by A. M. Potter
Naslund nodded. A screwdriver. Her mind hummed. A Phillips screwdriver. Thom’s eye was speared with a Phillips screwdriver. His rode was attached with a bowline. His centerboard system used Phillips screws. Screwdriver to eye. Screwdriver to bowline. Screwdriver to centerboard. Attack Thom, untie the rode and wrap it around his ankle, release the anchor, destabilize the centerboard. Get the hell out of there. Do it all in thirty seconds, for speed was of the essence when you were in plain view in the middle of a bay, even around dawn.
She exhaled noisily. One person, no matter how strong, couldn’t overpower Thom, untie a rode, wrap it around his ankle, release the anchor, and disable the centerboard--not quickly. There had to be more than one. In the case of the Albin, there had been. Same with the sailboat. She nodded to herself. And yet it seemed too easy. The team had a few things to sort out. Why use a screwdriver and a hammer? Why not shoot Thom?
Well, she thought, that would attract too much attention.
Not with a silencer.
True. So why the bloody assault? The team would have to look into that. The two-assailant scenario only considered the how. It didn’t answer the bigger questions: Who, exactly, and why?
“Something eating you?” J.J. asked.
She shrugged then took a searching look at him. “Can I ask you a few questions about Thom?”
He nodded.
“When did you become friends?”
“When we were kids. Some thought we were unlikely friends.” He grinned. “Some still do. You know, him childless, me married with four kids. Him famous, me a mechanic. Despite what anyone says, we had a lot in common. I was into photography in high school. He was a great friend. Back then, I left a lot of bars in Owen Sound with blood on my face. Thom had bloodied knuckles after standing up for me. He was the better fighter by far.”
Hmm, she thought, Thom was a fighter. She switched gears. “Do you know Ward Larmer?”
“Pretty well.”
“What do you think of him?”
“He has an ego, no doubt about that. Doesn’t mind being the center of attention. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with that.”
“Anything else?”
“He’s a bit of a hard-ass, likes people to think he’s tough. And he is--” J.J. smiled. “--for an artist.”
She grinned.
“Why do you ask?”
“History,” she said. “There could have been bad blood between him and Thom. Do you know anything about that?”
“Well, I know Thom and Ward go back a bit. I was there when they met. Thom and I were working in Labrador when Ward showed up. We’d been there for two seasons. Saved a stack of money.”
“When was that?”
“Twelve...no, thirteen years ago. Ward sat beside us in the mess hall one day.” J.J. huffed. “A red-haired guy with a red face, sunburned to hell in half-a-day. But he didn’t complain. His accent sounded British, mixed up--refined but also hard--as if he were both upper and lower class. Turned out he was from England. Birmingham.”
“First impressions?”
“He was solidly built. Looked like he could handle himself.”
“Did you like him?”
“He was okay. Other than his ego, but we all have them at that age.”
She nodded.
“Something about his eyes said I don’t give a shit. He was always swiveling his head about, eying everyone, examining them for weaknesses. I couldn’t quite read him. Still can’t. Anyway, he was into art, like us.” J.J. smiled fondly. “That was a helluva place up there. There was a bluff not far from the mine, above the Moisie River. You could watch the river charging through a canyon, rushing over rapids, swirling with tannins. On a clear day, the sky was turquoise, more like a sea than a sky. Thom was always sketching there.”
She nodded. “Did you have much to do with Larmer?”
“You could say he insinuated himself into our company.”
“Insinuated? Consciously, you mean?”
“I think so. Or maybe he was just lonely. He followed us around. I remember this hike Thom and I took. Great summer evening. We headed for a rock outcrop about five kilometers from camp, a hump of Canadian Shield that looked like a giant mushroom cap. When we reached it, we scrambled up and sat on the crown. The sun started sinking. Thom pulled out his sketching pad and charcoals. I had my camera. The outcrop beneath us seemed to be sending out signals. Wait, wait.” J.J. shook his head. “Some days, some places, you never forget. Anyway, the sun sank and then sank some more. We kept waiting. Suddenly the sky began radiating reds, oranges, and purple golds. Amazing! We worked quickly. Thom still has that sketch. I didn’t save any of my photos. Maybe I should have. For my kids.”
She nodded and smiled. She wanted J.J. more focused on Larmer, but she didn’t want to stop his story. “Please, go on.”
“Well, as we were finishing our work, Ward climbed up and sat down beside us, as if he’d known us for years. We said nothing. I wanted to see if he could just sit. He could. The night sky slowly awakened. Hundreds of stars erased the blackness of space then thousands more appeared. The moon was full. The night seemed as bright as the day. I could see stones on the ground below. I thought of Colpoys on a clear, moon-lit night--the North Star, the Dippers, the Bear. I was homesick.” J.J. shrugged. “Always the homesick one. Not Thom.”
“And Larmer?”
“Right, Larmer. Well, he seemed to know Thom was an artist. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe he’d been through Thom’s locker. Nobody locked their stuff there. Anyway, I think he figured Thom could help him, almost as if he knew Thom was a ticket to something big, which is how things turned out. The Gang of Eight and all. That night on the outcrop, he reached out and took Thom’s sketch. ‘What do we have here?’ he said. I wanted to tell him to get lost but, really, he was just like us, struggling to make something of himself. He held the sketch up to the moon for a long look. ‘Good lines. Not bad for a shaded piece.’ I laughed. ‘You a critic?’ I said. He eyed me then winked at Thom. ‘He’s a wild man, Thom, an uncouth larrikin.’ I almost clocked him. Thom got between us. Then Ward told us he was an artist too. Surprised the hell out of me. I hadn’t figured him for the artsy sort. Told us his father was a commercial illustrator, that his mother was a right snob--a Lady--who hated anything created for the masses, not to mention the people who do it. Said it was a wonder she boinked his old boy.” J.J. chuckled. “One minute you wanted to clock Ward, the next you were laughing with him. He said whatever popped into his head. Still does. Apparently, his mother sent him to Antwerp to study at the Academie Royale des Beaux-arts. ‘Pillock of a name,’ Ward used to say, ‘but a great school.’ He ran out of money after two years, and she wouldn’t fork out. She sent him to a sister in Canada. That’s how he ended up in Labrador. He wanted to save forty grand. Enough brass, he claimed, for another year in Antwerp. Sounded like a lot of money to me.” J.J. shook his head. “In those days, tuition might have been ten grand. You wouldn’t need thirty G a year for living. But Ward liked his creature comforts. Still does.”
“I can see that. Do you trust him?”
“Trust him?”
“Could he kill Thom?”
“Don’t know. But I think the question would be why.”
“You’d make a good detective.”
“No thanks.”
“What happened after Labrador? Did Thom see much of Larmer?”
“A lot. Thom went to OCAD, the art college in Toronto. Ward ended up there instead of Antwerp.”
“Okay.” She knew that Thom had moved back to Wiarton ten years ago. “Did Larmer come up here to visit Thom?”
“Yes. I’d say five or six times a year.”
“Did you ever see Thom and Larmer fight? Physically, I mean.”
“No.”
“Argue?”
“Sure, plenty, but that was Ward. Considering Ward’s ways, they got along well. Thom always cut him some slack. He was like that, Thom, a good friend.” J.J. stopped.
“Do you think Larmer had something to do with Thom’s death?”
She shrugged. “We’re all suspects. You better keep an eye on me.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am. But, in a sense, I’m guilty. I’m a detective. I should have noticed Thom was in danger.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Sarge. I know how that feels. Don’t go there.”
She nodded. “Speaking of suspects, what do you think of Carrie MacLean?”
“Carrie MacLean? Huh. Well, I like what I see. What man wouldn’t? Seriously, I think she’s nice. Keeps herself to herself, but nothing wrong with that. Thom often told me she was good for him. Kept him grounded.” J.J. tilted his head. “You think she had something to do with his death?”
“You never know with relationships, let alone marriages.”
“True.”
“You see it a lot. Someone goes wacko and pulls a gun. Who knows what couples are like when they’re alone. The last few times I saw Thom with Carrie there seemed to be a fence between them. More than a fence. A huge emotional barrier.”
Naslund was familiar with emotional barriers. She and Pete had built a few.
J.J. shrugged.
“All right. One last thing, and don’t take offense, but I’m not sure the crazy act will help much, not to mention help your reputation.”
“I don’t care what small-minded townies think.” He grinned. “By the way, I’m going to play a new role at the funeral today: Drunken Scotsman.”
“Drunken Scotsman? Isn’t that a bit--”
“Hell, what’s the world coming to?” He shook his head in mock despair. “A Caledonian, a bonafide clansman, can’t call himself a Scotsman.”
She laughed. “It’s the drun--”
“Screw them.”
“You can call yourself whatever you like.”
“Yep. And you know I will. People will start talking soon.”
“I hope so.”
Chapter 15
Sitting in the back pew of the Baptist church, Naslund waited for the Tyler funeral to begin. The austere interior contained nothing but a plain wooden pulpit and dull oaken pews. The dark-paneled walls reminded her of the funeral parlor.
Glancing quickly about, she saw Larmer a few pews ahead, sitting with five members of the Gang of Eight. He was dressed appropriately for a change, in a low-key black suit. She turned her attention to the front pew. Her vantage point from the opposite side of the church and the back allowed her to observe the Tyler family in profile. Even from a distance, John Tyler appeared more defeated than on the day of the visitation. Her gaze shifted to Deirdre Tyler. She looked defeated as well.
Naslund felt an even greater urge to fulfill Deirdre’s wish to get to the bottom of things. It wouldn’t be easy for an outsider like Moore to dig into the past. It was often difficult for her, and she’d been in Wiarton over four years. Wiartonians could shut the door on outsiders. The team was lucky to have J.J. and Marty’s help, anonymously or not.
Next on in the pew was Thom’s half-brother Gordon Tyler. Zeroing in on him, Naslund studied Gordon’s profile. He looked simultaneously pleased with himself and offended by everyone else. He considered himself a local pillar. His new hairpiece didn’t soften the smug cast of his face. He’d been wearing it for about a month. The curve of his lips seemed to say I don’t care what you think, it looks good. His sister Gillian sat next to him. She didn’t look happy to be there. But maybe she wasn’t happy to be with Gordon.
Naslund knew that Gordon Tyler was arrogant and abrupt at times. However, he was also hard-working and well-respected. He was thin, bordering on weak, definitely not physically capable of assaulting Thom. He seemed an unlikely murderer. Nonetheless, she made a mental note to debrief Conrad and Lowrie regarding Gordon Tyler’s alibi.
Her eyes moved on. Carrie MacLean sat in the next pew back, wearing a tight black dress. She’d lived with Thom and yet she couldn’t sit in the front pew. She wasn’t part of the family. The snub didn’t seem to bother her. She looked stoic. Her mother and grandmother, recently arrived from Prince Edward Island, sat beside her. Naslund examined them. The mother, quite the beauty herself, looked aloof and righteous. Naslund’s intuition told her that the mother could be a dragon. Was her daughter secretly one too?
A moment later Naslund heard a loud stage whisper. “I’ll shi, sit, where I wan.”
J.J. She fought an impulse to spin around and observe him.
“Where I wan,” J.J. said, more forcefully this time.
As he inched up the aisle, she saw he was with his wife Marie, but not his kids. Marie looked mortified. Naslund realized she wasn’t in on his charade. He was putting on a good show, lurching occasionally and puffing out his cheeks. An usher hustled toward him.
J.J. stopped and swayed.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. MacKenzie,” the usher said in a hushed tone.
“Gud?” J.J. said. “I don’t think so.”
“Mr. MacKenzie, how about a seat here?”
J.J. blew out his cheeks. “We’re goin to the frond.”
“How about here?”
“Frond pew!”
“Sorry,” the usher quietly said, “that’s for family.”
Naslund spotted another man coming toward J.J., Mr. Don Charon, the funeral home director. The director exhibited a pained expression, as if he’d swallowed a bee.
She switched to J.J. He looked truly angry. However, in a flash, he abruptly backed down. “’Kay,” he contritely said.
The usher nodded. Mr. Charon veered off.
Naslund grinned to herself. J.J. had lit a bomb--the whole congregation had turned to see what was happening--then defused it at the last possible moment. People would be gabbing, all right. She still wasn’t convinced it would help the cause, let alone J.J.’s reputation.
The service commenced. The pastor, a lanky bald man with long yellow hands, surveyed the congregation with false diffidence then launched into a sermon: “I say unto ye, God will forgive the endless iniquities of man...”
She studied her knees. What comfort would anyone get from that sermon? They didn’t need to be forgiven. Thom certainly didn’t. He was dead.
Celebrate Thom’s life! she wanted to shout. Thom wasn’t a sinner. He’d been a modest sort--the kind of man people liked from the moment they met him.
The pastor droned on, his arms assaulting the air as he sermonized, exhorting them to save their souls. She sagged in her pew. She had a better way to help people face death. “Death is unknowable,” she’d tell them. “It might be coming for you tomorrow. One thing’s for sure: it didn’t come yesterday.” That was all you needed to know. Seize the day, and the night too.
***
Service finally over, Naslund filed out of church with the congregation. At Thom’s gravesite the pastor beckoned someone forward. She craned her neck.
J.J. MacKenzie.
When J.J. faced the gathering, she saw his eyes in full: sad yet sober. The drunk charade was off. He was going to speak. Ho, she thought, that’ll get people talking. She could hear them already. Did you see that MacKenzie? Drunk as a skunk when he entered the church, but half an hour later he was sober. Don’t know how those rabble-rousers do it.
“Thank you for coming.” J.J. began. “Thom, I know, would thank you too. He was a humble man. He was also a man who would want us to be outside.” J.J. gestured toward the canopy of oak trees above them and the blue sky beyond. “So I asked Pastor Rutherford to let me deliver this outside. Thom Tyler was a son of the Bruce Peninsula. As a boy, he had everything he needed, but not a lot, certainly not by today’s standards. Simplicity was a virtue. He hiked and fished all around Wiarton. He was good-hearted. Anything he had he shared with his siblings.
After high school, Thom travelled. The wide world only made him miss Wiarton more. He was quiet at times, but not shy. He liked to play practical jokes, keep people on their toes. He had the hidden confidence of a sailor. When he chose his path, that of the arti
st, he studied hard and worked hard. As a painter, he saw things no one else did. Yet he didn’t talk about art theories. He talked about painting like a sailor discussing the wind, quietly considering the topic, thinking of what you saw, not what he painted.
“As I noted, Thom didn’t need a lot. That was because he had his family, his friends, and his art. Thom Tyler was as good a man, as good a native son of the Bruce as there ever was, as honest and true as one of his favorite foods: a Wiarton whitefish. Thanks Thom, for everything. By the way, you painted as you lived. With no regrets.”
There was a smattering of quiet applause. The pastor looked down his nose. Naslund joined the clapping. She had to hand it to J.J. The man had done an excellent job.
The pastor gave the final rites.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Clump. Clump.
Naslund’s heart contracted each time a shovelful of earth hit the casket.
As she trod back alone from the interment, the finality of Thom’s death sank in. No more sails or talks with her friend. Her step shortened with every footfall. She knew the larger world would miss Thom Tyler the painter. However, in her eyes, the smaller one--Wiarton and environs--would miss Thom the person more.
Chapter 16
The post-funeral reception gave Naslund the willies. The hall was as depressing as the church. She found no comfort amongst the circumscribed nods and sad faces. After paying her respects to Thom’s parents, she headed for the door.
“Sergeant.”
She turned to face the voice. “Mr. Larmer.”
He looked contrite, almost meek, the opposite of the person she and Moore had interviewed.
“I’d like to apologize for my recent behavior,” he said. “Let’s forget our ‘meeting’ and start again.”
She wanted to tell him to get lost but controlled herself. “Forgotten,” she said. What game was he playing?
