by Amber Boffin
His attitude toward her didn’t change over time. Patrick never shared anything with her. He was always absorbed in his computer, day and night, while promptly gobbling her meals. Out of desperation, Fiona had her first lover. Feeling appreciated again, she carried on speaking until she met Leon, who was all her husband was not: outspoken, cheerful, and confident.
A second fit of rage took hold of Patrick, remembering her words: “I want a divorce. I’m leaving you, this time for good.” He had thought he would always find a way to keep her, even when she threatened him. Those had been her last words to him the morning of the day she died.
He muttered to himself that it was all his own fault; he had leapt toward her, grabbing her and shaking her like a tree. He should never had done that. Fiona might have changed her mind and certainly not be dead. She had accepted a lot and tried to make their marriage work for the sake of their son.
They married when they were very young; it had been a fling, and she became pregnant. Patrick had provided for their child, Damien, and for her during the first years, thanks to his programming skills being in high demand for new websites. Fiona was grateful of his support, but as soon as she had her own income as a realtor, found new love, and their son was out of the home, she no longer saw any reason to linger in a doomed marriage. Patrick couldn’t grasp the notion she was gone forever, in spite of the police notifying him of her death.
He had to break the news to Damien, but had always been very clumsy in communicating with him and relied on Fiona to take care of that. He had postponed the moment as long as possible. He looked at the clock and slowly picked up the phone. He felt an urge to hear a familiar voice.
Damien’s voice filled the room with questions, Patrick breathing down the line, was unable to utter a word. “Dad, I know you’re there. It’s your number. Answer! Speak, for once in your life!” Damien paused, the silence still present, and asked with fear in his voice, “Did something happen to Mom?”
“Your mother’s d—” sobbed Patrick.
“No, Dad, it’s not true, it can’t be. Did you have a fight with her again?”
“Yes, but that’s not how she died.”
“I knew it, you never cared. She was right to leave you, but too late. Was that it, then? You didn’t let her go, and now—”
Patrick couldn’t bear it any longer and hung up. The doorbell rang. He got up like a robot and opened the door to Sergeant Humphries and Constable Gupta. Patrick felt miserable and distressed at the sight of the police. Constable Gupta whispered into the sergeant’s ear that they might want to speak with him later. The sergeant waved his index finger in negation and went in. The phone rang. Sergeant Humphries asked, “Shouldn’t you answer?”
Patrick shrugged, looking at the phone, fearing his son. Sergeant Humphries signalled to Constable Gupta to pick up the phone in the hall while he guided Patrick away to the living room, his hand on his shoulder.
Constable Gupta, as calmly as he could muster, picked up the receiver and confirmed to Damien that Fiona had died. This was the first time that the constable had to convey a death to a relative of the deceased. Raj carefully explained that they were not there to arrest his father, while quickly scribbling on his notepad,Patrick possible killer according to his son.
In the dark living room, Sergeant Humphries asked Patrick bluntly, “Where were you between 11:30 a.m. and 1:30 p.m.?”
“At home, working on my database project.” His son’s words echoed in his head until the angry eyes of the sergeant froze him on the spot with a dreadful thought as he managed to utter, “You don’t think… No, I didn’t kill her, I was home!”
The sergeant used a calm, soothing voice in contrast to his threatening eyes. “Did you speak to anyone at home, or was there someone with you who could testify?”
A tight knot took hold of his throat as he shook his head slowly.
Constable Gupta came over from the other room, having scribbled notes on his pad, and held it up to the sergeant, pointing silently to a sentence on it while looking at Patrick sideways. Sergeant Humphries looked up at him, “This is serious.” He turned toward Patrick. “Your son was on the phone.”
Patrick looked up at the sergeant. “Yes, I just spoke to him. I tried telling him, but he didn’t want to listen.”
Constable Gupta burst out with a high-pitched voice, “Your son mentioned your wife wanted to leave you. Why didn’t you tell us that when I asked you on the phone if you were having trouble with your wife?”
Sergeant Humphries turned to the constable with darts in his eyes, enough to pin him in his place, wide eyed.
Turning back to Patrick, the sergeant asked, “Is that true?”
“She said that. She often threatened to, but it wasn’t serious. You know what it’s like,” replied Patrick with a sigh.
“No, I don’t,” the sergeant harshly replied.
“She was having an affair, but that never lasted,” added Patrick, feeling the need to explain himself.
The sergeant’s eyebrows drifted upward. “Is that so? Did that not make you angry? Enough to kill her?”
Patrick, feeling trapped, already regretting his disclosure, replied, “No! I told you, I didn’t! I want a lawyer, I won’t talk anymore.”
Sergeant Humphries took out his little notebook and reached for his handcuffs. “If that’s how you want it! I’m arresting you on suspicion of killing your wife, Fiona. It is my duty to inform you that you have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. Do you understand?” Having read the charter of rights from his booklet, to which Patrick uttered a small yes, the sergeant ushered him out of his house.
Patrick protested in vain, feeling his entire world had collapsed as he was bundled out of the house into the police car to the station. He caught sight of the sergeant in the rear-view mirror with a strange grin, a contented look, or was it something else? Giving up, he tucked his head into his hands, hoping to hide from the world.
Chapter Eighteen
The following morning, Maggie woke up having dreamed she had mistakenly put on the purple hat she had found near her beaver dam. The police, accusing her of withholding evidence, had taken the hat away and identified her as a prime suspect, having found her hair in it. She sat up in her bed, Carrot and Beans running around, tugging at her pyjamas.
She had to go to the police station first thing to hand over the hat and suggest they might want to check it for DNA. Feeling the weight lifted from her chest, she slipped into her sheepskin slippers, followed by the cheerful duo, and headed to the kitchen. As a backup, she had kept a few strands of hair from the hat for Amy to test. She had made sure there were enough hairs left in the hat for the police to do their job if they wanted to.
Maggie arrived at the police station. As soon as she walked in, she noticed a young, bearded man sitting in a corner, his head sunk into his chest, playing with his phone. He barely lifted his eyes when she approached, smiling at him on the way to the counter. Constable Gupta waved at them from the back of the room, where he was pouring himself a coffee, and offered them one. Seeing the young man hadn’t heard the constable, his music playing in his ears, Maggie relayed the question. He simply shook his head in response.
Maggie walked up to the counter, where Constable Gupta handed over a warm cup of coffee.
“If you want to speak with the sergeant, he’s busy with a suspect.”
“Oh, I don’t want to disturb him, but I’ve got something that might be evidence for the snowmobile case,” said Maggie in a low voice, wanting to keep her reason for the visit as confidential as possible.
“I’m sure the sergeant will want to speak to you about it, but if you’re happy to wait, I think he should be soon done,” replied the constable, shaking his wrist to reveal a golden watch.
“And is he before me?” Maggie pointed with her chin at the young man.
“No, he’s waiting for his father to bail him…” Constable Gupta looked down nervously, then took off his cap to scr
atch the back of his head.
Not wanting the constable to feel uncomfortable, Maggie said quickly, “I’ll wait, that’s fine. I’ve got time this morning. Nice coffee!”
She lifted her mug up as she walked back to the chairs along the wall, where the young man she guessed must be Fiona’s son was still sitting. The only suspect with a son that age was Patrick McLenny, from what she knew.
Maggie carefully positioned herself next to the young man. The constable was back behind the counter and had just picked up the phone that had been ringing for a while. Sensing her neighbour needed to talk, Maggie pulled some mints from her bag and offered him one. She looked at him, imagining how hard it must be for him to have just lost a mother, keen to make him feel better if she could. Perhaps if she just talked about herself, he might open up.
Maggie said, trying to determine if he was indeed Fiona’s son, “I’m here to bring evidence. Well, I’m not sure it’s evidence, but just in case, I want the police to know all I know. Often they need a lot in order to say if someone is guilty, not just a hunch. Anyway, this has nothing to do with you. I’m sorry to bother you with it.” She waited a little while, observing from the corner of her eye a tinge of curiosity. Now that Constable Gupta had left the room, she decided it was the moment to be direct. He had to be Fiona’s son; he had her nose and eyes. “I’m so sorry about your mother. I found her, you know. Please accept all my condolences. You might have heard my name. I’m Maggie, Maggie Flanagan.”
He stiffened at the news and looked at her, tears welling in his eyes.
Maggie asked softy, “You’re Fiona’s son? Am I right?”
“Yes. Damien.” He sniffed a little, wiping his tears away quickly with the back of his hand, regaining composure. “She was really great, my mom.”
Damien’s face changed to an expression of anger, his fists clenched on his lap as he looked down at the floor. “I’m here to get my dad out of jail. Don’t know why, he must have done it!”
Maggie gave him the softest look of motherly concern she could muster. “You mustn’t say that, they don’t know yet. Why do you think that?”
“Mom wanted to leave him. Dad spent his time on his computer, ignoring her, and this time she was going for it. She told me, and I can’t blame her. The only time I get to speak with him is when he asks me for something, just like the other day when I had to help him with his open-source computer program over Skype. Skipped my lunch to help him, it was so urgent…the same goddamn day Mom die…”
Maggie asked, “That must’ve been just when I found her. Or maybe? Noon or one o’clock?”
As soon as she asked her question, she regretted being so nosy, but Damien didn’t seem to mind, at least for the moment. “I’m off work at twelve thirty for an hour, and Dad took all that time. Pfff, he can be slow, I tell ya!”
Maggie’s mind was spinning. She felt happy for him. His accusations were too premature—his dad couldn’t have done it. “Maybe you should tell the police what you told me. It’s important, I think.”
Damien shrugged, sinking back into his chair, ready to close up like a clam.
Maggie insisted, “Your dad might not have done it. Don’t you see you might be his alibi…”
Damien sat up a little. Maggie waited for him to think about what she had said. Perhaps the idea would germinate in his mind, and he might view his dad in another light. Some colour returned to Damien’s cheeks, just above the thick beard. Before she could say anything else, the constable called out his name to follow him through the swinging doors.
Damien rose to his feet and directed a little smile from the corner of his mouth toward Maggie just before he marched toward the constable. Maggie wondered whether Damien would tell the police his story, and hopefully the history of his Skype call would still be there to prove it.
She had only met Patrick once at the wedding party and could hardly say she knew him. It had been difficult engaging in any form of conversation with him, aside from computers. To each question she asked he would give a short response and then remain silent.
Maggie had wondered if he would have found her too inquisitive at the time, but without asking questions, it would have been total silence. She had had a very different experience with Fiona, who was talkative and seemed to relish her questions. At the time Maggie had wondered how they could be together. She stared into the void, thinking about Damien. A bit like his mother, perhaps, and might have sided with her over the years. Maybe Fiona had a lover and was leaving her husband for that man. Hard on her husband: the type to close up.He has an alibi now, maybe, but jealousy can be so dangerous. I wish I could speak with Patrick. Did he know about her lover?
Maggie ruffled her locks with the tip of her fingers, a habit when she was thinking, as if the rubbing would stimulate her brain in coming up with the answer. A shiver snaked its way down her spine. Or maybe Patrick did it, like his son said.Oh no, then I might have pushed him to defend his father.Still, if he Skyped from his home, it wouldn’t have been possible for him to go to Mr. Bern’s house and kill Fiona after the call—it’s a thirty-minute drive at least! Or for that matter before the call, either.That leaves us with another suspect: the lover…Leon LeBreton. It has to be…
The door opened, and out came Patrick, followed by Damien and the sergeant, warning, “You’re off the hook for now, but only for now thanks to your son. I’ll keep an eye on you, and you can’t leave town, you hear me?”
Patrick, head down, shoulders drooping as if he were carrying the weight of the world on them, responded, “Whatever you say.”
Damien looked defiantly back at the sergeant, putting his hand across his father’s shoulder. “I’ll be with him, and you’d better find what happened. Come on, Dad.”
Damien marched his father out of the police station as Maggie followed them with her eyes, relieved for Damien. A dead mother was already a lot to bear, but being suspicious of your own father, that must be terrible.
The sergeant was standing just behind the swinging doors and appeared to be looking down at a paper bag Maggie was holding. She caught his glance and grasped her bag tighter in response.
Sergeant Humphries greeted Maggie. “Maggie Flanagan, more evidence, I hear. Come with me!”
She couldn’t help but notice his tongue on his lips, followed by a deep swallowing sound, as if he had had too much saliva—perhaps he was anticipating muffins…hence his pleasant greeting.I should have bought some. Once in his office, eager to dispel any ideas he might have, she placed the paper bag on the table. “I’ve brought you new evidence in this bag, or at least it could be.” She pointed to it.
The sergeant sat back in his chair as if he wanted to increase the distance between him and the bag out of disappointment, and in a hardened tone he said, “Evidence? Why now, what is it?”
“It might relate to Peter Wigmott. I found it yesterday and brought it to you as soon as I could. You mentioned I should tell you if anything else turned up.”
“Yes, yes, what is it now.”
“I found it on the other side of the road, opposite the beaver dam.”
“We’ve already combed that area. If there was something relevant we would have seen it. Must have ended up there afterward, whatever it is.”
“Yes, you’re right—”
The sergeant put his hands on the table and stood up. “Then why bother me with it—irrelevant!”
“Maybe not, if I may… It’s a hat, a purple hat. I think it might belong to the mayor, Ms. Stilton. Smell, it has her strong perfume.” Maggie opened the paper bag and placed it under the sergeant’s nose, hoping he would recognize her perfume, but it triggered a sneeze. “You see, it’s her perfume, you’re sneezing again like at the wedding party. There’s no reason for her to be walking there. Maybe she came back to pick up something that could incriminate her.”
Maggie waited a moment to see the sergeant’s reaction. Seeing he was quiet, she added, “Either someone placed it there to implicate her, or on the other h
and, of course it might not be important and could belong to anyone who would by chance wear the same perfume as Ms. Stilton. Highly unlikely, though, given she told me that it was made for her in Peru. No one else would have it. You can check it with her.”
The sergeant peered into the bag. Holding his nose with a tissue and taking a plastic glove out of his drawer, he asked, “Did you touch it with your bare hands? Maybe she just lost it, nothing special there.”
Pointing to the inside of the hat, Maggie retorted, “But look, there’re hairs in it. You can still check the DNA and ask the mayor for her DNA.”
“You’ve watched too many movies. For a hat like this, a bit farfetched, no?”
“Why, maybe there’s DNA from other suspects. Patrick for instance. It would help prove your case.”
Contemplating her view, the sergeant smoothed his grey moustache with his index finger as if he were checking that all hairs were in the right place.
“Well, yes, people can lie and have alibis. His son can lie for him. Maybe…” Then, angrily, the sergeant added, “Anything else you’ve got to complicate things?”
Maggie shook her head vigorously, her curls bouncing off her cheeks like little springs. She stood up, feeling it best to leave before the sergeant might get too grumpy; being muffinless, it seemed to be the safest move.
Out in the fresh air, Maggie closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. She was determined to find a way to speak with Patrick. She needed more information to rest assured he wasn’t involved, although her gut feeling told her he couldn’t have done it. An idea germinated in her head:A website, yes I need a website for my photography business, and he builds them, I think. That’s it, I’ll ask.
