Murder in Hum Harbour

by Jayne E. Self

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if I just dropped it by her house?”

  “Would you?” Mimi flung her arms around me. “You are such a love. Whatever would I do without you?”

  Edna Sinclair, Third Church’s organist and choir director, is a sprightly eighty-one-year-old who prides herself in her youthful complexion. She credits it to twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep every night and Mimi’s geranium-infused face creams, of which she’d apparently run out. Definitely a serious predicament.

  “Just set the bag inside her back door,” Mimi said. “Edna’ll know what it is and she’ll be so thrilled I haven’t forgotten her.”

  As I’ve mentioned before, Hum Harbour is a lock-free community. Apart from maybe Ross Murray and those of us with downtown businesses, we locals live with an open door policy. You need something? Come on in. So Mimi’s request was not the least bit odd. Really.

  When I arrived at Mimi’s house, her dachshund triplets, Oscar, Meyer and Frank, greeted me at her door. They spilled over each other in a writhing mass of stubby legs and elongated bellies, desperate for affection. As far as they were concerned, there was never enough love to go around. I took my time playing with the dogs, significantly depleting Mimi’s stash of dog biscuits during their favorite game, Catch the Cookie. After all, there was no rush. Edna wouldn’t be awake for hours.

  I kicked off my shoes by the back door and padded to Mimi’s room at the side of the house. On the way by, I poked my nose in Mike’s home office. It seemed the handheld GPS he’d taken on his treasure hunt was no longer a secret. It sat on the computer desk between the laser mouse and an mp3 player. I was tempted to pause a moment and listen to a tune, but Mike loved Country, and well, let’s just say I didn’t.

  Mimi’s room contained stacks of Celtic CD’s neatly shelved beside her CD player. Apart from the table lamps, her CD player was the only electric appliance in the room. I found the jar of cream where Mimi said, and the little blue and white gift bags in the cupboard, but her business card holder was empty.

  Hmmm. I tugged my ponytail as I surveyed the room, trying to decide where Mimi might keep her cards. They weren’t shelved beside the gift bags or the tissue wrap or the empty jars. They weren’t stowed with the stationary or Mimi’s boxed supply of paperclips and felt-tipped pens. They weren’t in the wooden box containing her special recipes for facial masks and herbal potions, or in the Rolodex file that recorded her clients and what sorts of things they used.

  My hand hovered over the Rolodex, fingers trembling like a witching stick over water. Dare I peek?

  Instead I checked Mimi’s desk drawers. Since she’d told me to include her card in Edna’s package I felt justified snooping. But Mimi’s Rolodex?

  Gosh it was tempting and really who’d ever know, besides Oscar, Meyer and Frank?

  I remembered the week Doc announced his retirement. I’d come back early from lunch and discovered Doc and Mimi arguing in his office. The two were so hard at it, neither noticed me trying not to listen.

  Doc accused Mimi of some kind of unethical practice, but Mimi wasn’t backing down. At least not until Doc threatened to expose her.

  “You’re playing a dangerous game,” Doc said. “And I can’t effectively treat Mike until you stop.”

  “What I give my husband is completely harmless.”

  “If it’s so harmless, why do you sneak it into his food? Why not tell him up front what you’re doing to him?”

  “You know perfectly well why I can’t tell him.”

  “Mimi, you have to stop this immediately or I’ll tell Mike myself. I can’t keep this a secret.”

  “You break my confidence and you’ll regret it. Sasha and Sam aren’t the only ones who can bring charges against you.”

  “I’ve done nothing illegal.”

  “You’ll be broke before you can prove that, though.” The door slammed on her way out.

  OK, maybe Mimi hadn’t backed down.

  I glanced down her hallway, making sure no one was about, and flipped on Mimi’s desk light. It seemed I just couldn’t resist browsing through her Rolodex and really, what harm was there?

  I found Mike’s card in her rotary file and, using a sticky note I found in her desk drawer, I copied what she’d recorded. Vitex agnus-castus. The Latin wasn’t much help so I tried looking it up in one of her reference books. I could find Vitex-this and Vitex-that but not the kind Mimi was apparently giving her husband.

  Back in Mike’s office, I used his computer to search for Vitex agnus-castus. According to the articles I found, the plant was traditionally called Chaste Tree and was used to treat PMS and other female complaints. It stimulated progesterone production. Even I knew men didn’t need progesterone. Why would she give it to Mike?

  I was rereading the article when Geoff Grant filled the doorway, his frown deepening the clefts in his cheeks. “If you think Mike is mixed up in Doc’s death why risk snooping around in his house?”

  Seeing him face to face for the first time since I made an idiot of myself the night before, proved awkward. My cheeks flushed warm and I hoped he interpreted my embarrassment as guilt for being caught.

  “I’m not snooping. I’m running an errand for Mimi.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I know. She sent me to tell you where she put her new business cards. They’re not in Mike’s office, by the way.”

  The dogs, who should have been barking, lay stomach up at his feet. Obviously, he’d been rubbing them for a while before he spoke. Little traitors.

  “Since you’re here, come look at this and tell me what it means,” I invited.

  He stepped up behind me and read. “I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.”

  “But why give this stuff to Mike?”

  “Mimi gave this to Mike? That doesn’t make sense. Does he have prostate cancer?”

  “Not that I ever heard of.”

  “Then there’s no reason. You must have misinterpreted something”

  “A couple weeks ago I overheard Mimi and Doc arguing. They were threatening each other. I wanted to know if it was connected to what’s been happening. Besides, Mimi has access to your apartment. She could sneak up and stick poison in the tuna you feed Sheba.”

  “You honestly think your cousin would hurt your cat?”

  “Sheba’d never take food from a stranger.”

  He dug his fists into his pockets. “So it’s Mimi or me. Is that why you were crying last night?”

  “No.” Lori’s late night question came to mind, though. Was I afraid Geoff might be involved in Doc’s murder? Should I be? “I don’t know. Maybe. You’ve said things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “You’ve hinted at some shameful secret, something terrible that happened to you in Africa. And you have all those poison books. I know it’s hateful for me to even think it, but nothing bad happened in Hum Harbour before you moved home. It was quiet and peaceful and everyone was happy—”

  “If Hum Harbour’s truly the Eden you imagine, how come Sam’s cheating on my sister, Ross Murray is gambling away his fortune, Mimi’s doping her husband and Bud Fisher is drinking himself into a stupor? You know, Gailynn, you never mention Bud when you’re dealing out suspects.”

  “Because he’s Lori’s dad.”

  “So he automatically gets a free pass?”

  “I don’t want him to be involved.”

  “But it’s OK if I am?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Geoff reached over my shoulder and hit sleep on the computer’s keyboard. The screen went dark.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Geoff said. “There are some things I need to tell you.”

  25

  “I’d like to go someplace quiet where we won’t be bothered,” Geoff said.

  “The cemetery? No one will be there until this afternoon.”

  So that’s where we went.

  In Hum Harbour, the cemetery’s the end of the road both figuratively and literally. It’s bee
n the final resting place for local residents for over two hundred years, which is about as old as it gets by Canadian standards. There’s a section where the grave markers are so lichen-covered they’re indecipherable. And when the fog rolls in and the waves smash against the rocks below, it feels like you’ve been transported to another world, another time.

  That morning the sky was heavy. Dark rain clouds clung to the hills, trailing misty fingers down the steep slopes. The cemetery’s grass was neon green, fresh cut and fragrant in preparation for Doc’s interment. We could see the pile of dark earth that marked his waiting grave. In case there were more preparations necessary, we strolled to the far end of the graveyard where a stone bench sits under a weather-twisted evergreen. The bench is made from the ballast stones of the HMS Humphrey, the boat that carried the original settlers to Hum Harbour back in 1779. The bench was wet but Geoff spread his jacket and we sat on it.

  “It’ll take me a while to get used to all this green,” he said. “Somalia was so brown. Dry, dusty earth, never enough water. I’d imagined coming home would be like stepping into a garden and it is in a way. I just forgot about the snakes. I thought I’d left them all in Africa.”

  I didn’t interrupt.

  “Have you ever heard anyone tell you, you can’t run away from your problems? They follow you wherever you go? Maybe not you. You don’t run away from things.”

  “You do?”

  He shrugged. “I think I can say in all honesty that moving to Africa was as much about avoiding Hum Harbour as it was about following God’s call. I wanted to escape. Our parents were dead, Sasha happily married—or so I thought—nothing to keep me in Nova Scotia.”

  “It wasn’t God’s call?”

  “Yes, it was. But His call meant my freedom, at least that’s what I used to think.” He clasped his hands between his knees. “How much do you know about Somalia’s politics?”

  “There’s a civil war and millions of people are homeless. And there are these guys that ride horses and raid the refugee camps. I saw something about them on the news once.”

  He nodded. “They steal young boys and turn them into warriors. They execute the men they consider dangerous. They rape the women.”

  “Is there nothing anyone can do?”

  “We tried, but it was clear we’d never succeed. All we could do was offer medical help.”

  “How many of you were there?”

  “At our camp? Seven doctors, a dozen nurses. We came from around the world, different backgrounds, different languages, one hope. I grew especially close to one man, Amado, a Spanish priest. He truly lived the scripture ‘faith without works is dead.”

  “Is he still there?”

  Geoff stared at the swirling cove below. “Do you remember what I told you about trust?”

  I nodded.

  “We’d made a truce with the local officials. We’d care for any wounded who came our way and in turn they would protect us from the various militias working in our area. Despite the government’s promise, though, we received no protection.”

  I waited.

  “No matter when a shipment of medical supplies was due, the militias found out. They’d ride through the camp, stampeding the tents, firing their guns in the air, and in the midst of the confusion they’d steal whatever they could. Amado believed someone was informing the militias, so he came up with a plan to deliver our next shipment of antibiotics and morphine ahead of schedule. Then we’d hide them in an abandoned well. We needed the drugs desperately and we thought our scheme would work.”

  Geoff plucked a blade of grass and folded in half and half again.

  “Instead of slipping into camp quietly, like Amado had arranged, the trucks arrived with a flashy government escort. They couldn’t have garnered more attention if they set off fireworks. Before we could even start unloading the trucks, we were attacked. Total chaos.”

  I pressed my hands to my mouth.

  “Several people were caught in the crossfire, including Amado. I told myself he was hit by a stray bullet, but the others thought he’d been targeted. You see, selling our supplies on the black market could raise millions. Everyone from the informants to the raiders would get a cut of the profits. Amado was bad for business.”

  I touched the back of his hand. “Geoff, I’m so sorry.”

  “Miraculously Amado wasn’t killed. He was med-evaced back to Spain and I went along, stayed with him in Barcelona until he started rehab.”

  His eyes seemed a darker blue than usual, their color as tumultuous as the waves below. “Then I came home. Doc’s offer to sell me the practice was God-sent and I grabbed onto it with both hands. But as much as I wanted to come home to Hum Harbour, Gailynn, I didn’t kill Doc for his practice. I’m too much of a coward to harm anyone.”

  Unable to hold his gaze I stared at our hands.

  “Now you know.”

  I didn’t believe for a minute that Geoff Grant was a coward, but I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t be glib or insulting. So for once in my life, I had the wisdom to hold my tongue. God was answering my prayer after all, just in a way I didn’t expect.

  Geoff slowly turned his hand over and I threaded my fingers between his. We watched the rain on the grass.

  Bud Fisher drove by on the dirt track above the cemetery. His old diesel pickup made so much noise it drowned out the whoosh of the waves pounding the shore below us. He threw something out the driver’s side window and kept going. A crow flew down from an evergreen to check what Bud had tossed. Apparently it was nothing interesting because he flew back to his shelter empty-handed. Or was that empty beaked?

  26

  It was hard to believe one week ago Doc was happily sailing towards his Caribbean retirement. Sitting in the pew at Third Church, watching people file up to the front and pay their last respects to Doc Campbell in his open casket, I thought cliché thoughts about the frailty of life and the unexpectedness of death. If ever anyone understood that, it was Geoff.

  For five years Geoff had battled man’s darkest side—sickness, greed, corruption—until he could bear it no more. He came home hoping to exchange the Somalian camp’s misery for green grass and good old Canadian goodness. Instead, he was once again face-to-face with man’s sinfulness at its extreme. Someone had murdered Doc Campbell. What was more wicked than that?

  The church was already crowded when I arrived and I found a vacant spot near the back. Geoff sat directly behind me. I could feel his gaze branding my neck.

  When he first told me his secret, I’d been overwhelmed. I knew I had to be sympathetic. I couldn’t walk away. But since then I’d been struggling to decide how I should react to him. Acting like nothing between us had changed, which was what I’d been going for, didn’t seem to be working. People kept glancing at me as though I had some kind of sign emblazoned on my forehead. Maybe if I could have read the sign I’d have had a better handle on my emotions.

  Bud walked down the aisle. He was clean-shaven, his curling grey hair neatly combed. He wore his funeral suit and dark tie. He hadn’t looked this neat since Ellen’s memorial service.

  Lori’s hand rested on his arm. Immaculate in the form fitting black suit, she looked equally funereal. She nodded, a fleeting pucker between her beautifully arched brows. No doubt she remembered my panicked phone call at one in the morning and attributed my rebar-stiff spine to that.

  If I seemed confused then, how would I describe what I was feeling now?

  Was I angry about what Geoff had told me? Yes. How could people do the vile things he described, and live with themselves? Was I frightened? Definitely. If evil could triumph in Somalia, why not in Canada? In Hum Harbour? Who was going to stop it?

  Someone famous, I can’t remember who, once said that for evil to triumph, all you need is for good people to do nothing. Would I be one of those good people who sat on their hands while evil ran rampant in the streets of Hum Harbour? Should I sit silently in my pew and risk my village’s future? My heart p
ounded against my ribs. There was more than a golf course at stake here, and I, for one, thought ensuring the peace and security of my village was worth any risk I had to take.

  Blissfully unaware of the riot of emotions bouncing around inside of me, Ross and Rickie Murray nodded their greeting as they followed Lori down the aisle. They also wore black, although their clothes screamed haute couture, Ross keeping the myth of his limitless wealth alive. I noticed when they paused to admire Rickie’s vase of white orchids, his fists clenched. Was it grief at his friend’s passing, the price of the vase, or memories of a glass-smashing spree at Dunmaglass that moved him?

  There were flowers everywhere. I’m no big fan of lilies but they seemed to be the blossom of choice. Rickie’s orchids stood out like pearls among pebbles.

  Mimi wore a navy flowered dress with a lace collar, Mike his gray suit. Mike owned two suits and alternated them. Tomorrow he’d wear the navy pin stripe to church. They walked hand in hand, to all the world a happy couple. Who’d imagine pleasantly freckled Mimi was doping her husband with women’s hormones? Or why?

  A slight commotion ensued at the back of the church and I swiveled in my seat. Vi Murray, in emerald green, was greeting Marjorie Campbell Murray, Doc’s long lost sister and Ross Murray’s first wife. I hadn’t seen Marjorie since she taught me in Sunday school as a kid. Her long face looked sterner than ever, although maybe that had more to do with Vi’s embrace than anything else. She endured it without comment. Of course everyone was watching, waiting to see how she’d react towards the woman who stole her husband.

  Murder in Hum Harbour

  Marjorie lifted her cleft chin and showed a stiff smile. She excused herself, probably escaping to the washroom until the last possible moment.

  Meanwhile, Andrew wedged himself into the narrow space beside me. His rusty eyebrows shot up as he read the tension in my stiff posture. “You OK?”