel of brownie with her fork.
“I wasn’t thinking of that, although it’s not a bad idea. I just meant that it would be nice to have a place with this kind of ambience back home. By the way, what is fair trade cocoa? I’ve heard of fair trade coffee, but . . .”
“Oh, you have to taste this!” Louise interrupted. “This is the best brownie I’ve ever had.”
Margaret and Eina sampled their brownies and agreed.
“Amazing,” Eina agreed. “To answer your question, though, most of the chocolate we eat originates from the Ivory Coast in Africa, using child-slave labour.”
“What? Are you sure? Why haven’t I heard this before?” Margaret said in disbelief.
“Who’s going to advertise something like that? The candy companies? But it’s a well-documented fact all the same. Not many places carry fair trade chocolate or cocoa, because it’s more expensive, but the public is starting to become more aware, just like with coffee.”
“How do you know so much?”
“Father Brian has been encouraging our congregation to buy fair trade products. He’s organized a study group that watches videos on the topic and hosts discussions about ways to promote the fair trade movement.”
“Margaret, did you notice the jewellery display?” Louise interrupted, nodding in the direction of the opposite wall.
“Where?” Margaret twisted around to follow Louise’s eye.
“There. In that case. You might find a birthday present for your daughter.”
“Good idea.” Having cleaned up the last crumbs of brownie from her plate, Margaret slid her chair back and stood up. She squeezed between the close tables and coffee-drinkers, sliding over to the far wall, where a locked case displayed a variety of handcrafted bracelets, earrings, pendants, and a selection of oversized rings that seemed to be the current fashion. She moved in for a closer inspection, while the women at the nearest table chatted, not bothering to lower their voices.
“What a great place. What a shame it’s not going to be open much longer.”
“What? It’s closing?”
The sound of the coffee grinder drowned out their next words. All Margaret caught were the words, “at the end of the month.”
“But this place is hopping! She’s worked so hard to make a go of it, and it looks like it’s finally paying off. She deserves it after all she’s been through.”
“She’s just relocating, not going out of business. I just hope it has the same feel in that new place. I’d hate for it to become some generic, yuppie coffee bar. It would lose all its personality. But you know what they say, art doesn’t pay.”
“This place is doing okay.”
“Sure, but okay doesn’t cut it with those big outfits. They’re not interested in charm. They want the kind of megabucks the cookie-cutter franchises bring in.”
Margaret inspected a bracelet while continuing to eavesdrop on the conversation taking place behind her. Made of twisted copper, the bracelet was pretty, in an unusual way, and she wondered if her daughter would like it. When the women moved on to other topics, she rejoined Eina and Louise.
“It appears your source was correct, Eina,” she said, sipping from her half-full coffee cup.
“They usually are,” Eina rejoined demurely. “About what in particular are they correct this time?”
“About this place relocating. It does seem strange, though, when it’s doing so well here.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to know, though. I mean, I’m no expert on business. That Harbourview is prime real estate. I suppose she’s getting in on the ground floor of something big. But it just doesn’t seem like her style. She’s so crunchy granola, and the Harbourview is chichi.” Eina crinkled up her face and rubbed her temple with one finger, as was her habit when trying to solve a puzzle.
“Well, according to Candice—” Louise began, leaning forward and lowering her voice confidentially.
“Candice? For crying out loud, what does she have to do with anything? And when were you talking to her?” yelped Margaret.
“Candice hears things, too,” Louise said primly. “And she was worried about Vince, so I gave her Eina’s phone number so she could keep in touch. Anyway, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, Candice said that Connie helped Doug come up with the funds to invest in the Harbourview.”
Margaret gave her a blank look.
“She hears things, all right. That doesn’t make any sense. Doug is the high roller in the family. Why would he need Connie’s help to invest?”
“You never know,” Eina said. “Some people put on a good show even as they try to keep one step ahead of creditors. And it sounds as though Mrs. Whalen is pretty high-maintenance. Payback for his dalliances, maybe.”
Margaret considered the idea that the notorious businessman had needed to beg money from his sister, then shook her head. “I still don’t buy it. Even if he needed the money, where would his sister get it? It sounds as though it’s taken her awhile just to get her own business off the ground.”
“That’s true,”
Eina said. “She hasn’t had an easy time of things since her divorce. On the other hand, maybe the banks would consider her a better risk than her brother. She’s frugal and hardworking, and she obviously has what it takes to get a business off the ground. Well, ladies, are you satisfied with your caffeine fix? Not that I’m rushing you, but Roger asked me to pick up some things for the dinner he’s making tonight. But only if you’re sure you’re finished.”
They were, although Margaret decided to buy the bracelet she had been looking at earlier before she left. “That’s my favourite one,” the girl behind the counter said, when Margaret set the bracelet down in front of her. “And it’s the last one of its kind.”
“Really? Where’s it from?” Margaret was pleased that she’d be able to tell her daughter that the bracelet was a limited edition.
“A local artist. She made a few pieces in this style, but now she works primarily in silver. The owner of this shop bought the earrings from this set, and now you have the bracelet.”
“Great minds think alike, I guess,” said Margaret, taking the gift bag the girl handed her, and she waved goodbye before hurrying out to the join the others.
After a quick stop at the grocery store, Eina drove back to the house, where the aroma of yeast filled the air.
“It smells amazing in here,” Margaret said to Roger, who was wiping his flour-coated hands on his chef’s apron. “What are you cooking?”
“Roger’s making his famous pizza,” Eina answered for him, handing him the plastic grocery bag. “Aren’t you, dear? Here are all the goodies you asked for: Portobello mushrooms, feta, salsa, hot sausage . . .”
“You’ve got my mouth watering,” said Louise. “Sounds like some amazing pizza.”
“There are no other kinds once you’ve tasted mine,” quipped Roger, imitating the voice in the Heinz Ketchup commercial. “Although I never make two pizzas alike. But I promise there’s no going back to pizzerias after tonight.”
An hour later, Margaret and Louise had to agree with Roger’s boast. The thin, but soft crust, weighted down under hot salsa, three cheeses, and fresh basil and herbs from Roger’s garden far surpassed any commercial pizza they had ever tasted.
“Now that’s how pizza is supposed to taste,” Roger said, with justifiable pride.
“Where on earth did you learn how to make this?” Margaret wanted to know.
“I found most pizzas kind of boring,” he said, taking a sip of chianti. “So I experimented.”
“It’s definitely not boring,” Louise agreed.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Roger turned to Eina. “Miriam Pringle called. There’s been a kerfuffle over at the church.”
“What kind of kerfuffle?”
“The police have been questioning Thomas Greenfield about the murder.”
“What?” Eina almost shouted at her husband while holding a slice of pizza halfway to her mouth. A piece of sausage slid off the cheesy edge, dropping onto her plate.
“It appears they found the murder weapon,” Roger said, concentrating on his food, sounding as calm and nonchalant as if he were discussing the weather.
“So? For heaven’s sake, Roger, don’t keep us in suspense like this! You could drive a person crazy.”
“Well, it turns out Whalen was killed with a rock from the church garden.”
Eina put her pizza down slowly and stared at her husband.
“A rock? How on earth could they possibly know it was from the church garden?”
“Because it was one of those decorative rocks with sayings on them. Love, or Serenity, or one of those things. While the police were searching the area for the murder weapon, they found the serenity rock there, with traces of Whalen’s blood on it.”
They all fell silent as they absorbed the new information. Finally Eina spoke. “Well, that doesn’t prove that Thomas had anything to do with it.”
“I didn’t say he was arrested,” Roger said, spearing his salad. “I just said the police were questioning him. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“Well, why would the police question him if they didn’t think he had anything to do with it?”
“I don’t know. I suppose because he’s the gardener. And he is known for his temper, not to mention his recent arguments with Whalen.”
Eina put her hands on the table. Her voice rose a notch. “He’s also known for being in his seventies! For crying out loud, Roger!”
Roger shrugged. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just passing along the information. I suppose the police have to follow up on all leads. Anyway, Thomas is pretty fit for his age. All that landscaping work keeps him in shape.”
“Oh, I’m not going to get anywhere with you,” snapped Eina, standing up and stomping into the kitchen.
“While you’re in there, could you grab a pitcher of water?” Roger called after her.
“I’m not in here to get water,” she yelled from the kitchen. “I’m calling Miriam Pringle to get the whole story.”
Louise and Margaret listened to this exchange, amazed. The thought of the elderly church gardener, no matter how feisty and cantankerous he was, committing murder to prevent his garden from being sold seemed incredible. They sat across from Roger, uncertain of what to say. They could hear Eina’s voice from the kitchen as she spoke on the phone, but they couldn’t make out what she was saying. The ticking of the dining room clock, unnoticed to that point, suddenly seemed quite loud. Roger continued to eat with undiminished appetite. “More salad?” he asked, sliding the wooden salad bowl across the table toward them.
Louise gave a polite smile and a slight shake of the head, and Margaret said, “No, thank you, you finish it off.”
“Sure?” He helped himself, without hesitation, to the last of the salad.
“Poor Thomas,” murmured Louise. “What an awful thing for the old gentleman to go through.”
“Oh, he can handle it,” said Roger. “He’s tougher than he looks.”
That’s probably true, Margaret thought. Anyone feisty enough to picket the new casino and wage a continual war against its encroachment on the church’s property would not likely be traumatized by a police investigation. He would more likely get into a shouting match with them.
“Well, that was interesting.” Eina bustled back into the dining room and plopped down.
“Did you put the coffee on?” Roger asked.
She gave him an exasperated look. “No, I did not put the coffee on. I was busy talking to Miriam.”
“So, what did you find out?” Louise interjected before her hosts could start another round of bickering. Roger got up and went into the kitchen, presumably to make coffee, while Eina launched into the story.
“Well, the police did come by the church this morning, alright. Apparently there was a maintenance committee meeting going on. The women’s washroom desperately needs some repairs. The old tile is falling off the walls, and there’s a bit of mould in the corners. There’s other things, too, but those are the biggest issues. Miriam has been nagging Father Brian about it for ages, but you know how it is, there’s always money issues, and other priorities—”
“What about the police?” Margaret interrupted. Roger’s stories might be a little scant on the details, but Eina’s more than made up for them.
“I was just getting to that,” Eina said, testily. “Anyway, the police showed up, and asked to speak to Thomas in private. He said that anything they had to say could be said right there. So then they asked him if he knew anything about the serenity stone, and he said, yes, he had placed it there last July. They asked him if he had removed it at any time, and he said no, why, and he asked them if it had been stolen. Then the police said they had reason to believe someone had used the stone to murder Mr. Whalen, and had replaced it in the garden. At that point, Mary Carlisle, got all agitated, and apparently started yelling, ‘It wasn’t Thomas! He was with me the night of the murder, all night.’ At that point everybody around the meeting room started laughing and Thomas’
s face turned a lovely shade of burgundy. Miriam said he looked like he was trying to say something, but was choking instead. She said the police were trying to be very professional about the whole thing, but even they were smiling.”
“Poor Thomas,” said Margaret, laughing at the image the story conjured up.
“Yes. He eventually recovered enough to deny Mary’s allegations quite vehemently. Miriam said he wouldn’t even look at Mary.” Eina shook her head. “Poor Mary. She thought she was helping Thomas, and instead of winning his gratitude, she just ended up embarrassing herself. Although you wonder which of them was more embarrassed, Thomas or her.”
“So the police aren’t really considering Thomas a suspect?” Louise asked, standing up to help clear the dishes away.
“Well, he’s probably not at the very top of their list,” Eina said, sliding her chair back and pushing herself back to her feet to help. “They’re likely more curious about the serenity stone, and how that’s involved. I mean, who would remove a stone from the church garden to kill somebody, and why? It seems like such an odd murder weapon. Does that mean there’s a connection between the murder and the church?”
“Does everyone want coffee?” Roger came into the dining room with a tray laden with pottery mugs, cream and sugar and a carafe.
“Roger, you are a gem,” said Margaret. “I probably won’t sleep tonight after having coffee at the Global Village as well.”
“Not to worry.” He handed her a mug. “It’s decaf.”
“Hey, is anyone interested in going to the concert at the marina tonight? It’s the last one of the season,” Eina suggested. “I know we’ve had a full day, but . . .”
“I’m game,” said Margaret. “We might as well get our entertainment in while we’re in town. It’ll be another long winter soon enough.”
“What’s playing?” said Roger.
“A mixture of blues and jazz. We could even dance.”
Roger groaned.
“Go on. You know you love it,” said Eina.
“So you keep telling me.”
The Serenity Stone Murder Page 12
