by Marc Strange
“I was, my girlfriend and me, we were eloping.”
“Oh, hey, congratulations.”
“Yeah. Only it didn’t happen.”
“That’s too bad. Was it Doreen you were eloping with?”
“Yeah. What’s it to you?”
“Just interested.” Adele moved away, began looking at cars parked along the fence.
“Why didn’t you get married?” Stacy asked.
“We changed our minds. These things happen.”
“Mutual decision?”
“I guess. It’s personal.”
“Okay, we can leave that for now. I’m just wondering, did any detectives talk to you about events on the night of Monday, March 14?”
“Why?”
“That was the night a man was shot at the Sunset Motel on 35. When they questioned one of your regular fares, Anya Daniel, she offered your name to corroborate her whereabouts that night.”
“I drove her home, if that’s what she says.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Fine then.”
“Would you mind telling me where you went after that?”
“Me? Lots of places. Have to check my sheet.”
“Did you stop in Omemee on your way home?”
“Probably.”
“Stop in anywhere for a beer after your shift?”
“What? Yeah. Probably.”
“Remember where that would have been?”
“Probably the pizza place.”
“What pizza place?”
“It’s not a pizza place any more. Lemon-something.”
“Mmm hmm. Right, Lemon-something. Yes. You were there. We’ve got two people who identified you, the bartender and one of the servers. You were watching a basketball game. The other man there, you’d remember him, tall, red hair? He’s the man who was shot later that night.”
“So?”
“Do you by any chance know Dr. Ruth? Lorna Ruth. She may have spotted you at the bar when she came in. She had a date with the man at the bar. You might be the reason they didn’t stick around.”
“None of my business what she does.”
“According to the bartender, you left immediately after they did. Didn’t finish your beer.”
“I was late, I had to get home.”
“So what time did you get home?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
“How did you know you were late?”
“I don’t know, might’ve checked my watch, checked the clock over the bar . . .”
Stacy lowered her voice, stepped closer and spoke as to a child. “And what did the clock say?”
“8:30, more or less.”
“And how long does it take to drive from Lemon-something to your house?”
“Ten minutes. Sometimes fifteen. Usually.”
“So if we talk to your father he’ll confirm that you got home by around 8:45?”
“I don’t think he heard me come in. He was watching TV.”
“So what were you late for? Was there a show you were going to watch?”
“It was just getting late.”
“Bartender says you left in a big hurry. What was so important?”
“What’s going on? Person’s not allowed to live their life? I wanted to check my emails. What’s the difference?”
Adele stepped in. “You own any firearms, Edwin?”
“What? Yeah. Sure. Still legal, isn’t it? Owning a hunting rifle?”
“Depends. What sort of hunting rifle do you own, Edwin?”
“30-30.”
“What kind of 30-30?”
“Winchester.”
“Mind if we take a look at it?”
“I don’t know where it is right now.”
“Well, I’m sure we can figure it out. Is it in your trailer?”
“I don’t know.”
“We can call your father and have him check.”
“I don’t think it’s there.”
“Well?”
“I remember now, it’s in the trunk.”
“Trunk of your car? This Chevy over here? Would you mind popping the lid, sir?”
“Don’t you need a search warrant or something?”
“You want us to get a search warrant? Fine, we can do that. Stace, why don’t you drive over to the courthouse and get us a search warrant and I’ll keep Mr. Kewell company until you get back.”
“Oh what the fuck. I’ll open it.” Edwin pulled keys out of his pocket and opened the trunk. A tartan blanket was draped over most of the contents.
Adele grabbed the corner of the blanket and pulled it back. “There we are,” she said. “Winchester Model 94, 30-30 lever-action saddle gun. Just like John Wayne.”
Stacy began taking pictures of the trunk’s interior with her digital camera.
“It’s not loaded,” Edwin said.
“Don’t touch it, sir. We’ll have to take it with us.”
“What for?”
“Ballistics. Turns out my partner was shot with a carbine just like this one. Might have even been this one. What do you think of that?”
“What are you talking about? They arrested the guy, didn’t they?”
“You getting pix of those gumboots, Detective? Got some bootprints we can match up.”
“But you got the guy already!”
“Oh fuck, Stace, we might as well take the whole car in for a thorough examination. You a housepainter, Edwin? Notice you have a nice little folding ladder in there too.”
“In fact,” Stacy said, “there’s everything you need in there to shoot someone through the bathroom window of a motel room.” She took another series of pictures, boot treads, the ladder’s feet. “Were you aware of that, Edwin? Were you aware that you had a complete murder kit right in your trunk?”
Edwin leaned against the side of his car and slowly slumped to the concrete. He buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know how she . . . she just met the guy. How could she do that?”
“I’m out of my jurisdiction, Stace. You better do the honours.”
“Edwin Kewell, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Detective Paul Delisle. You have the right to keep your mouth shut.”
“Doreen? From the Hillside?” Orwell shook his head with something like admiration. “He just met her at lunch. That day.”
“Fast worker, my Paulie.”
“And you have statements?”
“From all concerned,” said Stacy. “Once we brought him in he was happy to tell his story.”
“Couldn’t shut the fucker up.”
“Made him feel better. He seems to think his actions were entirely justified.”
“Maybe two hundred years ago. In Spain.”
“Or last week, in Tehran,” Stacy said.
“I told you it was his dick that got him killed,” Adele said.
“My my.” Orwell allowed himself a rueful laugh. “Ha! Vain old coot that I am, I thought Doreen was flirting with me.”
“They all flirt with you, don’t they, Chief?”
“This was more than flirtation. What’s her story?”
Stacy consulted her notes. “Doreen McCallister. Told her boss she had a headache and needed to see her doctor. Left work at 2:30 p.m., met Paul Delisle in the parking lot of the Hillside Chef, drove with him to the Sunset Motel. He drove her back to the Hillside parking lot at approximately 4:15. She went back to work.”
“Bet her headache was all better,” Adele said.
“Unfortunately for all concerned, Edwin Kewell was delivering a fare to the Jiffy Lube across the highway just when Doreen and Delisle were exiting the motel. He followed them back to the Hillside Chef and saw her go back to work, then he followed Delisle to Dr. Ruth’s office
where he waited for a while, but had to leave because calls were piling up.”
“How’d he happen to be at Lemongrass?”
Stacy turned a page. “Drove Ms. Zubrovskaya to her building at 8:30, then went back to the Sunset and parked. He says he just wanted to talk to Delisle. He saw Delisle drive off and followed him to Lemongrass. Followed him in but didn’t confront him, sat at the bar and watched him. Said Delisle was coming on to both servers, Kelly and Lara. Then Dr. Ruth showed up and they left. He followed their two cars to the motel. Went around to the back.”
“With a ladder.”
“And his Winchester.”
“Tsk tsk,” Orwell clucked. “That’s looking premeditated.”
“What really pissed him off?” Adele was baffled. “He said Paulie was being unfaithful to Doreen by chasing someone else the same day. In some weird way he thinks he was defending her honour.”
“Everything was by the book? Phone call? Read him his rights?”
“All recorded, Chief, and a stenographer.”
“All right. I’ll let you two inform the OPP. Hand it off. Tell them to tread carefully. You never know, Mr. Kewell might hire Georgie and my daughter.”
“Sam, time to blow the DPD’s horn. You ready?”
“Shoot.”
“Detective Stacy Crean of the Dockerty Police Department, in cooperation with an investigator from Metro’s homicide unit, have made an arrest in the murder of Detective Paul Delisle. The man’s name is Edwin Kewell. K-e-w-e-l-l. Resident of Omemee, drives taxi for Dockerty Cab Co.”
“That’s it?”
“You’ll have to check with OPP for anything else. It belongs to them now.”
“Will Diana be defending him?”
“Ha! Very funny. I have no idea what her plans are.”
“Just wouldn’t mind seeing her in action again.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing that myself, Sam.”
In Orwell’s world, the taking of whiskey had a ceremonial character; there was form to be observed, a level of appreciation that went beyond the mere enjoyment of triple-distilled Irish spirits. It was (for the most part) reserved for those occasions worthy of a toast — a victory, a momentous development, the resolution of a complex problem — and since he considered the lifting of a glass an intimacy not to be wasted on people with whom he had no connection, most of the time he savoured such moments alone in his little cubbyhole office under the stairs. Tonight was different. He had company. A beautiful woman was touching her glass to his, looking deep into his eyes as she raised it to her lips, smiling broadly as she swallowed.
“I wish I’d been there,” said Orwell. He knew that he too was grinning.
“I started talking, and something took over,” said Diana.
“You were in the zone.”
“Even Georgie was impressed.”
“I’ll bet that was the most fun he’s had in a while.” Orwell lifted his glass again. “Proud of you,” he said.
“Thanks, Dad.” She knocked back the rest of her whiskey. “How’s your fishlet?”
“Keeping a low profile, just as you suggested.” Orwell poured them each a second tot, added a like amount of water to his, contemplated for a moment the light from his desk lamp dancing in the amber. “Must be hard going back,” he said. “Tax law won’t feel nearly as exciting.”
“I won’t be going back.”
That turned his head. “This is news.”
“Well, I’ll be going back for a while. Work out the separation agreement, as it were. Probably cost me a few bucks.” She had a sip, cocked her head to match her father’s quizzical expression. “This feels right,” she said.
“What feels right?”
“Georgie says Rhem, Treganza and Swain need some fresh blood in the firm.”
“Since both Treganza and Swain are long gone to their rewards, it’s probably time,” said Patty. Orwell’s eldest filled the doorway. There wasn’t room enough for three bodies inside the room. Nor was there a third chair.
“Hey, sweetie,” Orwell said. “Just in time. May I pour you a dram?”
“Would, but can’t. Driving to Uxbridge later. Gary and I are looking at a new stud just arrived in the neighbourhood. Great bloodlines. Might be a good mix with Foxy. If the stud fee isn’t too steep.”
He raised his glass again. “So, what do we drink to this time? New horizons?”
“How about the Dockerty Police Department’s arrest of the real shooter?” Diana had a cheeky smirk on her face.
“Forgot to say ‘alleged’ shooter,” said Leda. Patty had to turn sideways to let Leda squeeze into the doorway beside her.
For one perfect moment Orwell felt complete. His three daughters in front of him, all healthy and happy and fully engaged in their lives, a productive day behind him and, judging by the rich scents coming from the kitchen, a fine supper ahead of him. He lifted his glass a few inches higher. “I believe I’ll thank a benign universe for this day, this moment, these three beautiful faces before me,” he said. He drained his glass.
“Amen,” Diana said.
“Very nice, Oldad,” said Leda. “I bring an invitation from the kitchen. Either come now or be banished to the outer darkness where there will be much weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
Ten
Wednesday, March 23
“There you are,” Anya said. “I thought you had moved on to greener pastures.” The cat was sitting on the fire escape, facing away from her, watching the pigeons on the roof of the Irish House. “Will you come in, or are you thinking about your breakfast?” One ear twitched. “Well, if you want to come in, knock like a gentleman.” And, on cue, there was a knock, but not on the window. “I am closed for the week,” she called out. “Until next Monday. Or maybe forever.”
“Anya. It’s Dr. Ruth. It’s Lorna.”
“I am all healed now. I do not need a doctor.”
“May I come in?”
Anya took her time opening the door. When she saw her visitor’s face she stepped back. “Should you be out of the hospital?” Lorna was pulling off dark glasses and a headscarf revealing a bruise on the left side of her face and a bandage over her right ear.
“I apologize for just dropping by.”
Anya stepped back. “Please. Welcome to my studio. As you can see, I have no students.”
“That makes two of us. I’ve cancelled all my patients. May I sit? Please?”
“Yes, of course. I can make some tea.”
“No, I’m fine, maybe later.” She slumped onto the straight-backed chair and took a deep breath. “The stairs,” she said.
Anya sat on the couch opposite her. “That one looks fresh.”
Lorna touched her left cheek with a fingertip. “Yes. It is. After my husband, after they let him go . . . He didn’t kill that detective. He had nothing to do with it. They locked him up for three days and he had nothing. . . . When he came back from the courthouse he . . . had a few things to say about what happened. About what I did. What trouble I got him into, what I did to us, to our marriage. Then he hit me.”
“Did you report it? No, of course you did not, you thought he was justified.”
“Something like that.”
“And now you cannot go home.”
“Later today. I stayed in my office last night. He’s packing. Packing his things. Someone’s coming with a truck. A friend. He’s going to stay with a friend for a while, until he finds someplace. . . .” She pulled a wad of tissues out of her coat pocket. “I didn’t know where to wait.”
“I am going to make some tea. And I am going to have a cigarette. Here I smoke when I feel like it. You take off your coat. Sit on the couch, it is marginally more comfortable. And I will not spill hot water on you if you are over there.”
She began to bustle efficiently around the studio, finding
some relief in the movement, the small chores. She opened the window to admit the cat, turned on the CD player — Ancient Airs and Dances — took the kettle and the teapot down the hall to the washroom, filled the kettle with cold water, warmed the teapot from the hot water tap. When she returned she saw her guest huddled in the corner of the couch. The orange cat was sitting in her lap and she was gingerly stroking his head.
“What’s his name?”
“I have no idea.” She plugged in the kettle. “Is he making you nervous?”
“A little. His ears are very chewed up.”
“Yes, it is the life of a back alley tomcat.”
“Scars on his head.”
“Just like the rest of us. They heal.” She put three Irish Breakfast tea bags in the pot.
They sat without speaking while the tea brewed and the music played and under it Anya distinctly heard the rasping purr of the big orange cat. She lit a cigarette. “I have never heard him purr before this.”
“That man, the tall detective, I keep thinking I got him killed.”
“When you have regained your equilibrium, you will of course realize that is nonsense. He was in this town to see me. So I got him killed. He was chasing a bad man, so perhaps that got him killed. There were two other nasty creatures from my past in town, so perhaps they killed him. And in all probability, once you deconstruct the elements of his life, probably he got himself killed. You know that as well as I do. It is hardly ever one thing, is it?”
“I didn’t need much coaxing, to run off with him.”
“He was a charmer. Blue eyes, laugh lines and just the right number of freckles to be attractive, but not so many that it looked like an affliction.”
Lorna laughed. Not a big laugh, but a small note of amusement nonetheless. “Yes. Charmed the . . . socks off me in a hurry. Furthest thing from my mind when he walked in.”
The cat jumped to the floor and Lorna emitted a small sad sigh. “Aaw.”
“He never stays very long. He heard you laugh so he knows you’ll be all right. But you may have some cat hair on your scarf.”
“Oh. Oh well, I don’t mind. I felt . . . honoured by his attention.”
“Yes, cats have that power, do they not?” Anya reached over to touch the material, a cashmere/silk blend in autumn tones, rust and orange and deep red. “Hermés,” she said. “Very lovely. Is it new?”
