by Amber Boffin
Or had someone planted her perfumed hat here to frame her? Maggie decided she needed to find out if the hat was the mayor’s without confronting her directly. She didn’t want to scare her. She just had to find the right DNA match with some of the hairs still in the hat. She looked inside it at the hairs to see if there would be enough of them, and to her surprise she saw what seemed to be different colour strands. Could they all belong to the mayor? If not, whom else could they belong to?
She walked slowly, thinking about the different scenarios, staring at the ground. She heard her dogs splashing in the water, playing in the dam. As she lifted her head to check the animals were safe on the other side of the road, her eyes were drawn to a shiny little object a few metres away from where Beans had found the hat. She bent down and picked up a small piece of aluminum-looking metal. She tucked it in her pocket in case it might be relevant, remembering that the police hadn’t investigated this side of the road.
Maggie tried to reenact what would happen should she be riding a snowmobile down the road and imagined a moose crossing from the right. She would have turned left if the moose was poking its head out, and yet it didn’t seem wise; the moose would likely have run across in panic. If, on the other hand, the moose had nearly completely crossed the road and only its rump was on it as it headed into the bush to the right, a swerve to the left could make sense but would mean crossing the dividing line into a blind corner, the road veering to the left. The reflex would have to be to quickly steer back to the right to stay on the road, even with a broken brake cable. If the moose were coming from the left side, it would make even less sense to turn to the left off-road.
There had been a snow bank on either side of the road from the snow clearing, which should have helped dampen the fall. In order to land in the dam, he would have had to be riding the sled fast and intentionally direct it to jump over the bank, otherwise the skis would have gotten lodged in it and prevented the sled from going any farther.
She shook her head. Perhaps it was an accident trying to avoid a moose or deer’s rump…and yet why cut the brakes and hope for an animal to cross the road? The brakes had to have been cut that same evening of his death. Peter Wigmott would’ve noticed it the following day before the Christmas day race, always inspecting his sled before each race. It didn’t make sense. There was another piece missing in this puzzle, and it wasn’t a moose.
Walking back onto her land, Maggie whistled to call the dogs. After her walk, she would hand the hat over to the police and explain her ideas but doubted she would convince Sergeant Humphries to get it tested. Maybe she could ask Amy to run a DNA test on some of the hairs from the hat and compare it to a DNA sample from the mayor, and while she was at it, she could check the other suspects. The tricky part would be to retrieve useful DNA samples from each individual. Amy would surely have some tips on how to collect the sample.
She counted the possible suspects on her fingers, walking past her apple trees. Ms. Stilton, Leon LeBreton, Fred Wigmott, the lumberjack boys, no, unlikely to be involved, Patrick, Fiona’s husband, Ms. Miller, and Joe. No, why him unless his wife Heather was having an affair with Peter.
Maggie ruffled her hair. What motive would Ms. Miller have to kill Peter? Perhaps the murders were not linked. At the same time, it seemed highly unlikely to have two unrelated murders in a village in such a short timeframe.
She stumbled on a rock, still absorbed in her thoughts. She steadied herself.Maybe I should invite Amy over to see what she thinks of all this…or just call her. I need help before I get taken in for questioning. I’m sure I’ll be next in line…if I don’t figure out the culprit soon.
Chapter Fifteen
Sitting at his grey desk at the police station, Sergeant Humphries struggled with his computer, typing with one finger at a time his report on the second murder. This time he couldn’t afford any mistake and didn’t want to delegate the task to his constable, even though he would have already typed it by now, having used computers all his life. Sergeant Humphries remembered the time before computers with nostalgia, when letters were mailed and everything seemed to move at a slower, more manageable pace.
He felt butterflies in his belly. This was the first time in his career he had to deal with serious cases of murder. He dreamed of recognition for his astute findings and perhaps a little article in the local newspaper, accompanied by his portrait, on how he solved the cases. He had already spoken with Tina Partridge in anticipation of solving the case so that she could write an article about him. It was a little premature, but she had seemed so eager to follow both cases, and he certainly didn’t want to miss such an opportunity.
Sergeant Humphries briefly leaned back in his chair, picturing himself interviewed, explaining what had happened and how he made the arrest. Perhaps he could also put in a little advertising for the Haystack Needles. They needed some sponsors for the summer fair coming up in June; it would be perfect timing. Constable Gupta disrupted his elaborate vision, barging in his room with the coroner’s report on Ms. Fiona McLenny’s death.
The sergeant peered over his little blue-rimmed reading glasses at the constable. “I assume it is a confirmation of having been hit on the back of the head with the rock.”
Constable Gupta wobbled his head in a circle, his eyes rolling around. “Sir, I don’t know, I didn’t look. You told me that you wanted to see the report first. Obedience to lawful authority is the foundation of manly character.”
Sergeant Humphries wondered what on earth his constable meant and brushed it aside as unimportant. He was content that the constable appeared to have followed his orders: he would get the news firsthand that he was right.
“Good, good, any other news?” asked the sergeant in a slightly condescending tone intended to reinforce his higher position in the hierarchy of the police force.
The sergeant had taken many years to reach his level and relished his position of local authority. Unable to conceal his irritation, Constable Gupta replied with a curt, “No, sir…”
“No news then? What have you been up to all this time?”
“I’ve compiled the list of guests from the Christmas party, as you asked, but Alfred Patterson’s boys weren’t at the party. Do I still need to interview them?”
Sergeant Humphries stroked his moustache with his index finger. “Yes, they are troublemakers, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d cut the brakes as a stupid joke. Up to no good, those two, I tell you.”
“Aren’t they just teenagers? I haven’t heard anything bad about them. Why woul—dd they wan—tt tt—to kill Peter Wigmott, Sir?” Constable Gupta said daringly, pushing his golden bracelet up his sleeve with the other hand.
Sergeant Humphries’s newfound confidence in his case-solving capabilities lifted his mood, since headquarters had told him he would not be demoted if he dealt properly with the cases. He wasn’t the first police officer to misjudge a case in its discovery stage. Eager to turn it around quickly and show his constable how to do it, he chose not to counter the constable this time but consider all viewpoints.
“You’re right, I don’t see their motive to kill Wigmott, but sometimes boys don’t realize the consequences of their acts, and for the moment we don’t have much to go on. You’ve got to go out there and question people, find out who disliked the man. Go through the list of attendees at the party. I want to know their relationship to Wigmott and check out who was supposed to participate in the snowmobile race from that party. Yes…that would be a good motive, come to think of it. Get rid of your competitor to win, with a premeditated accident: typical! You see, Gupta, often it’s that simple.”
Constable Gupta replied hesitantly, “But it might not always be what it seems…although I agree that is certainly a good explanation.”
As if he was afraid to hear the sergeant’s response, the constable rushed out of the room before he had time to reply.
Sergeant Humphries’s mood improved by the minute, having only listened to the words he wanted to h
ear from the constable confirming his reasoning. It was just a matter of finding who would want to beat Peter Wigmott or perhaps who had bet on him losing. At least he knew the realtor’s cause of death; he’d already congratulated himself on his power of observation. He had found the murder weapon, the stone, until three words stood out at the end of the report:death by electrocution. He flicked back the cover, checking the name printed on it—yes, it was the report on the realtor. He was so convinced by his conclusion that he thought there must have been an error or a mix-up in the files.
He shouted angrily to Constable Gupta to come over, his voice crossing the walls of his room. “You got the wrong report. Do I have to do everything myself? How difficult is it to print out a report!”
Constable Gupta flickered his eyelashes with the speed of a hummingbird flapping its wings and mumbled, “Sir, that is the report. I can double-check, sir.”
“Yes, you’d better—well no, eh…come here now and show me on the screen where you downloaded it. Incompetence!”
The constable came behind the desk and bent over the sergeant’s shoulder, quickly moving his mouse around until the document appeared. To the sergeant’s bewilderment, it was the same document, and the death was indeed by electrocution. He turned toward Constable Gupta, dismissing him with his hand and picking up the phone to speak with the coroner.
Sergeant Humphries argued with the coroner in vain. “But there was no evidence, no wire, nothing…just the stone, which obviously hit her, as you say it was her blood on it, and she could have been hit by it. What do you say? I can’t hear you, the noise outside…better check what’s happening. You won’t get rid of me like that, check it again and call me back!”
The sergeant stood up to look through the venetian blinds at what had caused the commotion outside the station. He couldn’t see anything from that angle, but still, hearing the shouts, he went back to the security camera system on his desk.
To his surprise, he saw what appeared to be Joe Johnson the plumber, pushed by his wife, Heather, gesticulating toward the police station entrance. The sergeant could just distinguish a few words from Heather. “Tell …sergeant…told me. Not lover…kill her.”
His curiosity rising, he went to the window, opening it slightly to hear Joe’s response that was now in a lower voice but still audible.
“I’m doing this for you. I wasn’t planning on coming here until tomorrow. They’re too busy anyway, and I’ve got nothing to do with all this. If only you could believe me!”
“You were told by the constable to come for the statement, and you didn’t yesterday, see!” shouted Heather, still looking beside herself, as if under the spell of an unstoppable rage.
Joe gestured to bring down the volume of her speech and replied in a whisper, since he suddenly seemed aware of a few people looking at them. “It’s your fault if they jail me for something I didn’t do, just because you want me to prove to you I wasn’t with her. Your jealousy…”
Bystanders looked at the pair with disbelief and pity, as if they didn’t know which one they pitied most, the betrayed wife or the man obeying his wife. They entered the police station, Joe pushing his wife in.
Constable Gupta greeted the couple from behind the white counter with his usual, “Hello, how are you doing? What can I do for you?”
Joe’s angry wife suddenly calmed down, brushing her hair back with both hands and smiling as if she only now realized there were other people around. Joe stood next to her, sulking, not saying a word. Heather seemed to transform from a nasty, jealous witch into a beautiful fairy with only good intentions. The constable appeared spellbound by her charm. Her full lips, large, innocent blue eyes carefully highlighted by black eyeliner, and auburn hair certainly had the desired effect.
She glanced sideways at Joe, stepping heavily on his toes while pushing him forward and telling the constable, “My husband here has to give his statement. He was at the house the day of the murder.”
Joe rubbed his hands together as if he was trying to wipe moisture off. “I was with Maggie Flanagan in the morning, showing her the building work I did. She can tell you that. I’ve got nothing to do with the murder, and once and for all, Fiona was never my mistress, is that clear?” He then turned to his wife. “There, are you happy now? It’s the truth.”
Joe’s tense frame eased as soon as Heather took hold of Joe’s hand and looked at the constable, batting her eyelashes in her seductive mode. “Yes, it’s true, we’re happily married, and he could never be with such a…woman. He only wants to perform his duty and avoid delays by coming forth with his statement.”
Constable Gupta stared at her for a moment then shifted his eyes to Joe. “Don’t worry, if we need a statement, I’ll tell you, but you’re not a suspect for the moment. The prime suspect is Fiona’s husband, a jealousy case. Besides, you were not present when the body was found, so you can go.”
Listening to the conversation from his office, Sergeant Humphries was trying to understand how such a woman could change from an angry beast to this sweet-sounding angel. Hearing his constable’s last words, he rose to his feet and rushed outside, forgetting that he had taken off his shoes and had his big toe sticking out from a hole in his left sock. The constable looked down at his feet with big eyes. The sergeant stopped in his tracks, still hidden from the public view. He looked down and fumed internally. He gestured to the constable to come to him.
“Excuse me for a moment, don’t leave,” said the constable to the pair.
The constable went around the bookshelves to a hidden second desk where the sergeant sat and pulled him down to his level.
The sergeant whispered in the constable’s ear, “Gupta, no, no. What on earth are you doing out there? You didn’t hear them outside shouting?”
“No, why, what have I done?”
“First, go back and get a statement from him, and I also want to know their whereabouts during the time of death.”
As the constable was about to stand up, the sergeant pulled him down again. “And stop giving out information about the cases, you understand?”
“But you did to the journalist, I thought…?
“No, no!” interrupted the sergeant, now boiling with anger. “Enough, let me do this.”
The sergeant rose to his feet, still in his socks, and pushed the constable back, nearly knocking him over. Sergeant Humphries walked to the front desk, facing Heather and Joe. A smile on both faces made him aware of his feet as he tucked them out of sight as best he could.
The words he had heard coming out of Heather’s mouth outside the police station reinforced his conviction that Fiona had been killed with a knock on the head out of jealousy, already forgetting about the coroner’s death report. He stared at Heather in an attempt to apply his silence technique, determined to get a confession out of her.
After a few minutes of silence, still looking Heather in her eyes, the belief she could have done it had disappeared into thin air when she asked him with a smile, “Sergeant, are you all right?”
The sergeant shifted on his feet, tearing himself away from her eyes toward Joe, with whom he felt more confident. “Yes, fine. I want your statement. Gupta will take it. But first, tell me where were you between noon and two o’clock?”
Joe shot a side glance at Heather, then sighed. “I had lunch on the go, picking up a sandwich at the deli, then I had a number of clients to visit.” Omitting to mention his visit to Leon LeBreton, he added quickly, “And of course in the morning I was with Maggie Flanagan, as I already told the constable. Can I leave now?”
“No, as I said, I want a statement and the names and details of your clients.”
“I don’t have them with me. You’re not going to ask them, are you? I mean, what will it look like?”
“Only to check if you’re telling the truth,” replied the sergeant.
“Can I come back tomorrow with the details?”
The sergeant, irritated with Joe’s behaviour, remembered having given Joe a
fine for speeding with his snowmobile in the village. “Yes, that’s fine. And by the way, did you participate in the Christmas snowmobile race?”
“What has that got to do with the case?”
The sergeant replied in a matter-of-fact tone, keeping to himself his growing suspicion, “Nothing for the moment, but we need to know it in relation to the death of Mr. Peter Wigmott.”
Joe looked at the sergeant, his eyebrows arched. “Oh, but I thought it was an accident.”
Feeling he might be accused of jumping to conclusions, the sergeant added, “We don’t know; we have to check things. His sled brakes were cut.”
As he said those last words, the constable’s jaw fell. He would have to explain that he said it to get more information out of Joe. It was calculated.
Joe, wide-eyed, replied, “That’s bad… Yes, I raced, for fun.”
Heather jumped to Joe’s rescue. “He isn’t into competition like the Wigmott brothers. He prefers the camaraderie and an excuse to use his snowmobile.”
The sergeant pulled a stern face and looked at the pair. “Okay, but tomorrow you have to come in, Mr. Johnson, and provide the details for your whereabouts, including on December 16. And while you’re at it, before you leave, can you give all the names of the competitors in the race on the seventeenth of December? Do you think any of them would be capable of foul play?”
After a moment of silence, Joe said, “No idea.”
“But, Joe, you told me the other day that Fred was bragging that he would win if it were not for his brother? And you should have won the other day, but he c—”
Joe squeezed Heather’s arm. “Heather, this has nothing to do with it, and Fred’s always been supportive of his brother. Sorry, Sergeant, she can sometimes imagine things, you know women…”
The sergeant laughed, thinking that it mustn’t be easy to live with a jealous Heather, but on the other hand she was really attractive, and he imagined himself for a moment being the one putting his hand on her shoulder. Before the sergeant could say anything, Joe had whisked Heather off, saying he would come back with the names of his clients, and they could always ask more questions then.
