by Amber Boffin
“What?” She checked if John was wearing a parachute, and in doing so she inadvertently pushed the yoke away from her, and the plane dove suddenly.
“Be careful, steady now…level it again,” John said calmly.
Maggie corrected herself, steadying the plane, focused entirely on the task, while John, his hands on the commands, was ready to take over any moment. Releasing his grip, his hands now on his lap, he said, “Good, you caught up well, but you shouldn’t have such brusque reactions. You’ll learn.”
Maggie nodded, feeling her cheeks warmed by the emotion. He waited till the plane was again cruising at the desired altitude before continuing. “Before I could say anything, the instructor informed me that this was it, my first solo trip in the bush.”
“But how can that be?”
“I’ll always remember his words: ‘You’re ready, John, you no longer need me. Have a good flight!’ And then I only saw his back with the parachute and then an empty seat next to me.”
“That’s crazy! How did you react? Your first solo flight is already a big thing.”
“I expected my first solo flight and knew they had the habit of not warning you ahead when it would be, but never with him jumping out of the plane! I had to sing to relax.” He started to whistle, taking over the commands from her.
Maggie stared at him and whispered, still holding on to the yoke, “No way to escape! Exciting but hard to know how one would react. Just the thought of a solo flight would be enough for me to sing, and that’d be on the tarmac where I could always back out…but this…do you practice the same teaching?”
John laughed, throwing his head back. “No, don’t worry. I won’t jump out of the plane! At the time I had asked my instructor to land on a river to see what it felt like and see if I’d be cut out for what I wanted to do. I wanted the experience before going solo, for my own sake, as a reassurance. I think he thought I might have been a daredevil who needed to be cooled off a little. Before you can learn how to land on a river, you have to have many hours flying. It is a long course to become a bush pilot. Lots of extreme situations are explored.”
“A bush pilot, a dream, to fly in Africa and see the wildlife…” Maggie imagined herself for a moment at the helm of her father’s plane on a photo expedition.
“If you’re up for it I’ve got the qualifications to train you all the way, but I don’t approve of the extreme teaching I got. It’d be safe.”
Maggie looked at the dials on the dashboard, dreaming of adventure, and in the spur of the moment she replied, “Yes, I’d like it, my father would have loved that.”
“Your name is Flanagan, right?”
Maggie nodded.
“I remember a Mr. Flanagan on the logbooks here. I knew the yellow plane was his; I even dusted it the other day, hoping to see it fly again.”
They remained silent for a long while. Maggie looked out of the window and noticed the familiar shape of the hexagonal log building of Moose lodge. She followed Lake View Road and spotted her house along Otter Lake and behind it her woods and the beaver dam. She asked John for a flyby so she could take pictures.
He flew low, following the road, and made a 180-degree turn, allowing her a better look at her house. Maggie pointed down, asking him to do another flyover, since she had spotted what seemed to be tire marks on the road running diagonally on the right side of the road and on the left side toward the beaver dam.
It was strange not having noticed any when she walked there, and the police clearly hadn’t seen anything either. From above Maggie could clearly see a pattern, although it wasn’t well defined, as if a car had driven across from the right to the left toward the beaver dam, making a U-turn there, a dangerous manoeuvre whether in a curve or driving across.
“Got it, thanks.”
“We’re heading back now, all right?”
“Of course, you’re the pilot.” Maggie laughed, enjoying every bit of the trip.
He turned the plane in the direction of the airport and pointed out the different cell phone towers as reference points and the horizon, both on the instruments and ahead.
“I won’t let you land. It’s the hardest part, and I am expected alive and kicking at the service on Sunday.” John winked at her.
The flight was over before Maggie could come to grips with what she had done. It felt so easy, so natural to her. She was eager to start her flying apprenticeship as soon as possible.
Feeling lightheaded from the excitement, she headed back home to savour her experience by viewing the pictures. There in the middle of her emails a response from Patrick popped out.
The hook had worked; he seemed interested in discussing her project. Although Maggie was curious to visit him at his place, and seeing someone’s home could give her clues, she felt it appropriate to have him come to her home, thinking he might need to be away from the house he had shared with Fiona. To quell her apprehension at being alone with Patrick, still a possible suspect, she would let him know that Adam was aware of her visit.
The following day would be perfect. Maggie busied herself with preparing for the meeting all evening, identifying websites she liked, only interrupted by Carrot and Beans chasing each other around and hiding under her desk.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For the first time, Damien cooked dinner for his father. They had never spent an evening together, just the two of them. Sadly, it had to be the dreadful loss of Fiona that brought them together. He wasn’t prepared for his father’s undivided attention. He might have longed for it but had gotten used to living without it. He was uncomfortable with his father staring at him, trying to read him without knowing what to say. He started to feel desperate for a diversion when he heard the ping of a new email coming in on his father’s computer.
“Dad, you’ve got mail.”
“It can wait. It’s not as important as us now.”
“But Dad, maybe it is. I can look!”
Damien hoped there would be something to spur him out of his gloom. He knew how much his father enjoyed his work, and for once he thought he would welcome a new project for him. In the past he had hated when his dad seemed never to have time for him; work, always work came first, but now it might be the solution.
Damien couldn’t have hoped for a better distraction when he clicked on it: an email from Maggie. He liked her for some reason, felt he could trust her and that she was on his side. It took some convincing to make his father read the email and then respond reluctantly when he said, “Do it for me, Dad. I think she’s a nice person, and it might be a fun project. You need a distraction.”
“But I thought of taking time off to be with you.”
“That’s a nice thought, but I’m busy too. Besides, you can always ask me if you need my help for it. I’d find it fun to work with you on a website.”
As they sat back in their recliner armchairs, with bottles of beer in their hands, having responded to the email, another ping sounded from the computer. Damien jumped up, as if expelled by the chair. It was a reply from Maggie, just what he had hoped for to pull his father out of his gloom. Nothing like having him focus on work, like he always did.
*
The next morning, Maggie was playing with Carrot and Beans in her backyard when Patrick pulled up. The dogs barked at the car as he slowly brought the window down to speak with her.
“They’re all right, you should be okay.” A little puzzled by his pale face, she whisked the pair away from him. “I’ll put them away.”
As he shook her hand and stroked his shaven chin, it dawned on her that his beard was missing; it can alter a man’s face tremendously, perhaps a sign of desire for change.
Patrick seemed shy, not daring to look at her in the eyes, clutching his computer bag awkwardly, although they had met before at the wedding party. Maggie had prepared scones with jam and tea, hoping to ease the atmosphere.
Maggie could tell Patrick wasn’t used to face-to-face meetings. He waited for her to ask questions and mak
e conversation, otherwise not uttering a word. Sitting next to her on her couch, a little colour appeared in his cheeks as he sipped his tea with a mouth full of scones, clicking through websites he had made.
Perhaps he was simply hungry and hadn’t cooked for himself. A sliver of jam dripped onto her keyboard. Flustered, Patrick dug into his pocket for a tissue, and with it a ring fell out onto the floor, rolling under the couch. Maggie dove down on all fours to retrieve it while Patrick noisily attempted to clean the keyboard.
Pulling a large ring from behind the sofa skirt, she recognized it straight away. It was the same chunky ring with an A she had seen Fred Wigmott playing with. Pushing herself back up with one hand on the couch, still kneeling on one leg, she held up the ring between her index finger and thumb and looked at Patrick straight in the eyes to capture his reaction.
“Patrick, you dropped this.” She noticed his hand fidget when she evaluated his finger size quickly. His left eye twitched as she asked, “A bit small for you?”
“I found it in my wife’s things. I’ve never seen it before. Probably given to her by one of her—”
Maggie interrupted him, noticing the bitterness in his tone. “Doesn’t look like that sort of ring, more like a college ring. I’ve seen a bigger version elsewhere, on Wig—” She stopped short when she saw Patrick turn red and hold his fist tight. Afraid that he’d get angry with her—and who knew what he was capable of?—she softly said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It must be hard for you.”
Patrick seemed to soften, like a child reassured by his mother.
“It’s okay, it’s just the name Wigmott. I can’t stand him. All his fault.”
The affair between Fiona and a Wigmott brother might be the missing link between the two cases Maggie was looking for. Fascinated by the ring she had just handed back to Patrick, Maggie remembered where she had seen it another time: the photograph, on the mayor, and on Peter Wigmott, not on his brother.
“Could it be?” she muttered.
Patrick looked at her. “What?”
“An idea, sorry, I should explain. I’m interested in what happen-ed to your wife. It’s just that I found her and can’t get her image out of my mind. Her death is a mystery.”
“Yes, it sure is. If only I could get hold of who did it!”
“Did your wife know the mayor, Ms. Stilton?”
“No, not more than I do, just by name. Fiona never spoke about her, but she didn’t tell me everything, and I wasn’t very receptive anyway.” Patrick sighed.
“But she knew Fred Wigmott?” Maggie hesitated with her question, fearing she might upset him again, but she wanted to confirm the relationship.
“Fred Wigmott? No, his brother Peter Wigmott, the one who died.”
“I see.” Maggie couldn’t help staring at him, wondering if he could have killed Peter.
“Fiona had nothing to do with his death, I’m sure. Or me, before you get any ideas. And it was years ago!” he exclaimed.
“I’m not suggesting anything, I just—well, Fred Wigmott had the same ring, you see.”
Patrick looked puzzled, not understanding her. She asked, “Do you mind if I take a picture of the ring? It might be useful to find out who killed Fiona.”
“You can have it. I don’t want anything to do with it, especially if it has something to do with Peter Wigmott!” He threw the ring back at her with a disgusted look.
Maggie felt unsure; on the one hand she wanted to keep the ring, but on the other she might be getting into trouble by taking it. She put it on the table so he could pick it up if he wanted. “So Peter was, errr, her…”
Patrick nodded, looking away from her and picking up the computer. Maggie felt it would neither be wise nor considerate to try to get more information out of him. She still hung on to the belief he wasn’t responsible for his wife’s death, although a question remained for Peter Wigmott’s death. She somehow had to confront Ms. Stilton with her relationship with Peter Wigmott.
She followed Patrick’s gaze to a series of little bags lined up on her desk with names on them. She had forgotten to put away the bags ready to receive the DNA samples she planned to collect and give to Amy—if she would test them. Maggie still hadn’t spoken to her. She quickly said, afraid he’d ask about them, “Oh, those are milkweed seeds I was planning on giving to cottagers who want more monarch butterflies to visit their garden.”
She piled them up, hoping he hadn’t spotted his name on one of them. With his thick glasses hopefully he would not have been able to read her writing from that distance. She had to divert his focus just in case.
“I’m sorry, I mustn’t bother you with my questions, and I should be trying to make you think of other things! I met your son, Damien, a nice young man. I hope you’re spending time together.”
Patrick’s frown disappeared, and his face softened. “Yes, he is, and I try to. He sent me here, though, when I wanted to spend the day with him.” He nodded as if he didn’t understand the reason.
If Damien sent him, he must have been trying to cheer his dad up, which meant that her asking for a website was a good idea after all. She was relieved that her email had been taken the intended way. She liked Damien. She felt he was a genuine and kind person. Keen to appear enthusiastic about him to his father, she said, “Really, that’s nice of him!”
“Would you be okay if he’d also work on the website? He’s good at design.”
“Sure, and I imagine it’ll be fun for you to work together. I’m impressed by the selection of sites you sent me. Did Damien also work on those?”
“No, but he’s really good, you’ll see.”
Seeing a smile on his face for the first time, she added, “When can you start, and what do you need from me for it?”
“Right away, I think you’ve told me all I need for now. I’ll get Damien to contact you for the design.”
“Great, we have a deal!”
Maggie heard a commotion outside; her dogs were barking at something. This was the perfect interruption to usher Patrick out. She felt excited by her findings.
The thrush singing melodiously from the top of the spruce tree seemed to send a message to her. “You need a walk to clear your mind, listen to the birds, they will sort things out for you.” She could always use as an excuse that the dogs needed it, but in reality, she needed to be in nature to relax and put perspective into her thoughts. Her heartbeat slowed down, and her ideas drifted and reorganized themselves on their own as she walked, looking around at the new buds on the maple trees.
There it was, the entire chain of events. It all fitted together, but how to prove it was another story…
Chapter Twenty-Four
Leon LeBreton felt cornered. His anxiety was gnawing at him. He had to confide in someone, share his burden. Once again he thought of telling Joe about the scarf, in his mind the only person aware of his relationship with Fiona and therefore the only option. He could tell him he had been foolish to retrieve the tulip scarf. He couldn’t tell him about the letter; Joe might jump to conclusions, already having accused him once of her murder. Before he could implement anything, Leon heard a knock on the front door.
“Police. We need to talk.”
Sergeant Humphries’s voice hit Leon like a blast and urged him to run away from it. In a panic, he looked around the room at the nearest escape and raced to the window, lifted the double-paned window and slipped out. In the rush, he hadn’t taken into account Constable Gupta, who had been walking around the house to see if there was another entrance.
Leon bumped into the constable and froze on the spot. Overwhelming fear made him feel cold. How could he explain his behaviour? Constable Gupta looked behind him as if he were looking for someone chasing him. Leon was unable to utter a word. Sergeant Humphries ran with difficulty toward them and stopped, out of breath, looking around.
“Nothing the matter, no one is chasing him. Not sure why he is in such a state,” said Constable Gupta, his hands on his belt, still s
tanding in front of Leon.
Leon followed the sergeant’s eyes as he scanned the area and fell upon the open window he had just gone through. The sergeant walked up to it and knelt down, pointing to a large footprint at the bottom of the wall in the soft soil.
“Now, what do we have here? A big footprint…” As he said those words, he stood up and walked toward Leon.
Leon was desperately thinking of a reason to explain his behaviour when Sergeant Humphries confronted him, lifting his trousers as far as they could go under his belly. He spread his legs to steady himself and tilted his head backward.
“Why were you running away from us?”
Leon looked down without responding.
“I’m asking you again, why were you running away from us?”
Leon mustered what was left of his courage to hide his emotions. “Why are you here?” He knew the best defence when under attack could be a counterattack. This time, however, it didn’t seem to work as the sergeant’s moustache trembled at its sides, just before he thundered in his ear.
“Why did you withhold important information from us relating to Ms. Fiona McLenny? You knew her better than you let us believe…”
Exhausted from holding back his secret, he feared it was too late; they must have found out about the scarf. It had to be the reason for their presence. Leon broke down in tears.
“I panicked. I only wanted to pick her scarf up as a memento. You see, I gave it to her. I wasn’t thinking straight, I was drunk when I broke into Mr. Bern’s house after you’d cordoned it off.”
Leon was confused by the surprised look on the sergeant’s face. Had he spoken too soon? They didn’t know about the scarf, that was it. He felt miserable and betrayed by his own fear.
Sergeant Humphries replied, “I knew it! You returned to the crime scene to retrieve evidence. Why else would anyone in his right mind break into a crime scene?”
“But I didn’t do it, I just…”
Before the sobbing Leon could say anything else, Sergeant Humphries announced, “Leon LeBreton, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Ms. Fiona McLenny and breaking into police investigation grounds, thereby attempting to deviate the course of justice.” Flicking open his little black notebook, the sergeant read the charter of rights. “It is my duty to inform you that you have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. Do you understand?” Leon nodded, a large knot in his throat building up. The sergeant continued with his reading. “You are charged with breaking into a crime scene. Do you wish to say anything in answer to the charge? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say may be given in evidence.”
