The woman at the door looked like a movie star ready for a camera to capture her fading beauty. Her makeup showed off her large green eyes, and her blond hair was set in loose curls. She wore a pink sweater, a tight black skirt and high-heeled shoes. “May I help you?” she said.
“Are you Beth Morton?” Max said.
“Yes. What can I do for you?” Beth Morton’s smile did not change. She held her left hand near her face, giving Max a view of her large diamond ring.
Max showed the woman her badge. “May I come in for a moment?”
“Why, of course,” Beth said with the same voice and same fixed smile. How many women, Max thought, greet a police officer at their door as though they are being asked to buy Girl Guide cookies? She followed the woman into the house.
Looking around, Max thought she could have been in a high-priced furniture store. Every chair, table and rug appeared new and matched one another perfectly. To Max, it said more about the owner’s wealth than about her taste.
One thing in the room stood out from the rest. It was a large oil painting that hung above the sofa. The painting was in a modern style that Max usually did not like. But this one worked for her. The colors flowed into each other in a way that pleased the eye yet also gave a sense of power. Max had to force herself to look away from it when she spoke. She turned to the other woman and said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Beth’s smile faded only a little. “Really?” she said. “What would that be?”
“The body of a man who may be your husband was found on Bridge Road this morning.”
Beth moved her hand to her mouth and said, “Do you think it’s Bob?”
Max said, “Yes, I do. We need you to view the body. Are you able to do that?”
“Do I have to?” Beth said. “This is such a shock, and I don’t know if I could bear to look at a dead body. I mean, of my husband. It sounds so…” She turned away and brought her hand to her eyes.
Beth Morton, Max thought, had style and a good sense of fashion.
But she could use some acting lessons.
She might even think to ask how her husband had died.
“Do you mind if I don’t speak much on the way?” Beth said. “I’m quite upset.” Seated next to Max in the police car, she had yet to act like a woman who had just been told her husband was dead. She was busy filing her nails.
“I would like to ask a few questions,” Max said.
Without looking up, Beth said, “Go ahead.”
“When was the last time you saw your husband?”
“I told you. The Saturday before I called. So that makes it just over a week ago.”
“You said you had argued before he left.”
“Correct.” Beth put the nail file in her purse and looked out the window.
“Over what?”
Beth turned away from the lake to look at Max. “Oh, the usual things that a husband and wife talk about. You know.”
“No, I don’t know.” Max glanced at the woman. “Can you tell me more?”
Beth raised a hand to pat the back of her hair. “Bob had a jealous streak. He thought every man who smiled at me wanted to whisk me off somewhere. To bed, mostly.”
“Is that what the fight was about?”
“And other things. Mainly that.”
“Who was the man who made him jealous that night?”
“No one. It was always no one. Bob would make up someone and say I wanted to be with that person. He wanted to start a fight. He always wanted to start a fight after he drank too much.”
“Did he ever hit you or say that he might?”
Beth took more time to answer than Max thought she needed. “I prefer not to talk about it.”
She wants me to think she meant yes, Max thought.
They’d driven through the town and were on the road to Cranston when Max said, “Your husband worked for a car dealer, is that right?”
“Yes, that was his work,” Beth said. “Or trade. Whatever you call it.”
“That’s a very nice house you live in.”
Beth looked at Max. “So you wonder how I can afford to live there?”
“Well, I was just…”
“My first husband worked in stocks and bonds.” Beth still sounded bored. “He was very good at it. He made a lot of money for himself and for his clients. People who come up from Toronto to spend the summer here got to know him. They paid him to look after their assets. He made lots of money for them, and they made lots of money for him.” She looked down at her nails. “His name was Frank Higgs, and he drowned in our pool. It was very sad. He left me his estate, including the house.” She looked at Max as though Max had insulted her. “So that is how I am able to live in such a nice house. Many people envy me for that.” She patted the back of her hair again. “And other things.”
Isn’t it strange, Max thought, that she felt she had to tell me how her first husband died.
They drove in silence the rest of the way. Max would have liked to ask more questions. But she was happy not to say another word to Beth Morton. For a while.
They were in luck. The lift bridge between Port Ainslie and Cranston was not up to let boats on the river sail under it. This happened every half hour in summer months, even a cold summer month like this one. Sometimes the old bridge would get stuck when it was up, and it would take hours to lower it. Meanwhile, traffic would back up in both directions. Not today.
The morgue was at the back of the OPP station in Cranston. Max found a spot to park the cruiser and led Beth inside. “Please tell Constable Boucher we are here,”she said to the attendant. Then she asked to see the body of Robert Morton.
The attendant did not ask if they wished to view the body by video. He took both women into the viewing room, where Robert Morton was on a table under a plain white sheet. The body had thawed enough for the legs to be stretched out.
Max watched Beth as the attendant pulled the sheet from the face.
Beth blinked twice and nodded. “That’s him. That’s my husband.” She turned to Max. “Can we go now?”
Boucher found them in the hall on their way out of the morgue. “I would like to speak to Mrs. Morton for a moment,” he said to Max. His voice told Max he did not want to debate things. Taking Beth’s arm, he said, “Excuse us,” turned and was gone.
Less than five minutes later he was back, alone. His face was red, and he looked stern. “The victim’s wife told me you grilled her on the way here,” he said. “You were told not to do that.”
“I did not grill her,” Max said. “I asked her to tell me a few things. A very few things. That is my right. I am an officer of the law, and the crime took place in my area.”
“You do not have a right,” Boucher said. He sounded like a grade-school teacher speaking to a naughty child. “Only the OPP is qualified to question citizens on a matter like this. I am asking you to leave now. I will take Mrs. Morton home.”
“She came with me and she will go back with me.” Max rose to her full height, which brought her up to Boucher’s chin.
“You are out of your league,” Boucher said.
“And you’re out of line!” Max spat back at him.
Two OPP men passing in the hall stopped to watch and listen. Boucher did not want an audience. He turned his back to them and lowered his voice. “I will send you my first report on this case later today,” he said. “If you wish to see it. But she is staying here to make a formal statement. Is that clear?”
Max knew she was beaten. The OPP indeed had the power to take over a murder case. But she would not give in without a fight. “I don’t wish to see that report,” she said. “I demand it.”
Then she left.
FOUR
“The OPP think they are the only ones who can enforce the law,” Max said. It was more than an hour since she had returned from Cranston, and she was still angry. She had her feet on her desk and a mug of Margie’s coffee in her hand.
Margie stood in th
e doorway, nodding her head at Max’s words.
“That’s how cops like Boucher throw their weight around,” Max went on. “You and I and Henry, we know people here. We see them every day. They pay our salary…they know we care.” She looked out the window and frowned. “This guy doesn’t know them or the town and doesn’t care. He doesn’t know me either and cares even less. I mean, why can’t…”
Max looked up to see that Margie was no longer in the doorway. From down the hall came the sound of a printer. A moment later Margie was back at the entrance to Max’s office.
“His report came in,” Margie said. “I printed a copy for you.” Margie held a sheet of paper toward Max.
“The OPP wants to do it all by the book,” Max said. She took her feet off the desk and reached for the report. “They won’t look at things that don’t seem to fit. That’s what good cops do. Good cops find things that guys like Boucher never see.” She began to read the report.
“You must admit he’s a good-looking devil,” Margie said.
Max’s head snapped up. “Who?”
“Constable Boucher.” Margie stepped back and leaned against the doorjamb. “Writes a pretty good report too, from what I could see.” She nodded at the paper in Max’s hand. “Read it for yourself.”
Max read it.
SUBJECT: Robert H. Morton
1. Deceased died due to being strangled. The cord or rope was of 10 mm width.
2. Death took place 8 to 10 days before body was found.
3. Remains were kept below 0º C for a period of time.
4. Deceased had a blood alcohol level of 0.18 percent at time of death.
5. Spouse of deceased claims he left home around 8 PM nine days before body was found. This followed an argument between her and the deceased.
6. Spouse of deceased made Missing Persons report to Port Ainslie P.D. two days later. No response noted.
7. Interviews of neighbors reveal presence of male, 25 to 30 years of age, run in and around residence prior to deceased reported missing. Ms. Morton confirms male was her brother, one Stephen Edward Carson, age 31, no fixed address.
Height: 175-180 cm. Weight: 70 kg.
Hair: blond. Eyes: Gray.
8. Carson drives a black Ford F-150 pickup, year and license unknown.
9. Ms. Morton does not know where Carson or the vehicle can be found. She claims he left her house prior to the argument with the deceased.
10. Carson is a person of interest.
Ms. Morton was returned to her home at 15:25 in the company of Constable Wendy Kormos.
R. Boucher PC 1st Class
Max snorted and shook her head. She was angry at the claim that Beth Morton had not received a response from Port Ainslie police after reporting her husband missing. She tossed the paper aside. “He calls this a report?” she almost shouted. “I’ve had shopping lists longer than this!”
“You’re upset that he talked to that woman, aren’t you?” Margie said. “The victim’s wife. And he got her story instead of you.”
“Of course I am,” Max began.
“But that’s the deal, isn’t it? We look and report, they question and charge.” Margie meant the deal with the OPP.
“I know that.” Max folded her arms. “It’s just that I’m not used to it. We can question and charge as well as they can. Maybe better.”
Margie watched her over the top of her glasses.
“I know, I know,” Max said. “I had better get used to it.”
Margie nodded and smiled.
“But they’re not the only ones who can ask questions, right?” Max slid her feet out from under her desk and reached for the keys to her police car. “I mean, what’s this about some long-lost brother? Where did he come from? And where did he go?”
Before Margie could speak, Max had her cap on her head and was out the door. “Find Henry,” she called as she left. “Tell him I’m up on Sunset Hill and he’s to stay on patrol until I get back.”
“I would like to talk to you about your brother,” Max said when Beth Morton answered her door.
“I spoke about Steve to the OPP,” Beth Morton said. She had changed into a black sweater and black leggings. “I don’t know why you’re here to ask more questions.”
“It will take just a minute or two,” Max said.
Beth shrugged. “All right, I guess,” she said. She stepped aside for Max to come in. “I don’t mix much with my neighbors. We don’t have a lot in common. It’s good to have company. Even if it’s the police. Would you like some hot coffee?” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “I swear, if things don’t warm up soon I’ll go to Florida for the rest of the year.”
“I’ll pass on the coffee,” Max said. She walked into the living room. Leaving the country during an investigation into the murder of your spouse was not a good idea. Max thought about telling Beth this, but decided to stay silent. Instead she said, “Do you own a freezer?”
Beth tilted her head like she was being patient with a child. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Max said. “I am quite serious.”
“You mean a freezer big enough to hold a man’s body.”
“That’s right.”
“Because you think I was involved in Bob’s murder.” A statement, not a question.
“That’s not the point,” Max said. Which was a lie. Max was sure Beth knew more about her husband’s death than she was telling. Much more. “I am just looking to rule out a few things, that’s all.”
“Well, you can rule this one out. I do not have a freezer larger than the one in my refrigerator. You are welcome to look at it or anywhere else if you like. Just bring a warrant with you. And the idea that I would keep a body in my home, my husband’s body, is…” She shook her head, looked away and covered her eyes.
Max started over. “Tell me about your brother.”
Beth dropped the hand from her eyes. “I told that to the OPP officer.”
“But you didn’t tell me your brother was here when you and your husband argued. The night that he left.”
“It didn’t seem important. He left before the argument started.”
Max said nothing.
“I see Stephen now and then,” Beth said. She sat in a wing chair and looked at Max, then away. “He’s a free spirit. All messed up, but gifted. A very good artist, by the way. He did that work over there.” She pointed to the painting that had caught Max’s eye on her first visit. “Gave it to me years ago. I’ve come close to burning it.”
“Why?”
“Because it reminds me of him, and he drives me mad. He is so hard to get along with. Sweet one minute, full of rage the next. He was a strange kid who grew into a strange adult. We don’t get along. Never did. He thinks I’m selfish, and I think he’s immature. Never has a home. One day he’s in Europe, the next day he sends me a card from Asia. When he is down and out with nowhere else to go, he shows up here for a place to sleep. Then he’s gone and I don’t hear from him for a year or more.”
“When did he come here last?”
“Two, three weeks ago.”
“How did your husband get on with him?”
“They put up with each other. That’s all.” Beth rose from the sofa. “Excuse me,” she said. “If you don’t want coffee, I do.” She walked toward the kitchen, then paused and looked back. “You’re welcome to come and see my freezer if you like,” she said with a cold smile. “It’s on the top of the fridge.”
“Thanks,” Max said. “I have just a few more questions to ask, if you don’t mind.” She waited until she could hear water running in the kitchen. Then she walked to the painting. She lifted a corner and looked behind the frame at a small label that read Elendt Gallery…Home of Great Canadian Artists. Below it was a Toronto address and phone number.
She set the painting back in position and then walked to the kitchen. Beth was filling a coffeemaker with water. “I think I’ll be going now,” Max said. “Thanks for the offer of coffee. I can see myse
lf out.”
Beth shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”
Outside, the air seemed to have grown colder now that the sun was about to set. Max didn’t feel the chill. She had a clue she was sure Boucher did not have. She just wasn’t sure what to do with it.
FIVE
Geegee bought tea through a source on the Internet. It seemed to Max a strange way to buy tea. Still, Geegee’s tea was always good. “They must have a hundred flavors,” Geegee had just told Max. “Some are strange, but this one is great.”
Max agreed. She needed coffee in the morning and enjoyed a decent wine with a meal now and then. But nothing made her feel better at night than a cup of tea. Like the one she sipped now in Geegee’s kitchen. Geegee called it a country kitchen. It was large, with a stone fireplace, and filled with Quebec pine furniture. “What flavor is this?” Max asked.
“Cream Earl Grey,” Geegee said. “How about some shortbread to go with it?”
Of all the things Max enjoyed most about her new job, having Gillian and Cliff Gallup as neighbors was near the top of the list. Port Ainslie was pretty, and her lakeside cottage at Willow Cove was lovely. Geegee and Cliff’s friendship and generous nature made it all much better.
When Max arrived home that evening, Geegee had flagged her down. Got a fire in the fireplace and a kettle on the stove, she had called out to Max. And shortbread in the oven. How’s that sound?
Sound’s like I’ll be there in five minutes, Max had said. And now here she was, seated by the fire with a good friend. Some people, Max knew, needed drugs to relax. Having a neighbor like Geegee was much better.
“Cliff has classes to teach.” Geegee looked at her watch. “Won’t be home until after nine. You eaten yet?”
Max shook her head. The tea, the pastry and the company were warm on a cold night. But she still had a murder to solve. On her own, if she could. “Sorry,” she said. “Can’t stay for dinner.”
“Listen, kiddo,” Geegee said, “you have to eat and take care of yourself. I can whip up…”
Max cut her off. “What do you know about painting?” she said.
Murder Below Zero Page 2
