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

  As they waited for the elevator, Ryan turned to look more closely at him. “You don’t look so hot. Aren’t you feeling okay?” A sudden thought sobered her. “Detective Craig isn’t…?”

  “No. He’s fine. I didn’t get much sleep last night. And I just spent three hours getting hauled over the coals.”

  Her indignation caused sparks in her eyes. “What for?”

  “Because we’re taking too long to solve these bloody murders!” The elevator door opened and he hurried forward. “Now are you coming or do you want to stand around here wasting more time? And don’t even mention driving. I’m not in the mood!”

  They found both Peter and Bart at the Martin apartment. Peter answered the door. He looked completely done in. No wonder, Manziuk thought a few minutes later after Mrs. Jensen had given him the third degree about their search for the murderer.

  “Is there a place we could talk?” he asked Peter finally.

  Peter led Manziuk and Ryan into a small study. Mrs. Jensen seemed to think that if this had anything to do with her daughter, she should come, too, but Ryan stood in her way and said, “That’ll be all for now, Mrs. Jensen. We’ll call you if we have any questions.”

  As soon as the door was shut, Peter said to Ryan, “I’m impressed. She actually listened to you. She always used to act as though she was a little afraid of me, but that’s gone now.”

  “You look terrible,” Ryan said. “Can’t you get rid of them?”

  “As soon as the funeral is over, they’re out of here even if I have to hire bouncers.”

  “Mr. Martin,” Manziuk said, “we have some questions we need to ask you. Your third wife, I believe her name was Genevieve, had red hair?”

  “That’s right. So what?” He looked from Manziuk to Ryan.

  “Can you give me any idea what you were doing on these nights?” Manziuk held out a paper.

  Peter took it. “Not off the top of my head. Is it important?”

  “Very.”

  “I’ll get my appointment book.” He went out and came back a moment later with a small computerized datebook. “It should be here. At least the ones this year.” He pushed buttons and stared at the small screen. “Well,” he said at last, “I don’t have anything specific. I worked a bit late on February eighth, but the other two nights I was home here with Jillian. But I guess she can’t vouch for me. I don’t know about the one in October, but I may have a record of it at my office.” He looked up. “Can you tell me why these dates are important?”

  “You’ve heard about a serial killer, haven’t you?”

  “You mean the four women.” Peter’s voice broke. “The four red-haired women who were murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think there’s a connection?”

  “It’s a possibility. Have you seen this before?” Manziuk held out the marble.

  Peter stared at it. “No. Never. Is it a clue?”

  “It may well be.”

  “Well, I hope you catch him, but if you think, as I suspect you do, that I murdered four women with red hair because of Genevieve, you’re crazy.”

  “Can you check on that date in October?”

  “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

  “You’d better believe I am.”

  Peter picked up the phone and dialed his office.

  Twenty minutes later, his secretary had confirmed that on October 7th he was at a conference in Los Angeles. Jillian had gone with him.

  Bart was with Shauna in the kitchen washing up after lunch. Shauna’s appearance was stylish and smart. The sight of Bart Brodie in the bit of lace Jillian Martin had considered an apron was nearly too much for Ryan. She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing.

  “I have a few questions, Mr. Brodie,” Manziuk announced after he’d persuaded the rest of the Jensen family to return to the living room.

  “Yeah?” Apron or not, Bart looked belligerent.

  “Did your mother have red hair?” Manziuk asked sternly.

  “Did my mother have red hair?” Bart repeated, his face suddenly a picture of bewilderment. “What on earth?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Why?”

  “Answer the question.”

  He looked at Shauna, then back at Manziuk. “All right. Yes. It was kind of an orange-red. That’s why they nicknamed her Carrots when she was little. And if I didn’t shave my head, I would have red hair, too. Which is one reason I shave it! So are you going to arrest me because you don’t like the color of my hair?”

  “I may need you to come down to the station.”

  “Because my mother had red hair? Or because I do?”

  “You’ve heard of the murders here in the past few months?”

  Bart put his hands on his hips. “Oh, no, you don’t, buddy. You aren’t going to try to nail those on me.”

  Ryan covered her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing out loud. Bart Brodie in a dainty lace apron with his hands on his hips was more than she could take. All he needed was a wooden spoon in one hand.

  Both Manziuk and Bart ignored her.

  “We’ve made a connection,” Manziuk said.

  “Are you serious?”

  “What is all this about?” Shauna’s voice was perplexed. “Does he think you killed Jillian?”

  Bart ignored her and ripped off the apron. He held out his hands. “Okay, Inspector. Get the cuffs. I confess. My mother had red hair and the fact that she gave it to me made me want to kill every redheaded woman I met. Don’t ask me why I killed Jillian and Crystal and left Lorry alive. Maybe I decided it was time to switch hair colors.”

  “Give it a rest,” Manziuk said, but his voice was abstracted. Somewhere inside another bell had rung. If only he could make the connection.

  Ryan finally got control of herself and stood up. “Have you got any alibis for the evenings of these dates?” Ryan took the paper from Manziuk’s hand and held it toward Bart.

  “How should I know?… Wait a minute.” He began to laugh. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do have an alibi for one of those dates. The best alibi money can buy. I spent the night of January eleventh in jail. I had been in a club that got raided. Gambling without the appropriate license, I believe. I went there at eight. With two friends. And from nine-thirty until the next day at eleven I was in a cell with plenty of witnesses.”

  “You know we’ll check that,” Manziuk said.

  “Check to your heart’s content,” he said.

  Manziuk turned on his heel and walked out.

  Ryan had to run to keep up.

  “Now what?” she asked when they were in the car.

  “Check on their stories. Find out if Bart really was in jail and if Peter really was in L.A.”

  “And Douglass?”

  “Yes, we’re down to Douglass.”

  They reached the Fischers’ house half an hour later. Anne opened the door. “What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

  “We have a few questions for Mr. Fischer. Is he home?”

  “No.” Her voice was ungracious. “He’ll be back soon. I suppose you want to come in.”

  “Yes, if it won’t bother you too much,” Ryan said sarcastically before Manziuk could respond.

  Anne stepped back so they could enter.

  “We’ve already told you everything we know.”

  “We have some new questions,” Manziuk said.

  “What about?”

  “Is Mr. Fischer going to be long?”

  “I guess you can sit down in the living room.” She led the way into a spotless green and yellow living room.

  They sat in silence until the front door opened about ten minutes later.

  “Douglass!” Anne jumped to her feet. “The police are here. They want to see you!”

  He walked in the room and both Manziuk and Ryan were conscious of a change. For one thing, Anne had rushed over and put her arm around him. He’d responded by pulling her close. But, more subtly, Douglass Fischer looked relaxed, li
ke someone who’d gotten the monkey off his back.

  Still with his left arm around Anne, he walked over to Manziuk and held out his hand. “Good to see you, Inspector.” He nodded to Ryan. “Sergeant, isn’t it?”

  “Constable,” Ryan corrected.

  “I can never keep titles straight. You wanted to ask me something?” He propelled Anne onto the sofa and sat down beside her.

  “Mr. Fischer, did anyone in your family have red hair?”

  “What?” He laughed in apparent bewilderment. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No, Mr. Fischer, it isn’t. We’ve made a connection between the murders at the Brodie estate and four murders of young women in the Toronto area this past year.”

  “So you think I—?”

  “We’re checking everyone.”

  “I don’t see what people with red hair have to do with it.”

  Anne broke in. “They had red hair! All those girls!”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Fischer,” Manziuk said. “And the psychologists told us to look for someone with a connection to a red-haired woman.”

  “Then I’m not your man, Inspector, because I don’t have any relatives with red hair. Nor have I ever been involved with anyone with red hair.”

  “You realize we can check?”

  “Of course, I do.” Douglass smiled. He seemed completely at ease. “I really have nothing to worry about, Inspector.”

  “Can you remember where you were on any of these dates?” Manziuk asked, holding out the paper.

  It took a few minutes, but Anne had a habit of writing all appointments on a calendar in the kitchen. And on May 2nd, she and Douglass had been at a party hosted by one of Douglass’s clients. They had dined and danced from seven to one while on a cruise boat touring the Toronto harbor.

  “Now what?” Ryan asked as the door shut behind them. “Every single one of them has an alibi.”

  Manziuk didn’t answer. He walked to the passenger side of the car and said, “You want to drive?”

  “You trust me?” Ryan was clearly incredulous.

  “Right now, I don’t trust me.” His voice was flat and tired. He got into the passenger seat.

  “There has to be something we’ve missed,” she said as she sat behind the wheel.

  “We seemed so close.”

  “One of them could be lying.”

  “I wish. But I don’t think so.”

  “So who did it?” she asked.

  “Maybe Nick’s remembered where he found that marble.”

  “Maybe.” There was silence for several blocks. “He was with Lorry most of the time. Would she have noticed?”

  “Let’s find out.” Manziuk picked up the phone.

  After a moment’s thought, Lorry said, “Yes, I do remember Nick’s having a marble. On Friday night after supper. We were all sitting in the day room talking. It was just before Hildy Reimer walked in and surprised everyone. Nick seemed rather abstracted. I noticed he had an unusually large blue and gold marble in his hand. He was rolling it around. I’m not sure he was aware he was doing it. He put it back into his pocket after Hildy came.”

  “Did you see him with it again?”

  “He might have had it Sunday. He often seemed to have something in his hand. Is it important?”

  “It might be.”

  “Do you still think he did it?”

  “Do you?”

  There was a long pause. “No,” she said at last. “But perhaps that’s because I don’t want him to be guilty.”

  “Well,” Manziuk said, “if it’s any consolation, neither do I.”

  “So he had it early Friday evening,” Ryan said as Manziuk hung up.

  “Let’s go and talk to him again.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Turn left at the next street. I’ll phone and see if he’s home.”

  Manziuk and Ryan arrived thirty minutes later. “Traffic was bad,” Manziuk apologized to Nick when he opened the door.

  “That’s okay. I wasn’t going anywhere.”

  Kendall was sitting on a comfortable-looking off-white chair. In an identical chair, feet tucked neatly under her, sat a short-haired blonde in blue jeans and a pink man-style shirt.

  Kendall stood up. “Inspector, this is Marilyn Garrett, my alibi for the second of May.”

  Marilyn smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you, Inspector. And I hope you aren’t here to arrest either of these two.”

  “I’ll try not to,” Manziuk said. “This is Detective Constable Ryan.”

  “Detective Constable, nice to meet you,” Marilyn said. “Please have a seat.”

  “Yeah, sit down,” Nick said. “I know what you want. The marble, right. I just don’t remember. I’ve tried.”

  “Lorry says you had it Friday night before Hildy came into the room,” Ryan said to prod his memory.

  “I did?”

  “Yes. So where were you before that?”

  “We were at supper,” Kendall said. “And before that we were in the rose garden with Lorry.”

  “And before that I was in my room. And your mother gave me a quick tour of the house. And before that we were in the car.” Nick’s face suddenly went white.

  “You’ve remembered,” Manziuk stated.

  “No, I couldn’t have.”

  “Nick, let’s not have any more lies.”

  Nick looked at Kendall. “It’s just…”

  “Nick, whatever it is, tell him,” Kendall urged.

  “All right. But, I don’t—” He stopped and thought for a moment. “No, it doesn’t make any sense.”

  Manziuk glared at him.

  “Okay.” Nick ran his fingers through his hair. “After we left here, we drove up the Don Valley Parkway. The traffic was terrible. We were crawling along. Kendall was harping about the job with the firm. I took off my seat belt and started to open the door. I threatened to jump out if Kendall didn’t stop talking about the job. When I was putting my seat belt on again, my hand went under the seat cushions and felt something round. I remember pulling it out and glancing at it. I was going to throw it in the garbage, but it looked interesting. I thought maybe it was Marilyn’s, so I dropped it in my pocket. I meant to give it to Kendall later, but I guess I forgot.”

  “Marilyn, have you seen it before?” Ryan asked.

  Manziuk held the marble out.

  Marilyn looked at it closely, then shook her head. “No, never.”

  “That tears it,” Manziuk said. The others looked at him. “I had hoped that there was a connection. But now—anyone could have put that marble there. Even a workman back at the garage. How long did you say you’d had the car?”

  “I got it the day after the dinner party. So, since May third. Not many people have been in it. And it’s locked all the time.”

  “Then we’re looking at a very narrow list of possibilities,” Ryan said.

  “It could have been sitting for a while at the car dealer’s,” Manziuk said.

  Kendall quickly shook his head “No, it wasn’t. It was a special order.”

  “We’ll have checks done with the factory and the dealership,” Ryan said. “Kendall, you make a list of everyone who’s been in the car.”

  Manziuk and Ryan were on their way out the door when a thought suddenly struck Manziuk. He spun around so quickly Ryan almost went flying. “Kendall, what color was your grandmother’s hair?”

  “My grandmother’s hair?”

  “What color was it?”

  “I don’t remember. No. Wait. I believe she may have had red hair. Like my aunt’s. I’m not positive. But I think so.”

  “Speaking of red hair,” Nick said quietly. “Lorry’s got red hair.”

  Bart had said the same thing. Lorry has red hair.

  “A lot of women have red hair,” Manziuk said harshly. “Why shouldn’t they?”

  “Where to?” Ryan asked after they’d given the list to Ford.

  “There’s one person we haven’t talked to for a while.”
He started out. “And I’m driving. We’re in a hurry.”

  “What was wrong with my driving?” She hurried to keep up with his long strides. “And what makes you think I can’t drive as fast as you?”

  Ellen Brodie was awakened by the buzzer from the front gate. She sat up suddenly and then felt dizzy. She put her hands on the arms of the rocking chair she had dragged into the kitchen and stood up. She tottered over to the intercom. “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Brodie, it’s Inspector Manziuk. May I come in?”

  “Oh, Inspector. I’m sorry. I was asleep. I’ll press the button. You have to open the gate and then shut it behind you.”

  The button pressed, she went to the bathroom to check her appearance. Not good. Hair a mess, makeup smeared. Foolish to go to sleep like that. She looked at her watch. Seven o’clock.

  Ellen opened the door just as Manziuk was reaching for the doorbell.

  “Mrs. Winston is sleeping. I didn’t want to wake her up, poor thing.”

  “Is your husband here, Mrs. Brodie?”

  “George? Why, no. He’s at the office. Working late. He worked late last night, too. He was in court today, and he has the two funerals tomorrow and Friday. Thought he should get as much done as possible tonight. I expect he’ll be here soon, though.”

  “Does he often work late?”

  “Not a lot. But sometimes, certainly.”

  “Mrs. Brodie, did you hear that Nick Donovan had been arrested?”

  She sighed. “Yes, and I was so worried. But then you let him go, so I thought it was all right.”

  “You didn’t want it to be Nick?”

  “I don’t want it to be anyone except the guilty person,” she said with dignity.

  “You realize, don’t you, that I’m going to have to arrest someone.”

  She nodded.

  “Neither of us want an innocent person to go to jail, do we?”

  She mutely shook her head.

  “Is there anything you need to tell me?”

  She looked at the ground. Finally, she nodded.

  “You lied, didn’t you?”

  “I was asleep. Nothing could have awakened me. He put sleeping powder in my tea. I knew when I woke up later than usual in the morning. My head felt fuzzy.”

  “Why did he do it?”