A Winter Kill

by Vicki Delany

  I thought about Jason. Standing at Maureen’s locker. The funeral. Later at the cemetery, alone in the snow. “I don’t see it, Mom. How could she ruin his ambitions? In this day and age, no one’s going to care that he got a girl pregnant. If he did. Just the opposite. His pals’d think he’s a real man. It’s not as if there has to be a shotgun wedding or anything. Okay, Maureen’s life might fall off the rails if she decides to continue with the pregnancy and keep the baby. But Jason? Even if she wanted money for support, you said his family can afford it. More likely he’d just go away to school in the States and forget all about her and her baby.”

  “Maureen’s father?” Mom said. “Everyone in town knows what he’s like. A drunk layabout, abusive. Maybe he saw a chance to get some money out of the Fitzpatrick family and argued with Jason?”

  “Why would Jason kill Maureen, then? That makes no sense. More likely he’d go after Pete Grey. It wouldn’t be too hard to murder him. Provoke him into taking a swing and claim self-defense.”

  “Have you considered that Pete might have killed Maureen?”

  “Yeah. That’s what Sergeant Malan thinks. He’s watching Pete, but he can’t find any evidence. Don’t tell anyone I told you that. It’s confidential.”

  Mom laughed. “Everyone in the County knows, dear.”

  “I can’t see a reason for Pete to kill his daughter. Maybe in a drunken fight. But she wasn’t beaten up or anything. She was taken by surprise and strangled.”

  “Could he have been angry at her for getting pregnant, perhaps?”

  “Gee, Mom. This is the twenty-first century. No one cares about a girl’s reputation. The Greys don’t have a reputation worth protecting anyway.”

  A gust of wind rattled the glass doors to the deck. I looked outside. Snow was blowing across the fields.

  “Kettle’s gone cold,” Mom said. “Shall I turn it back on, dear?”

  “No, thanks, Mom. It looks like that storm’s moving in. Better get back on the road.”

  We stood up. I put my hat on my head. “Bye, Trixie,” I said.

  Mom walked with me to the door. “Poor Maureen,” she said. “She was smarter and kinder than anyone let her be. It makes me so mad sometimes. The way the other girls laughed at her. The way the boys made her the butt of their jokes. Boys like Jason Fitzpatrick.”

  “Night, Mom,” I said. I went back to my car and headed toward town. Before long, the radio called. Car accident on County Road 10. Injuries. I switched on lights and sirens and sped up. I drove through Cherry Valley. Flashing blue and red lights reflected off falling snow.

  Mom was wrong.

  I’d seen Jason’s face at the cemetery.

  He hadn’t killed her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It had been a very bad accident. Two men in one car were seriously injured. One was trapped and screaming in fear and pain. Firefighters had to cut the side of the car away to get him out. A man and woman in the other vehicle were bruised and shook-up. Someone had been driving too fast. Icy roads, strong winds, blowing snow.

  Happens all the time.

  Larry Johnstone and I went to the Bean Counter on Main Street for a quick coffee after the scene was cleared. I wondered, sometimes, if he liked me. But I wasn’t looking for a relationship right now. I had my career to think about.

  We got our coffees and settled at a vacant table. The place was largely empty so we could talk quietly.

  “You’ve been helping the detectives with that murder on Kingsley Road,” Larry said. He took a big bite out of his cookie.

  “I wish,” I said. “No, I haven’t been helping. Just asking a few questions of people I know.”

  “Sounds like helping to me.”

  I shrugged. “The sergeant’s from the city. He doesn’t have local contacts. I’ve lived here all my life. I know a lot of people. My mom knows almost everyone.”

  “Why do you care?” He popped the last piece of the cookie into his mouth.

  I sipped my coffee. His eyes were fixed on my face, his expression serious.

  “Because I’m a police officer and someone’s been murdered. It’s my job to care. Don’t you, Larry?”

  He licked crumbs off his fingers. “Yeah, I want to catch the bastard who did that to her. But you…I think there’s something deeper. I think there’s something almost personal.”

  “Well there isn’t,” I snapped. “I didn’t know the girl. Never met her. Never talked to her.”

  “If you say so.”

  Clearly Larry didn’t believe me. I wasn’t sure if I believed myself.

  I’d known a girl like Maureen when I was in high school. Her name was Alison Savage. She also came from a family down on their luck. Alison’s family problems were not booze and violence. Her father was disabled and her mother was mentally ill. The family lived in social housing. They didn’t have much money to spend on clothes and things for their three kids. Alison was not pretty. She had a large nose and bad skin and was overweight. Of course, the kids called her “The Savage.” We made what we thought were jungle noises around her.

  In grade ten Alison and I were teamed for a science project. She was smart and eager to do well. She did almost all the work on our project. We got an A-plus and an award at the science fair. And I found that I liked her. We became friends.

  I’ve always been good at sports, and I was popular in high school. I hung around with the pretty girls, the rich girls, the in girls. When I made friends with Alison, my crowd were amused at first and then shocked.

  They told me I had to decide between them or her.

  And so I dumped her.

  I won’t forget the look on her face when she came into the library and sat beside me. She gave me a big smile and said, “Hi.” I didn’t say anything. I gathered my books, stood up and went to another table.

  Where the girls whose approval I needed and I put our heads together and giggled.

  Alison bent her head over her books. She tried hard not to cry.

  Not long after that, Alison went to a party with one of the grade-twelve boys.

  On Monday, word spread through the school like wildfire that a group of boys—and some grown men—had raped her. She missed some school. When she came back she had fading bruises and cuts on her face and hands. The girls, including me, said she’d been asking for it.

  We walked into English class to see that someone had written on the board, Alison has a savage pussy.

  The teacher was furious, but we all read it before she erased the words.

  That night Alison killed herself. She took an overdose of her father’s pain medication.

  Maybe now I was trying to make up for the harm I’d done Alison by seeking justice for Maureen.

  “If you’re finished,” I said to Larry, “let’s go.”

  Larry headed back to the station to do some paperwork. I drove through town and was passing the harbor when I got another call.

  “Three-oh. One-oh-two?” That was me.

  “Go ahead.”

  Dispatch sent me to a fight that had broken out in a bar in town. I took off toward the scene, under full lights and sirens.

  I parked half on the sidewalk and pushed my way through the crowd gathered outside. Bernie’s was a cheap, run-down bar. The lighting was bad, and the furniture worn and scratched. It smelled of spilled liquor, stale cooking grease and anger. Country music, played too loud, came from speakers mounted on the walls. A couple of chairs were overturned. Broken glass sparkled on the floor.

  Most fist fights don’t last long. Not when it’s a couple of middle-aged men. Overweight and out of shape. They take one or two swings at each other and they’re too tired to do anything more. By the time I arrived it was mostly over.

  The bartender was holding a baseball bat in one hand and a phone in the other. A woman stood against the wall, screaming. Whether in support or in fear I couldn’t tell. Probably both. A man stood in the center of the room. He gripped a beer bottle with the neck broken off. He waved it in
front of him, yelling and swearing a blue streak. Another man had blood streaming down his face from a cut above his eye. His dirty white sweatshirt was covered in blood.

  I took one look at the broken bottle and called for backup. “Why don’t you put that down,” I said from the doorway.

  The man turned his head slowly and looked at me. “Why?”

  It was Pete Grey. He was still dressed in the suit he’d worn to his daughter’s funeral. His words were slurred and he swayed on his feet.

  “Because I’m telling you to,” I said. I took a step forward. I was careful to stay out of his reach. I felt for the pepper spray on my belt.

  The woman stopped screaming. She watched us with wide eyes. My radio told me backup was on its way.

  The bartender said, “Do what the lady says, Pete, and I’ll forget about it. No problem. Ed here was way outta line. Weren’t ya, Ed?”

  Ed mumbled something. The woman nodded.

  “You’ve just come from your daughter’s funeral, Mr. Grey,” I said. “Do you want to spend the night in jail? You should be at home with your wife.”

  He lowered the bottle. But he didn’t put it down. “Maureen was my girl. She was a good girl.”

  “My mother knew her,” I said. “Mom says Maureen was smart and nice. Mom liked her a lot.”

  “I taught her to ride a bike when she was little,” Grey said. “I ran along behind her holding on to the seat. Didn’t go more than a few yards before she had the hang of it and didn’t need my help. She got good marks in school too.”

  “Put the bottle down, Mr. Grey, and tell me about Maureen. She was pretty, wasn’t she?” I heard sirens. Blue and red light washed the dingy bar. The door opened with a blast of cold air. I felt an officer standing behind me.

  Pete Grey looked at me. His eyes were full of pain. “Real pretty. Maureen was a good girl,” he said again.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He…” The bottle swung toward Ed again. “Had no account to say bad things about her.”

  I didn’t like the look in Ed’s eyes. I knew him also. Another drunken lowlife. He gave a mean grin. Now that the police were here to take any blow aimed at him, he was full of talk.

  “I didn’t say nothin’ but the truth.” Ed glanced at the woman, hoping for a laugh. “I heard she was pregnant. Shouldn’t bother you none, Pete. Not as if she was your daughter anyway. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.” He wiped a drop of blood away with the back of his hand.

  Pete lifted the bottle. “You pack of shit.”

  “Shut the hell up,” I yelled at Ed. “Or I’ll arrest you for inciting violence.”

  Ed lifted his hands and backed away. “Hey, just tellin’ the truth here. No hard feelings.”

  “Get out,” I said. “Now.”

  “Sure, sure.” He stayed against the walls and edged around me out the door.

  The woman followed Ed. Pete Grey watched them go.

  He put the broken bottle onto the counter. I let out a long breath I hadn’t noticed I was holding.

  “She was my girl,” he said. “Maybe I wasn’t much of a father to her, but I loved her. She knew I loved her. She was going to have a baby. A beautiful little girl just like my Maureen. I would have taken care of them. I would have made a good grandpa.”

  “I’m sure you would,” I said.

  “Some bastard killed her.” Grey started to sob. His whole body shook. He leaned against the bar, crying for what he had lost.

  “Come on,” I said. “I’ll take you home.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I drove Pete Grey home. He cried the whole way. I could see his wife standing at the front window as I helped him out of the car. She opened the door and took him into her arms. I stood in the snow, feeling awful.

  The light was on in the detectives’ office when I got back to the station. I shook snow off my hat and jacket. Stomped more snow off my boots. I popped coins into the pop machine. A can of Coke fell out. I pulled the tab and took a long drink.

  Sergeant Malan sat at his desk, typing on the computer. I knocked on the open door. He looked up. He had dark circles under his eyes. “Yes?” he said.

  I told him about the incident with Pete Grey. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  “I believe him, sir,” I said. It wasn’t my place to tell a detective what I thought. But I knew I had to say something. “I don’t think Pete killed his Maureen.”

  “Probably not,” Malan agreed. “Right now I don’t have much in the way of suspects.”

  I swallowed. “Well…uh…I’ve been thinking.”

  He pushed back his chair. “Not your job to think, Constable. After ten years on the job, you’re allowed to think.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”

  He laughed. “Get me one of those.” He pointed to the can of Coke in my hand. “And then you can tell me what’s up.”

  I got his drink and hurried back. I hoped I wouldn’t be called out by dispatch again. Not before I could say what I wanted to say.

  “I know it’s not really my job, Sergeant,” I began.

  “But?” he said.

  “How did you know I’m going to say but?”

  “Eager young officers always have ideas. Go ahead.”

  “Maureen Grey.”

  “What about her?”

  “I’m local, right? I’ve lived in the County all my life. My mom’s heavily involved in the community. She volunteers at the youth center. She knew Maureen.”

  The sergeant hadn’t offered me a chair. I shifted from one foot to the other. My boots dripped melting snow onto the carpet.

  “I think a boy named Jason Fitzpatrick knows something about her death.”

  Malan linked his fingers together. “Fitzpatrick. I remember him. We interviewed the kids at her school. He said they weren’t friends.”

  “That’s not true. They dated.”

  “Who told you this?”

  I felt my cheeks turn red. “Actually, no one told me. I guessed.”

  “You guessed?”

  “You saw him at her funeral. The big good-looking boy in the nice suit. Remember how sad he was?”

  “Everyone was sad, Constable. It was a funeral.” The sergeant began to turn back to his computer.

  “They were pretending to be sad. The kids, I mean. They didn’t like her while she was alive. They laughed at her because the family’s on welfare and her father’s a drunk. They only care about her death so they can be part of the drama. But Jason really was sad. I saw him later, at the cemetery. When everyone else had left. He was the only one who stayed. He shouldn’t have been there anyway. The burial was private.”

  “Thank you, Constable. If I think of anything more, I’ll ask you.”

  “You don’t have a suspect, do you?” I blurted out. “It wasn’t Mr. Grey. If he’d killed her, it wouldn’t be any mystery. He would have got mad and bashed her brains in.”

  He swung his chair back around to face me. “That’s true, Nicole. You think this boy Jason killed her. Why?”

  “She was pregnant. He got her pregnant.”

  “Happens all the time. No reason to kill her.”

  “I know that. See, sir, I don’t think Jason killed her. I think he was in love with her. I saw his face at the cemetery. He gave her that ring, the one with the blue stone. Sure, it was just a cheap thing, but it meant something to both of them. Someone else killed her. Because Jason was in love with her.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I’d mention it, that’s all.”

  He gave me a tight smile. “Thank you, Nicole. You’ve given me something to think about.” He looked at his watch. “It’s not too late to make a call.” He got to his feet. “You can drive me.”

  “Where?”

  “I want to talk to Jason Fitzpatrick again. Sounds like he lied when he said he hardly knew Maureen. I wonder what else he might have lied about.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Fitzpatricks lived o
n Highway 33, heading east toward the Glenora Ferry. The long winding driveway passed big oak trees. The lawn was a wide expanse of untouched snow running down to the lake. The small harbor was dark, but lights twinkled from houses on the opposite shore. It was still snowing as I pulled up in front of a large modern house. All wood and glass.

  Plenty of money.

  I rang the doorbell. It was opened by an attractive woman in her forties. It was after nine o’clock, but she was dressed in a tailored suit, stockings and pumps, and nice jewelry. Her makeup was perfect. Her blond hair was expensively cut and colored.

  “May I help you?” she asked. Her words were slightly slurred. I suspected she’d been drinking.

  Sergeant Malan introduced us and showed his id. He said he wanted to speak to her son, Jason.

  She blinked in confusion but opened the door. The house smelled of furniture polish and the woman’s expensive perfume. A man came out of a side door. He carried a crystal glass half full of a smoky brown liquid and cubes of fresh ice.

  “What’s this about?” Brian Fitzpatrick asked.

  “I’m Sergeant Paul Malan. I’m investigating the death of Maureen Grey and would like to speak to your son, Jason. I believe Jason knew the dead girl.”

  Fitzpatrick’s eyes flicked across my face. He didn’t recognize me from the funeral this afternoon. “Jason went to the same school as Maureen. So did a lot of kids. Are you planning on paying a nighttime visit to them all?”

  “Is Jason at home?” Malan asked.

  “Yes, I’m here.” The boy stood at the top of the basement stairs. He was dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a PEDH T-shirt. A towel was tossed over his broad shoulders. His hair was wet and his shirt was damp. He was breathing heavily. He’d been working out.

  His eyes widened when he saw me, but he said nothing.

  “I want to talk to you about Maureen Grey,” Malan asked. “May we have a seat?”

  “Come in, please,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said.