by A. M. Potter
Who else? Naslund’s thoughts were drawn to MacTavish. He was wealthy. He happened to be strong enough to attack Thom but he could keep his hands clean and hire someone. She stared at her computer screen. Was he the cash-incentive man? Of the suspects on the cash-incentive list, he seemed the best fit. Carrie MacLean was comfortable, but not rich, and while Gordon Tyler was wealthy by Wiarton standards, Jock MacTavish was far wealthier.
Naslund exhaled loudly. Think it over. She stood, walked to the staff room, and poured a coffee. Okay, MacTavish had the means, but why would he kill a goose that laid golden eggs? The more paintings Thom completed, the more money MacTavish made. It didn’t make sense for him to kill Thom. No sense at all.
She trudged back to her hutch, feeling as confused as ever. Nothing added up. Let it go, she ordered herself. Focus on what you know. She pulled her chair into the hutch and resumed her report. The sooner she finished it, the better. Hal was at the end of the rainbow.
***
Hal handed Eva a glass of Chablis. “You look tired.” He smiled. “And famished.”
“Guilty on both counts.”
“What did you have for lunch?” he asked.
“Ah, a slice of pizza.”
“You could eat healthier.”
She nodded. Was Hal starting to pick at her already? Pete always criticized her eating habits.
“You could, but you don’t have to.” Hal laughed. “You should see the look on your face.”
She chuckled. “I could eat better and I want to.”
“How about a sprout salad?”
“Tonight?”
“Again, you should see your face. We have salmon, peppers, sweet potatoes, and asparagus. Grilled.”
“Wow. What happened to those beans?”
“Dessert.”
She laughed. “Right, the maple syrup.” She strode forward and kissed him on the cheek. Her personal phone started crooning. Damn it! Excuse me, she motioned. “Eva here.”
“Well,” J.J. said, “a blue jay has come home to roost.”
“A blue jay?”
“Some news you didn’t expect to hear.”
“Sorry, I’m about to eat dinner.” She looked up at Hal. He mouthed no prob.
“This won’t take long,” J.J. said.
“Give me a moment.” She walked to the sitting room. “Okay.”
“My so-called ‘crazy act’ worked.”
“It did?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” J.J. said.
“Surprised is an understatement. Astounded is more like it.”
“How about stunned?”
She chuckled. “Okay, fella. Out with it.”
“I think the Murphy brothers are innocent. I owe you an apology,” he graciously said. “I was wrong.”
“No apology required.”
“Well. In any case, here’s the news. My niece Laurie works at Tim’s. Part of her job is to wipe down the tables. As it happens, she overheard three farmers talking about that disgraceful J.J. MacKenzie, drunk at church.” J.J. chortled. “I’m famous. So, Laurie hovered about. One guy said the Colpoys men he knew were hard workers. Just a week ago, he hired two to do an all-nighter to help clean his hog barn, an eight-thousand-square-footer. The two were Jake and Willie Murphy. And what night do you think it was?”
Eva could guess.
“Sunday July the seventh. The barn was being inspected on Monday the eighth. From Laurie’s description of the farmer I found out who he was, a Carl Keppel from Shallow Lake. That’s likely who Gundy saw with the brothers that morning.”
“Good work.”
DC Lowrie had recently reported that two witnesses saw the Murphys in Shallow Lake during the murder window, but he hadn’t linked the brothers to Keppel.
“You’re better than a movie detective.”
J.J. laughed. “Better connected, maybe.”
“I’ll visit Carl Keppel tomorrow morning. Gotta go.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Me to know,” she said, “you to--.”
“Say hi to Hal.”
“Bye J.J.” She grinned to herself and returned to the kitchen. Hal was serving dinner--a feast for the eyes. And the food looked great too.
“Pull up a chair,” he said. “Your wine glass is full.”
She smiled. The man was a mind reader as well.
***
After watching a movie, Hal snuggled closer to Eva on the sofa. “Coffee, tea, or?”
Definitely or. However, she wondered about her “spinsterhood.” She hadn’t done the happy dance for over a year. So what, an inner voice said, you haven’t forgotten how. She turned toward him.
Chapter 24
Wiarton. July 16th:
As Eva Naslund lay in bed the next morning--in Hal’s bed, in happy-dance heaven--her personal phone crooned. “Watching the detectives...”
Hal had left for work. The bed still smelled of him: warm skin and Drakkar Noir. She’d come to bed naked, a sapphire pendant winking between her breasts like a tiger’s eye.
“Watching the detectives...”
She ignored the phone. His bedroom was like the rest of his house--bright and modern.
“Watching the...”
Okay, I’m getting up. Rising to a seated position, she spotted her jacket then reluctantly left the bed and fished out her phone: 0636. “Good morning.”
“Sarge?”
“Yes.”
“Marty here. Marty Fox. J.J.--J.J.’s dead.” Marty gulped then rushed on. “We found his body in the bay, off Hay Island. Close to his boat. I--I just pulled him out of the water.” Marty drew in a sharp breath but didn’t stop. “I know he went out alone in his Caledon last night, to stay overnight. You know, like he often does. He always heads back around dawn. You can count on it. Always, I tell you.”
“Marty, slow down. Take a deep breath.”
“Someone bashed his head in. Looks like with a hammer.”
Jesus. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did you pull him out of the bay alone?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t touch him anymore, don’t move him. Where’s his Caledon?”
“Grounded on Hay, the west side.”
“Leave it. Don’t touch it. Is anyone with you?”
“I’m with a fishing client.”
“Okay. You and your client, go back to the club. Have a coffee, have a brandy. I’ll be there in about half an hour. I’ll need to talk to both of you. Meantime, don’t touch J.J. Don’t let anyone touch him.”
***
On Griffith Island the meadows were dotted with white lady slippers. The wrens were singing. The previous night’s rain had rinsed the sky clean. A gentle sun played on the water. Yet Naslund felt no peace. The OPP launch motored up to the club wharf. She immediately recognized the club fishing boat, the Albin 35, and directed Constable Chandler to pull the launch next to it. Marty caught their mooring lines and pointed to the Albin’s back deck.
Naslund followed Moore aboard the Albin and knelt beside J.J.’s body. His hair was matted and bloody. He’d been hit on the top of the head. The left side of his forehead was caved in by multiple blows. A piece of his dura mater was hanging out. It was pinkish-gray and crinkled, like an old sausage. The frontal impact zone was bruised and livid. His lips were blue, his face, ashen. Death collapsed all faces, particularly the faces of heavy men, but J.J.’s face looked unusually gaunt, as if he’d lost a lot of blood.
Naslund inched closer. J.J.’s head smelled metallic, like dried blood. A few blowflies circled the dura mater. The wound imprints looked familiar. Very familiar. They appeared to be from the same ballpeen hammer that had bashed Thom. Her first thought was repeat murderer or copycat murderer? While the MO wasn’t exactly the same--the assailant had only used a hammer, and not a hammer and screwdriver--seen via the naked eye, the weapon appeared to be exactly the same. Repeat, she thought. Forensics would provide the answer.
The inspec
tor seemed unmoved. Naslund wasn’t. She’d only worked with J.J. closely for a week but she felt shaken and immobilized. She could barely hear the gulls circling the fishing boat. Everything was muffled. She seemed to be underwater.
She turned slowly to Moore. “Mr. MacKenzie’s boat grounded on Hay Island. I want to take a look at it.”
“Okay. Then leave it to Chu’s team.”
Chu and company had been called back from Orillia, as well as Mitchell and Wolfe, the ninjas. They’d trace MacKenzie’s last movements, starting at Colpoys wharf. Naslund rose. “I’m going to talk to the men who found MacKenzie, Marty Fox and his guest.”
“Right. I’ll question the rest of the staff and guests. Can you attend Dr. Kapanen?”
“Sure.”
Disembarking from the Albin, Naslund held out her hand to Marty. “My deepest condolences.” She wanted to say more but she couldn’t. Her close association with J.J. was a secret matter.
“Thank you.” Marty expelled a heavy sigh. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe he’s gone.” He hung his head. His shoulders started heaving.
She almost stepped forward to comfort him but forced herself to stop. Compassion with dispassion. Emotions in check, she walked down the pier with Marty ahead of her. Two murders in Wiarton in one week. Would there be more? Who was next? Marty? Not a chance, she said to herself, not if she could help it. Other than the investigation, Marty was her top priority. She had to keep him safe.
He stopped at a picnic table near the lodge and sat across from an older man with severe eyes and a military buzz-cut. The man was wearing a tan fishing vest.
Naslund sat beside him. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Ralph Goderich.”
“Mr. Goderich, was the deceased alive when you first saw him?”
“I don’t think so. Marty yelled out to him, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t move.”
“Did you help Marty bring the body aboard?”
“No. He told me to handle the wheel.”
“Did you ever touch the body?”
“No.”
“What’s your profession, Mr. Goderich?”
“I’m a banker. In Toronto.”
“Do you have ID on you? A driver’s license, for example?”
“Yes.” Goderich handed her his DL.
“Thank you.” She took a photo with her duty phone. “What’s your phone number?”
Goderich recited it.
She recorded the number. “Thank you, sir. Please wait in the lodge.” The MU team would process Goderich for prints and DNA.
When Goderich left, she wanted to sit next to Marty, but remained across from him. His lips were clamped together. He was staring at the table. He needed as much comfort as she could give him.
“J.J. was a fine man,” she said, trying to convey both steadiness and compassion. “A very fine man. He had time for everyone.”
Marty eventually looked up and nodded.
She casually glanced around, verifying that the two of them were alone. She suspected Thom’s killers had been watching J.J. and he’d gotten too close to the truth. “We won’t meet any more. Stop your investigative work. Right now.”
“All right.”
“If you think of or hear anything you want me to know, call me. No matter how trivial it seems.” She paused. “Can you answer a few questions now? We’ll talk later if you want to.”
“No. Now is good.”
“All right. Do you know what time J.J. went out in his Caledon?”
“He called me around eleven. Said he was heading out at midnight.”
“You saw those hammer marks. It looks like J.J. was murdered. Do you think he was killed because of what he was doing? Investigating. Stirring up talk.”
“Yes. For sure.”
“Do you think he was killed by the same person or persons who killed Thom?”
Marty nodded.
“Don’t talk about that with anyone. I’m going to arrange for you to go away for a few weeks. I’ll take care of the money side. You’ll say you need to visit a sick relative.”
He shook his head.
“You have no choice. There are killers at large. They may have noticed J.J. spending time at your place. Be vigilant, Marty. Constable Chandler will escort you home. You’ll pack a bag and leave immediately.”
“If I have to.”
“You have to. There are two dead men. I don’t want any more.” Naslund stood. “Don’t use your regular phone. Chandler will give you a burner, a throwaway cellphone. Just to be extra vigilant, turn it off when you’re not using it.” She leaned closer. “It can only be tracked when it’s on. The number won’t be linked to you, but people have been known to hack into cell carriers and execute their own searches. They throw a wide net but, given time, they can tighten it. Know what I mean?”
“Got it, Sarge.”
“Okay. Call me anytime. For anything.”
He nodded.
“Anything at all.”
***
Naslund requisitioned a runabout from the club and motored full speed toward Hay Island. The sun was almost blinding. The lake looked like the sky. Nothing seemed real; nothing seemed solid. As she drew near the Caledon 25, she cut the runabout engine and tossed the anchor overboard. After yanking off her shoes and socks, she rolled up her pant legs and slid into the bay. The water was warm, the bottom sandy.
The Caledon lay port side out, tilted at a thirty-degree angle, jammed against the shore. She approached to within half-a-meter of the stern and waded toward the bow through calf-deep water. Seven empty beer cans--Heineken tallboys--lay in the cockpit. Unusual, she thought. J.J. didn’t drink much. Maybe he’d been boating with someone who did. Continuing to the bow, she saw that the hull wasn’t damaged. There were four fenders out. She stopped. That didn’t add up. J.J. was an experienced boater. Experienced boaters didn’t leave their fenders out after they got underway. Perhaps he didn’t motor to Hay. If not, how did he get there? She filed the question away.
Facing the stern, she waded the whole length of the boat a second time. No blood, scuffs, scratches or chipped paint. No evidence of an assault or a struggle. It didn’t look like he’d been attacked on the boat. She moved closer to shore and waded a thirty-meter stretch south of the boat, visually sweeping the shore and scanning inland as far as she could see. Nothing. No prints, no blood, no cans, no obvious DNA carriers. She waded back to the boat and searched thirty meters north. Again, nothing. She considered searching farther inland, but waded toward the runabout. Although she had CS gloves on, she wasn’t wearing protective gear. Besides, Chu’s team would take care of Hay, plus the beer cans and any other evidence on the Caledon.
Motoring back to Griffith Island, she throttled up to full speed, letting her mind cycle. The beer cans suggested someone else had been present. J.J.’s body had been found close to the Caledon, but there was no blood on it.
Perhaps J.J. was killed on another boat, the assailant’s boat? Lured or forced there, killed, and then pushed overboard. Which suggested something else. He could have been intercepted shortly after leaving Colpoys wharf, ordered to motor to Hay Island, and killed near there. Had the perps forgotten to remove the cans? Were they inept, or just pretending to be? If so, why?
***
Having returned to the club wharf, Naslund called Moore. “Naslund here.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“It appears MacKenzie was attacked on land or another boat. His Caledon Twenty-five displays no evidence of an assault.” She paused. “Just a hunch, but he could have been forced over to Hay Island and killed there. It’s possible his assailants had a boat and he was killed on it. I took a quick look at Hay. I didn’t find any signs of a CS on or near the shoreline. If Chu’s team and the ninjas do rule out a land assault, that boat will likely be the CS.”
“Possibly. I’ll tell Chu to search all of Hay Island, starting near the Caledon. When you’re done with Kapanen, return to the mainland and interview
the Murphy brothers again. Judging by your case notes, they had a beef with both Tyler and MacKenzie, as did their sister. Even if they weren’t involved in Tyler’s murder, they need to be questioned regarding MacKenzie’s. By the way, I don’t think we need a coroner to tell us he was murdered.”
“Right. I’d like to interview that pig farmer as well, Keppel’s his name.” She wanted to verify J.J.’s assumption that the Murphys were innocent of Thom’s murder. If so, it was less likely that they’d murdered J.J.
“Fine,” Moore said. “Report back to me when you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way, your staff sergeant volunteered to notify MacKenzie’s family.”
“That’s good of him,” she said. She owed Bickell again.
As she waited for Kapanen, her mind circled back to the killers. Were they inept or pretending to be inept? She didn’t know which way to lean. They could be poorly-organized greenhorns. However, from what she’d seen of Thom’s skiff and J.J.’s Caledon, the killers were well organized. They hadn’t left any bio evidence on the skiff and there was no blood on the Caledon. It appeared they’d been strategic enough to kill J.J. on land or on their own boat. So, she speculated, they could be organized killers who wanted the OPP to think they were inept. However, that didn’t make sense either. If they were organized, they’d know pretending wouldn’t help them for long. The staging of the Mackinaw CS hadn’t set the team on a wild goose chase. On the other hand, maybe a “boss” hired the actual killers. Maybe the boss was organized, but the killers were less organized and partially inept. Or some of the killers were organized, and the others weren’t.
Naslund shook her head. Confusion upon confusion. Looking up, she saw Kapanen arriving in a water taxi. If anything, the coroner’s face was redder than the last time she’d seen him. As usual, he wore a tight suit. He was steady on his feet, which she was happy to see. It was just after 0800.
