A Most Unpleasant Wedding

by Judith Alguire

  “So she was just grazed.”

  “Right, but on the downswing, you get a little more punch. You’ve got gravity to help for one thing. That’s why the horse got the worst of it.”

  “But the shovel didn’t kill her. You told us that before. The blow to the right side of her head wasn’t fatal.”

  The pathologist laid the shovel on the table. “No. It struck her hard enough to give her a small subdural, which, as I said, might have killed her eventually — maybe days later.” He shrugged. “Maybe never.” He reached into a cardboard box that sat on the table near the shovel, took out a large rock. “Now this is more interesting.”

  Brisbois and Creighton stared at the rock.

  The pathologist placed the rock upside down on a metal tray, pointed to the gritty surface. “This is the surface that made contact with her skull. She didn’t fall and hit her head.”

  “Somebody picked the rock up and bashed her with it.”

  “Yup, and let me show you something.” The pathologist picked up a manila envelope, took out some photographs. “See?” He pointed to the upper part of the photograph. “The rock was moved. Somebody picked it up, bashed our lady’s skull in, then put it back down. That person didn’t get it exactly in the right position, but I think he tried.”

  Creighton studied the pictures. “Couldn’t somebody just have kicked the rock, moved it by accident?”

  The pathologist shook his head. “No, that would have left gouge marks in the soil, I think. We don’t see that. And there should have been a little lip where the soil was pushed aside. And,” he said in conclusion, “this side of the rock was sitting on top of the grass around it. It overlapped by a centimetre. ” He nodded emphatically. “That rock was picked up and put back down.”

  Brisbois thought for a moment. “Any chance the forensics team moved it?”

  “No. Maroni was very careful. He photographed it, then brought it in in situ. He cut out thirty centimetres square of the forest floor. The lab’s playing with that now.”

  “Any fingerprints on that?”

  “No. The upper surface is too irregular. The lab noted some marks in the muck on the bottom suggestive of fingerprints.” The pathologist pointed them out to Brisbois and Creighton. “As you can see, they’re too smudged to say for sure.”

  “Trace?”

  “Maroni noted some fibres in his report. Off-white. They’ve gone to Trace, but the opinion is cotton.”

  Brisbois walked out of the office and halfway down the hall before stopping. “Off-white cotton,” he said to Creighton. “Could be from a million places.” He fondled his cigarette package. “Herb was wearing a red plaid shirt, an old yellow vinyl raincoat.” He shook his head. “It’s got to be eighty degrees, and the guy’s wearing long sleeves and a rubber coat.”

  “These guys are all the same,” Creighton said. “They’re afraid to lose their coats. They’re afraid if they take them off, somebody will steal them. Some of them are afraid of catching cold, but more often they’re hiding needle tracks or protecting themselves from alien death rays and CSIS wiretaps.”

  “They might be right about that one.”

  Chapter 11

  Several of the guests had gathered around the wicker tables on the veranda. Tim brought a tray of sandwiches and iced tea and placed them on the sideboard. Aunt Pearl selected a salmon sandwich and a glass of tea. She returned to the table she was sharing with Miss Miller, Mr.Simpson, the Lawrences, and Mr. Bole. Jack Arnold sat alone on the settee adjacent. Aunt Pearl rummaged in her purse and came up with a flask. She emptied half of the contents into her glass.

  Detective Brisbois and Detective Creighton had conducted another round of interviews that morning.

  “I don’t know what more the detectives expect me to tell them,” Aunt Pearl said. “I didn’t see or hear anything. I sleep like a log. There could have been a Salvation Army band playing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ under my window and I wouldn’t have known.”

  “They wanted to know if I had noticed anything while returning to my cottage,” Mr. Bole chipped in. “I don’t recall anything unusual.” He shrugged. “After all of my years coming to the Pleasant, I’m sure I would have noticed if something was afoot.”

  Tee Lawrence reached for his drink. “There wasn’t a soul around when we returned from our fishing trip.”

  “I went straight to my cabin,” Bonnie said. “Right after dinner. I didn’t go out again until breakfast the next morning.” She sighed. “I don’t know what the detectives thought I could have seen.”

  “Would you care for something?” Mr. Bole asked Arnold as he caught him staring at their table.

  “No.” Arnold got up and went to the sideboard.

  “I think I caught Mr. Arnold ogling the ladies,” said Mr. Bole. “That’s a habit of his I find offensive.”

  “I believe he’s simply gauche,” said Simpson. “We should have asked him to join our table.”

  Mr. Bole gave him a dubious look. “I must say you’re a generous soul, Simpson. I expect, at one time, they might have called you a good Christian. I’m afraid the truth is Mr. Arnold is a Neanderthal who chooses to flout conventional good manners.”

  “Edward would give the Devil the benefit of the doubt,” said Miss Miller. “He would say he was an abused child with a fire fetish.” She gave Simpson a fond look. “It’s an admirable quality I’m afraid I don’t share.”

  “Me neither,” said Mr. Bole. “But I agree it’s a trait worthy of emulation.”

  Jack Arnold filled his plate with sandwiches and turned. He paused as he passed the table, fixed Bonnie Lawrence with a mocking stare. She coloured and turned away.

  “We’ve got the Reverend Pendergast,” Margaret said. She made a note on her program. “I’m sure he’ll do well. I doubt if he’s forgotten how to perform a wedding ceremony in spite of his memory deficits. I’m sure it’s just one of those age-related problems where the most recent things are what’s forgotten.”

  “In that case, we should send someone to get him the morning of the wedding. Our biggest concern may be that he’s forgotten there is a wedding.” Rudley shook his head. “Margaret, I hope that damned detective has his problems wound up before the day. The last thing we need is him here, pestering the wedding guests. It’s bad enough that he’s been plaguing everyone all morning.”

  “Rudley, it seems to be a difficult case. I’m sure he’s getting frustrated.”

  “And I’m getting frustrated with him.”

  She patted his arm. “Buck up. I think he’s away at the moment.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Rudley. “He’s trying to find young Carty to harass him. I made the mistake of telling him he had taken a canoe out.”

  Brisbois scanned the lake with binoculars as the car inched along the shore road. “Bingo,” he said. “Pull over here.”

  “That’s him?”

  “Yup.” Brisbois lowered the binoculars. “Caught him red-handed. I’m looking forward to hearing his explanation for this.”

  Creighton followed the path of a canoe that was making its way toward shore. “Are we going to hide in the bushes and spy on him or just watch him from here with the binoculars?”

  Brisbois got out of the car, closed the door, and lit a cigarette. “We’ll wait until they come ashore with their picnic lunch, then we’ll go down. Maybe they’ll invite us for a bite.”

  They watched as Rico hopped out of the canoe in shallow water. He reached back and grabbed the picnic basket. Terri Hopper jumped into the knee-deep water and pulled the canoe onto the shore.

  “Looks as if he had Gregoire make him up a lunch,” said Creighton.

  Brisbois trained his binoculars on the basket. “It’s not one of Gregoire’s. He always puts a checkered cloth over the top.”

  Terri took out two packages and unwrapped them.

  “Sandwiches in plastic wrap,” said Brisbois. “Now we know for sure it’s not one of Gregoire’s. He uses waxed paper.” He paused, put
the binoculars away. “I think it’s time to go. She just gave him a big kiss.”

  “Seems a shame to disturb them.”

  Brisbois grabbed a branch as he eased down the embankment. “Better now than later.”

  They reached the cove, paused behind a sweep of weeping willows. They could hear Terri giggling.

  Creighton peeked through the branches. “She’s feeding him potato chips,” he whispered.

  Brisbois shook his head. He parted the bushes and stepped out. “Mr. Carty, Miss Hopper.”

  They turned. Terri stared, slack-jawed. Rico tugged at a chip that had stuck to his lower lip. Creighton hooted.

  “I came down with Rico,” Terri said. Her gaze was focused on Rico, who stood a few yards away, talking to Detective Creighton. “I stayed with him the first two nights. We didn’t tell anybody because we couldn’t afford to pay for both of us.”

  “What did you do?” Brisbois asked. “Just hide out in the cabin?”

  She looked at him, downcast. “The first day. The next day, I left really early, around five.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I went into Middleton. I got something to eat. Then I slept in my car until it was time to show up at home.” She took a deep breath. “Then everything happened.” She bit her lip to stifle a sob.

  He waited her out.

  “Us staying together in Rico’s room, that’s the only thing we didn’t tell you the truth about,” she said.

  He gave her a moment to collect herself, aware of Rico watching them anxiously. “OK, Terri, that night, the night your mother was murdered, where were you?”

  She caught her breath. “I was with Rico. We had dinner.”

  “Where did you have dinner?”

  “In Rico’s cabin. Rico ate in the dining room. He asked for a doggy bag. For me. Rico took the dishes back up to the kitchen around nine. He was afraid if he didn’t, someone might come to get them. We watched the baseball game.” She hesitated. “Then we went to sleep.”

  Brisbois kept her waiting while he wrote some notes. “Your parents have a big house, Terri,” he said, looking up at her. “Why didn’t you take Rico home?”

  Terri wiped a hand across her eyes. “I had to tell Mom first. I had to tell her Rico and I were engaged.”

  Brisbois smiled. “Congratulations. He seems like a nice young man.”

  “He is.” Her voice took on an edge. “Mom had met Rico before and she wasn’t very nice to him. I wanted to make sure…”

  “That she didn’t create a scene,” Brisbois finished.

  Terri nodded.

  “What did your mother have against Rico?”

  She hesitated. “She didn’t think he was right for me.”

  Brisbois glanced toward Rico. “Was it because he wasn’t tall enough or blond enough?”

  Terri bent her head. “Mom could be real snotty about some things.”

  He paused. “Look, Terri, here’s the way I see it. You’re going to see your mother to tell her you’re going to marry somebody she doesn’t approve of — because he’s too short and too dark. She gets nasty, says hurtful things about someone you care about. Maybe things got out of hand.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “No, it didn’t happen like that. I would never do anything like that.”

  “Maybe not by yourself.”

  She stared at him. “Rico wouldn’t hurt anybody. He knew what my mother thought. He was OK with it. He’s a very secure guy. He doesn’t have problems with self-esteem. He thought my mother would come around — eventually.”

  “And you?”

  “I thought she would have too. Mom could be snotty, but if she’d had a chance to see Rico with the horses, I think she would have come around. They both love horses.”

  He changed course. “How long have you known Mr. Carty?”

  “Almost three years.”

  “You said your mother had met him.”

  “We had dinner a couple of times when Mom was in Ottawa on business.”

  “So she knew he had been in the picture a while.”

  “Yes, but I think she thought it wouldn’t last. We didn’t make an issue of it. That we were together. But when we got engaged, we wanted to tell her and Dad together.”

  “So you rented a cabin here in case she didn’t take to the idea.”

  “Yes. It was the closest, and if Mom made a fuss, I could still see Rico.” She paused. “I’m sorry about not telling the innkeeper. I’ll get a cheque from work in a couple of days. I’ll pay the extra.” She looked at Brisbois in desperation. “That would make it all right, wouldn’t it?”

  “If she killed her mother, she put on a pretty good act,” said Brisbois. “She seems to think our main gripe is they didn’t pay Rudley for double-occupancy.”

  Brisbois and Creighton sat in the Crown’s office, reviewing the case.

  “So you’re prepared to eliminate Miss Hopper and Mr. Carty as suspects?” The Crown looked up from his papers, his expression hopeful.

  “For the most part, her story sounds sincere,” said Brisbois. “I don’t think she and Mr. Carty killed Mrs. Hopper, but I think she’s holding something back.”

  The Crown ran his pen down the list, settled on Carl Hopper’s name. “Do you think she’s protecting her father?”

  “Could be.”

  “OK,” said the Crown, “make the case for Carl Hopper.”

  Brisbois flipped through his notes. “He certainly had opportunity. Motive? Well, it sounds as if the marriage was falling apart. Maybe the wife was having a fling. Maybe that ticked him off. But maybe it was more about money than love. The guy’s got the life he wants. He’s a writer. He’s got a great place to work. By all accounts, he loves being a gentleman farmer. If the marriage is in trouble, if the wife wants a divorce, he could lose all that.”

  “Pretty good motive.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any physical evidence?”

  “Nothing conclusive. He had straw and manure in the crevices of his shoes. Big deal. He lives on a farm.”

  “What about his clothes?”

  “The housekeeper says his clothes were pretty dirty but she didn’t notice any blood,” Brisbois said. “He told her he’d had a fall.”

  “I understand there wasn’t much blood on the premises.”

  “No. Just the few smudges mentioned in the report.”

  “No lab on the clothes?”

  Brisbois shook his head. “First, the housekeeper couldn’t remember what he was wearing. To top it off, she’d done the laundry.”

  The Crown frowned. “Is that one of her usual duties?”

  Brisbois nodded. “She’s there three days a week. She does the cleaning, the laundry, makes meals.”

  Creighton grinned. “She does everything for Carl but wipe his ass.”

  “He’s kind of inept,” Brisbois said.

  “So you have nothing conclusive on his clothes and you can’t tie him to a murder weapon.”

  Brisbois exhaled forcefully. “No. The shovel they took from the stable, the one the coroner says…”

  “I read the report.” The Crown shrugged. “Is there a shovel missing?”

  “We don’t know for sure. Carl’s fuzzy about that. The daughter says she can’t remember. The housekeeper has no idea.”

  “So we don’t know.”

  “No.”

  “Anything else?”

  “We checked out Carl’s account of his activities in town that day. The hotelier said he was pretty woozy when he left the dining room. The dental receptionist said he seemed pretty shaken by the procedure — more than most patients, she said.”

  “I thought he just had a tooth pulled.”

  “It was a big molar,” Brisbois said. “Apparently, it broke off and the dentist had to do a lot of digging around.”

  The Crown put a hand to his cheek. “Ouch.”

  “The guest at the West Wind” — Brisbois paused to check his notes — “Bill Czigler. He confirms he pick
ed Carl up about a mile out of town that day. Said he came across him weaving along the road. Said he thought he was drunk, but since he didn’t look dangerous, he offered him a ride. He left him at the laneway to his place. After that, we have only Carl’s word for what went on.”

  “As a suspect, he’s a keeper, but we don’t have enough to charge him with anything.”

  “Not yet.”

  The Crown continued down his list. “Then you have the vagrant. Mr. Herb Carey. He had the victim’s blood on him and he had some of her possessions.” He flipped a page. “The shrink says he’s a flight, not a fight guy.”

  “The housekeeper says Mrs. Hopper ran a tramp off the property a few months ago. He was bedding down in an empty stall. He didn’t offer any resistance. He grabbed his stuff and ran. After that, he became a regular visitor at the Pleasant. They think he was sleeping in the attic of the coach house when it was colder. They didn’t disturb him. Now he’s living in a cave in the woods.”

  “He got aggressive with you.”

  “We were preventing his flight. We don’t want to make a big deal about the assaults but we would like to keep him around.”

  The Crown turned a page. “The shrinks have him signed in for seventy-two hours. I’m guessing they won’t be able to keep him past that. Brian Allin has already been around to discuss the charges — the theft and so forth.”

  “Brian Allin?”

  “Yes. I understand the Rudleys are picking up the tab.”

  Brisbois smiled. “Margaret Rudley is a generous lady.”

  “Has all of Mrs. Hopper’s property been recovered?”

  “Minus what Herb spent on breakfast.”

  “Essentially recovered.” The Crown dropped his pen. “I’m not interested in prosecuting the old sod for five bucks.”

  “He was at the scene. He had the victim’s blood on him.”

  The Crown gave Brisbois a long look. “Allin is already making noises about the evidence being circumstantial.” He flipped through the pages. “We know he was in the woods. He lives there. He crossed Mrs. Hopper’s path because he was on his way into town to see what he could scrounge at the dock. He did that every morning. We know he took her stuff, but do we have any evidence he was at her place that night?”