Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Menzies

  “Get used to it,” he said, knowing he never would. “I’ve seen lots worse.”

  Ryan grimaced, then took a firm grip on the strap of her purse. “What do we do now?”

  “We talk to the pathologist here and see if he can determine the cause of death. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “You know?”

  “I think so. What do you think?”

  Ryan bit her lip and moved closer to see past the kneeling doctor. “Her face looks flushed, but that could be just lividity from the blood pooling there since she was lying on her stomach. However, I’d say the other facial features and the bruising on her neck indicate strangulation.”

  “That’s right,” agreed the small man, who stood up and began dusting the knees of his pants. “A lot of bruising on the back of the neck and a line around the neck. Straight line. No noticeable abrasions or scratching.”

  Manziuk was writing in a small coil notebook. “Something smooth?”

  “That’s right. Smooth and thin.”

  “Scarf?”

  “Maybe, but I’d prefer something firmer. A smooth rope, if there is such a thing.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Rigor mortis is just starting. ’Course, it’s awfully hot. Speed things up. Some lividity. Still on the warm side. I’d guess not earlier than 2:00 p.m.”

  “The body was found shortly after 4:00 p.m.,” Constable Waite said.

  “No question it was murder?” Manziuk asked Munsen flatly, knowing the answer.

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Okay.”

  “Terrible thing,” said the pathologist. “I hope you catch him.”

  “Him?”

  “What? Oh, I see. No, not necessarily. A strong woman could have done it. If it were done quickly, so the victim didn’t struggle too much, it could have been over in a couple of minutes. No, you can’t rule out the women.” The stooped, slightly shabby doctor leaned over to study the neck again. “See the marks at the front of her neck there?” he asked. “She clawed at the rope. Not for long, though. Whoever did it had no hesitation. A very fast, clean job.”

  “When can you do the autopsy?” Manziuk asked.

  “Got to stand in line. Not before three tomorrow afternoon. Do my best to work it in. Should be straightforward enough, poor thing.”

  “Was she killed here?”

  “From her position, I’d suggest she was sitting on the bench and someone got behind her. Afterward, she seems to have toppled off the bench face first.”

  Manziuk looked around. About eight feet in front of the bench, a unique Japanese waterfall gave forth a tiny stream of water that likely fascinated many visitors to the house. He’d seen something similar in a Vancouver garden he’d visited with his wife years ago. Someday he’d like to put something like that in his own backyard. A curiosity. But for now that was beside the point. Not to mention impossible due to lack of time.

  But he had more time than the girl who maybe a few hours ago had been watching that fountain but was now lying dead.

  He continued to stare at the fountain and bench for a moment. Then, as if remembering where he was, he turned and saw the small group from Ident waiting. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Thinking. You’ve done a preliminary search?”

  “Yes, sir.” Special Constable Ford stepped out from the others. “Not much. Considering it’s outdoors, this place is clean as a whistle. We found a couple of cigarette butts, a wrapper from a chocolate bar, and this,” he held out a paper bag and Manziuk took it. Inside was something that looked like a loose wreath made from some kind of daisies. “Could mean something, I guess,” Ford said.

  “Let me jot down a few things and then I’ll release the body.” Manziuk made more notes. Then he pulled out a sketch pad.

  “What now?” Ryan asked.

  “Now we do a sketch of the scene. Got a pad?”

  “I have a recorder.” She opened her purse and pulled out a tiny black unit.

  “Nice. But what’s that got to do with the scene?”

  “I can describe it on tape. Same result. Besides, there’s a team to take photos and a video.”

  “Sure there is. But what if the batteries fail or the film won’t develop properly or the tape gets wrecked? What then?”

  “All those things won’t happen.”

  “Maybe. But I still do my own sketches. It helps me think.”

  There was silence as he began a quick drawing of the body, the bench, and the fountain. Then he pulled a measuring tape out of his pocket. He walked to the bushes behind the bench. He turned to look at Ryan, who was standing still. “Before we do anything else, we go over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb. We talk to the witnesses later. After we have some kind of idea what we’re talking about.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Watch.”

  She bit her bottom lip.

  He went over every inch of ground in the clearing and the area surrounding the body, measuring and recording the measurements on the sketch he had drawn.

  “I could be helping,” she said at last.

  “How many cases have you been on in homicide so far?”

  “This is my first, but—”

  “So watch and learn.”

  When he’d finished the sketch, he pulled out his own recorder and went over the scene and the measurements on it.

  “Okay, the body’s all yours,” he said to the Forensics Team as he put his notebook and tape recorder away.

  A few minutes later, with Ryan hurrying to match his long strides, Manziuk followed Constable Waite’s directions through the garden to the back of the house. In a way, he wished his wife were here. She would have enjoyed the garden.

  Well, he couldn’t say his job didn’t take him to interesting places. Not all as ritzy as this, though. Not by a long shot.

  When they passed through the wooden archway that marked the end or beginning of the garden, depending on which way a person was going, Manziuk took a few more long strides and then turned to look behind. Little chance that anyone not at the scene of the murder could have witnessed what had taken place. The shrubs and hedges and manicured trees were too dense.

  He turned and gazed up at the side of the imposing house. There were five windows, three on ground level and two above. He’d have to have a look out them.

  He continued down the pathway. In front of them was a large swimming pool surrounded by tiled patio. The patio in turn was sprinkled with pots of yellow, red, and white flowers, half a dozen red, yellow, and white striped lounge chairs, and three yellow tables with vivid red umbrellas and matching red chairs. Despite the intense heat, the patio was empty and rather forlorn-looking.

  Beyond the pool area, he saw what looked to be another garden. This one was much less dense, though it did abound with trellises. The arched opening was lavishly surrounded by climbing roses.

  At the end of the pool near the house was a low building which Manziuk took to be a change house. This sort of place would have something like that. All the frills.

  Four sets of patio doors came out onto the patio, along with a regular door near the other end of the house.

  At this door stood Special Constable Benson, a man Manziuk knew well. He was talking earnestly with another officer who looked to be standing guard.

  Manziuk strode toward them, wondering as he went what awaited him inside the house. Thus far, the place was like a movie set, with the police running around like so many ants. But inside that house were real people, and one of them could be a murderer.

  “Well, Benson, what brings you here?” The question was given in a rather amused tone.

  The young constable Benson had been talking with looked slightly offended at the interruption, but Benson ignored him. “Perhaps we should find a place to sit down, sir.”

  “Excellent idea. Lead the way.”

  Benson opened the door and went into a back hallway. The kitchen was to the right, a large pantry to the left. “T
his way, please. Mr. Brodie said we are welcome to use his study.

  “That should do nicely,” Manziuk replied.

  It was a comfortable room with two walls of books, mainly legal ones, with a few mysteries, some popular novels, and old yearbooks, presumably from Brodie’s university days, scattered throughout. There was a fireplace on the third wall, with two orange overstuffed chairs drawn up in front, a table with a typewriter tucked into one corner, a desk in the center of the room, and a few straight-backed business chairs. There was a laptop computer open on the desk.

  “This will do quite nicely,” Manziuk remarked.

  “You take the desk,” he said to Benson as he pulled one of the chairs around so it faced the desk. Then he noticed Ryan standing just inside the door. “Close the door and find a chair. Sam, this is Detective Constable Ryan on her first homicide. Ryan, Special Constable Benson, Public Affairs Officer.”

  Manziuk settled into his chair. “Okay, what have we got that brings you here?”

  Benson leaned comfortably into the executive chair and stretched his hands behind his head.

  “Want a cushy desk job?” Manziuk asked.

  Benson laughed. “Not for a while yet.” He sat forward again. “Okay, let’s look at this one. You’ve heard of Brodie, Fischer, and Martin?”

  “The name rings a bell.”

  “Law firm with a lot of important clients. Clients that don’t want notoriety, if you know what I mean.”

  “So they have a lot of squeamish clients. What’s that to me?”

  “Jillian Martin, the victim, is the wife of the youngest partner, Peter Martin. It would be unfortunate if there was a lot of destructive publicity surrounding the case.”

  “So you want to do the talking to the press, is that it?”

  “In a nutshell.”

  “And am I supposed to investigate thoroughly everyone who might be involved?”

  “Absolutely. We don’t want whitewash. But we don’t want unnecessary speculation, either. And as little dirt as possible. So, have I got your cooperation?”

  “You can tell the press anything you like. But you don’t touch my investigation.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “I mean it, Sam. I don’t want any problems from sensitive toes calling headquarters because I accidentally trod on them.”

  “I’ll let you have as much line as you need. But you know the score. So try not to churn up too much water unless you’ve got the fish hooked good and solid. Especially if it’s a big fish. Okay?” Obviously Manziuk wasn’t the only one who thought his job had a lot of similarities to angling.

  “Fine. We’ll need a search warrant for the house.”

  “It’s on the way.”

  “Good. Now get out of here and let me do my job.”

  “One question. We’ve got a young woman here. What are the chances this is connected to the four unsolved cases you’re working on?”

  “Doubtful. The other four all had red hair. This woman is blond. The method used is similar, but the location is very different. And if it turns out it was somebody in this house, the chances are virtually nil.”

  “So you don’t feel there’s any connection?”

  “It isn’t totally impossible, of course, but it’s doubtful.”

  “Okay. You know they’ll ask.”

  Benson winked at Ryan as he left. He was whistling.

  When he was gone, Manziuk turned and looked at Ryan, who was sitting stiffly on the edge of a chair several feet away. Her knees were together and her purse was on her knees.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Manziuk asked. “This isn’t sit-around time. We’ve got work to do.”

  “No weapon so far,” Special Constable Ford, the head of the Forensics Identification team, stated ten minutes later, after Manziuk had settled Ryan at the desk and made sure she had a notebook so she could make notes on the interviews. “We’ve searched the garden and beyond. No rope in the water. We wondered if it could be a cord from a curtain or something like that.”

  Manziuk nodded, his eyes half shut.

  “There’s no reason to think she was sexually assaulted,” Ford continued. “Apparently, whoever did it simply wanted to kill her. Unless he was disturbed before he had a chance to do anything else.”

  “Robbery?”

  “She had on three rings. A watch. A diamond pendant.”

  “So we can presumably rule out a tramp.”

  “The grounds are bordered by other estates. There’s an eight-foot stone wall all around the place. There are only two entrances—the front, where we came in, and a small gate at the back that is kept locked. The front has an electronic gate that is locked at night. During the day there’s a buzzer that goes off whenever anyone crosses the entrance.”

  “Who hears it?”

  “It rings in the kitchen and the garage. Apparently it was installed by the previous owner. The Brodies bought the place just before Easter and haven’t changed anything.

  “The gate at the back can only be opened by a key and it locks automatically. There are paths leading into ravines and such beyond it. Someone could conceivably come from back there, but getting in would be pretty difficult.”

  “Uh-huh,” Manziuk said. His eyes were completely shut now. There was silence for about half a minute. Then he opened his eyes and said, “Go on.”

  “The only concrete thing we found might not have anything to do with it. It’s a daisy chain.”

  “Yeah, I saw it. Learned anything?” he asked.

  “It’s made from flowers with their stems slit and the next flower inserted in the slit, and the last one making it a circle. Ingenious.”

  “She could have made it while she sat there.”

  “Yes. Or somebody else could have. All we do know is that these particular flowers only grow near the entrance to that garden.”

  “So whoever made it picked them on the way in and—what would you say—braided it later?”

  “I suppose it could have been done while walking.”

  “Yes. Examine it thoroughly. Find an expert if you can.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s about it for now. We’ll start searching the house in a few minutes. The people here have been confined in one room since Carnaby arrived.”

  “All of them accounted for?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Send someone to take his place and tell him to come here.”

  “On my way.” Ford left.

  “Doing all right taking notes?” Manziuk asked Ryan.

  Her dark eyes flashed, but she nodded meekly.

  Constable Carnaby came in slowly and looked around, not sure where to sit. Manziuk pointed to the chair and he sat awkwardly in it, twisting his cap between his knees. He looked young—twenty-two or three, and out of place in this lavish setting. But he was obviously determined to do a good job.

  “Now then,” Manziuk said. “How long have you been here?”

  Carnaby’s voice was all business. “I arrived at four-sixteen. The call came on my radio at four-eleven and I was only a short distance away. Waite arrived about two minutes earlier. He sealed the scene and I isolated the witnesses. The Emergency Response Unit also arrived about the time I did. Waite allowed a paramedic in to see if there was a chance of resuscitation. When Worrell arrived ten minutes later, he did a search of the grounds. Ident and Dr. Munsen and the others arrived soon after.”

  “You talked to the husband?”

  “Yes, sir.” Carnaby flipped open a notebook. “Name of Peter Martin. He and his wife were guests here for the weekend. The victim is his wife, Jillian. She was found by a group of three who were walking in the garden.”

  “Did they move her at all?”

  “Turned her slightly to be sure she was dead.”

  “I see. Did her husband have anything else to say?”

  “He appeared completely devastated, sir. Answered yes or no to my questions and didn’t volunteer anything.” Carnaby looked up and said by way of expla
nation, “He’d seen the body.”

  “All right. Did you talk to anyone else?”

  “Just Mr. Brodie, sir. The owner of the house. He and Mr. Martin are partners. Lawyers. There’s a Mr.—” He consulted his notebook. “A Mr. Fischer as well. Mrs. Brodie had invited both partners and their wives here for the weekend.”

  “Who else is on the grounds?”

  Constable Carnaby consulted his notebook again. “Well, sir. There are quite a few.” The constable nervously cleared his throat. He read the names of the Brodies, Nick Donovan, and the Fischers.

  When he identified Peter Martin as the corpse’s husband, Detective Constable Ryan couldn’t keep the laughter from gurgling up at the inept description. She stopped abruptly. “Sorry,” she said as Manziuk glanced at her, his face unsmiling.

  “Who else?” Manziuk said, looking back at Constable Carnaby.

  He read off the names of the rest of the guests.

  “Is that it?” Manziuk tone was sardonic.

  “Well, all but the servants, sir.”

  “How many?” he asked with a resigned sigh.

  “The cook, Mrs. Winston. Her daughter, Crystal. And then there are two gardeners, but neither lives on the estate. And there’s another man who comes to help with heavy jobs. And a woman who cleans weekly, but she hasn’t been here since Wednesday.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s no chauffeur.”

  “No chauffeur?”

  “Yes, sir. The people who lived here before had a chauffeur, but Mr. Brodie prefers to drive himself, as does Mrs. Brodie. So there’s an empty apartment above the garage. Mr. Bart Brodie is staying there right now.”

  “Well, that makes one less person we have to talk to,” Manziuk said. “I for one am glad they don’t have a chauffeur.”

  “There doesn’t appear to be a butler, either,” Ryan added.

  Carnaby looked from one to the other. “Is there anything else, sir?” he asked.

  “Not now. Leave your list of names, though. I’ll need it to keep this cast of characters straight.”

  Carnaby went out.

  “You know,” Manziuk said as he stretched out his legs and got comfortable, “if I wasn’t involved in this I’d think I was reading it. This place is like a setting for one of those whodunits. Right out of a book.”