“If what Jesse says is true,” Josie said meditatively, “he didn’t have time to bike to the Haggerty house and then find Jenny in the Abbey and kill her. He was at the party at around ten-forty and he called the police approximately ten minutes later. That’s too close for comfort—and why would he do that? If he was there because she called, why would he kill her and then immediately call the police, knowing he would suspected?”
“Karen Haggerty thinks he’s guilty. She saw the bruises and Jenny said Jesse had done it.”
“Jenny might’ve been protecting someone,” Avery said. “I have a theory. Elliot pooh-poohed it, but I think it has merit. The murder site gave me the idea—a deconsecrated sanctuary. What better place to hold a supernatural ritual? A lot of kids were experimenting with the occult in those days with Ouija boards and what-not. What if Jenny was involved in a cult of some kind? That would explain the bruises Karen saw and the markings on Jenny’s neck. Her death could’ve been a ritual gone wrong. There might have been a whole group of them in on it.”
“A murder pact?” Helen asked.
“Something like that. They provide each other with an alibi and no charges are laid.”
“What do you think, Marks,” Hector said, looking at Elliot. “Is it possible?’
Elliot Marks was staring straight ahead as though he had seen a ghost. “No. I think Mrs Holmes has a vivid imagination. There is nothing to indicate any activity of that kind happening in St. Ives, and a conspiracy is harder to keep under wraps than one might think. But there is something in the theory that is intriguing. Yes, it has definite possibilities....”
“We need to talk to Duncan Carmichael,” Dennis broke in with authority. “And we should track down some of the others at that party. Someone might remember something useful.” He clapped Elliot on the shoulder. “This is not over yet.”
“Then you want to continue? Despite the risk of opening a Pandora’s Box?”
“I do,” he asserted firmly.
The others agreed, and in solemn unison, the murder club raised their glasses to solving the mystery of Jenny Blake and Jesse Sutcliffe.
✽✽✽
AFTERNOONS WERE warm but the chill of fall lay behind the warmth. Avery carried a cup of herbal tea to the back garden and settled in her favourite Muskoka chair. The chair had come with the house. She’d added the cushions to make it comfortable for the long hours she intended to sit admiring the flower beds she planned to plant in the spring. The previous owner had set out some lovely perennial beds. All she had to do was keep those plants alive over winter and not let the beds become completely overrun with weeds in the summer. In all her years on the farm, keeping a flower garden had been a near impossibility.
St. Ives was peaceful at this time of day. The air was fresh and pure and there were no bugs. Where she had landed was quite lovely and her house was the loveliest of all. Avery leaned back against the cushion. Her stomach gurgled. Dinner, as promised, had been light. Kale salad, chicken breast and sparkling water. She longed for a brownie, but really, a line must be drawn.
“Am I disturbing you?”
Elliot Marks stood at her garden gate, somewhat screened by a hydrangea bush.
“No, not at all. Enter. Can I offer you a cup of peppermint tea?”
“Thank you, but I won’t be stopping long. I usually walk at this hour, rain or shine and I walked in your direction to tell you that Duncan Carmichael has refused to meet with us. He said he was questioned on three separate occasions by the police about Jenny Blake’s murder and if I want to know what he said, I was more than welcome to try to get those transcripts from St. Ives PD. He added that he’ll be contacting his lawyer to see that I never do. He said we should go back to reading books and mind our own business.”
A chill passed through Avery. “Ouch. That’s a strong response. What happens now?”
Elliot’s narrow shoulders lifted. “I’m afraid that’s the end of it. The book club will convene on Thursday to choose a title. Without Mr Carmichael’s cooperation, I don’t see how we can continue. He is a central figure to the story and he is under no obligation to talk to us. I’m sorry. I thought I’d let you know.”
Avery watched him go, his odd hitching gait assisted by the walking stick. Solomon and Pearl hadn’t checked in yet. They were going to the police station to look at the case files this afternoon but if Councillor Carmichael was that deeply opposed, a couple of novice reporters were unlikely to sway St. Ives PD.
Elliot was right. Despite their determination to pursue this ‘hobby’ at lunch, the game was no longer afoot.
✽✽✽
THE WALK to the bakery every Saturday morning was a pleasant ritual Avery had initiated when she moved to St. Ives and wanted to explore the hamlet. There were a few shops on King Street that thrived supported by the local economy. What was there was adequate for her needs. A bakery, a bookshop, a bank, a green grocer and meat and dairy shop, there was the restaurant and pub, of course, the Crown and Thistle, and a farmers’ market that was open from May to October, offering a selection of locally produced goods.
The bakery was her favourite. She had to restrict her visits to Saturday morning if she was going to win the war with the scale. The bell jangled overhead. She was the first customer, being the only resident of St. Ives who kept baker’s hours from long habit of living on a farm.
“Good morning, Mrs Holmes!” A voice sang from the back.
“How did you know it was me?” A standing joke between them. Avery glanced over the trays of fresh-baked goods protected behind glass, her mouth watering.
“I’m psychic. Your usual order, I presume?” Missy Hilroy emerged from the back, pink-faced, dusted in flour and carrying a large tray of cinnamon buns.
Avery swooned from the smell of cinnamon and yeast bread in combination; the perfect marriage for eating pleasure and caloric intake. There were at least three pairs of pants she couldn’t get into anymore.
“Yes, the usual, and I’ll take two of those,” she said pointing to the buns.
Missy grinned as she lifted a selection of doughnuts, rolls, date squares and cinnamon buns into a sturdy box. “And a loaf of bread, correct?”
Avery nodded, pondering the oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies. “I’ll take a dozen of those too, Missy. For the book club,” she added hastily.
Missy winked. “No problem. How is that going anyway? I saw the ad and was thinking of joining but I doubted I could keep up with a reading schedule. I only get a few minutes of reading in before I fall asleep. It would take me months to finish one book.”
“We’ve only met once and we couldn’t decide on a title. We got distracted talking about a real-life murder that happened here over forty years ago.”
“You mean Jenny Blake?” Missy’s eyes widened.
“That’s the one. Do you remember it?” Avery chose her next words with care. “We thought we’d try to solve it but no luck. Too much time has passed. People’s memories are fuzzy.”
She snorted. “Not mine. I remember it like it was yesterday. There was a party that night. Casey Shapiro was at my house for sleepover and we decided to crash it. We made it as far as the porch before we chickened out. The porch was dark so we could spy on them through the windows. They were older than us, the cool kids. They wouldn’t let us hang out with them but we never took no for an answer. We were like stalkers.” Missy laughed at the memory. “Casey died a few years ago of breast cancer. We used to get into all sorts of trouble.”
“So you never actually went inside the house?”
“I did, but Casey stayed on the porch. Jenny Blake was there with her boyfriend, Duncan. I remember seeing Karen Haggerty—she hasn’t changed a bit. I think the whole football team was there. I snuck into the kitchen to steal some pop and potato chips. Jenny was there, talking on the phone. You know those wall phones every kitchen had back then? One of those.”
“Did you hear what she was saying?”
“She was talking to
Jesse Sutcliffe and crying. I remember because after her body was found, I thought she’d committed suicide like Romeo and Juliet.” Missy shook her head, regretfully. “We didn’t tell anyone. We were too scared. We would’ve been grounded for the rest of our lives for sneaking out. They questioned a couple of the guys who knew Jenny but no one was arrested so I sort of forgot about it. I was told she was killed by a stranger so it wasn’t important to the case anyway. No one in St. Ives could’ve done it.”
“Jesse Sutcliffe was a suspect. One of the ladies in the book club was told that he hit Jenny. This person said she saw the bruises. Did you ever hear anything like that?”
Missy’s face changed dramatically. The baker was not one to hide her emotions. She was shocked. “No! That’s news to me. No one would hurt Jenny, least of all Jesse. He was in love with her. She started going out with Duncan Carmichael, but she wasn’t happy about it. Jesse was her soul mate.”
“Then why did they break up?”
“I can only tell you what I saw and heard. I was thirteen at the time and I could’ve misunderstood, but I doubt it.” Her lips thinned and the corners of her eyes tightened. She leaned over the glass counter. “Duncan Carmichael decided he wanted Jenny Blake and when the most popular boy in school decides he wants something—he gets it.”
“But I thought he was going out with Karen Haggerty.”
Missy placed the last of the cinnamon buns in a neat stack on the display plate and then moved to the cash register to ring up Avery’s purchases, all the while nodding her head briskly.
“He was. Oh, he was. Duncan Carmichael was a jerk even back then. I could tell what he was up to. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it. He’d been dating Karen Haggerty since Junior High and he wanted a new conquest. Jenny was going out with Jesse Sutcliffe who everyone said was weird—he wasn’t, he just didn’t respond to idiots. Duncan was the captain of the football team and he decided Jenny was wasted on Jesse. It was disgusting how he went about it.” Missy shook her head, handed Avery her change and the box of goodies.
“What happened?”
“Oh, he turned on the charm and pretty relentlessly too. Jenny was flattered—any girl would’ve been. Jesse got jealous, they had a huge fight and she dumped him. Duncan swooped in and the rest is history. Jenny was with Duncan, Karen was out in the cold, and Jesse dropped out of sight.”
“Poor Karen,” Avery said. “She must’ve been devastated. Jenny was her best friend.”
Missy made a face. “They knew each other but I wouldn’t say they were best friends. Karen was crazy about Duncan though. She would’ve done anything for him. We expected fireworks between the girls. Me and Casey were watching like hawks—but nope. Karen acted like nothing was wrong. If anything, she became friendlier to Jenny. Maybe she didn’t want to cause trouble and get kicked out of Duncan’s social circle. She started dating his best friend, Frankie Zwick right after.”
“And what became of Jesse Sutcliffe?” Avery watched Missy’s reaction closely.
The baker smiled. “I saw him at Jenny’s funeral. He had a bunch of flowers. Mrs Blake wouldn’t take them from him. No one would talk to him so I went up and said I was sorry for his loss, and he handed me the flowers with tears streaming down his face. It was kind of tragic like Romeo and Juliet. He came to the party, Casey saw him, but he was too late. He didn’t kill her. That’s not the action of a killer. I don’t care what anyone says.”
Chapter Eight
AVERY WALKED home slowly, her hand diving into the box of baked goods to tear small pieces off the cinnamon bun. Sweet bread was the ideal food for deep thinking. Missy was probably right. Jesse didn’t kill Jenny. Her story corroborated Jesse’s account and Jenny’s state of mind. But her story also threw in an unfortunate twist in the form of Karen Haggerty. The school secretary had either lied about being Jenny’s best friend or Missy got it wrong.
The teen love triangle was interesting but didn’t get them any closer to figuring who killed Jenny and why—and with what. What was used to strangle the girl?
She arrived at the corner lot she now called home, pausing to appreciate the gingerbread porch on her clapboard house—and winced. The white paint was starting to peel in places. Groaning inwardly, she pondered the cost of a paint job in a couple years time.
Her computer was waiting for her on her return. Another ritual. Boot up the computer, make coffee, set out her Saturday morning treat and write until lunch.
Avery’s writing room was a tiny spare room on the main floor to the right of the front entrance. It might’ve been a doctor’s consulting room at one time, long ago when St. Ives was founded. Pioneer towns and villages had the most interesting historical houses. Rich with stories and inspiration—she should be buzzing with ideas when she sat down to write.
Her fingers poised over the keys.
This was her dream. She was actually living her dream life right this minute. A fragrant cup of coffee at her elbow, sunshine streaming in the window, sunflowers against a white rail fence (no pickets, pickets were unfriendly), and a delicious fresh bakery bun waiting as a reward for the first five hundred words written....
Come on! How hard can this be?
There was a knock at the door. She leapt up from the chair and hurried to open it before the distraction went away.
“Mrs Holmes, sorry to bother you but there’s something you should know.”
Solomon Brice stood on the porch, a leather satchel over one shoulder and a camera hanging from a strap around his neck.
“Come in. I was planning to see you tomorrow. Coffee?”
He stepped inside her small living room. His youthful eyes scanned the décor. Avery had ignored all advice on interior decoration and furnished the room with everything she liked. There was a comfortable sofa, television, and CD player. (Music streaming was a tech too far for Avery to follow. She’d already made the leap from vinyl to cassette and then again to compact disc. She would go no further.) The fireplace was wood-burning, not gas. Bookshelves lined the walls, her old coffee table and end tables surrounded the couch; there were lamps in every corner and paintings on every wall. It was a cramped, comfortable room in which to hibernate when lake-effect snow swirled outside. On a bright Indian summer day, it felt a little claustrophobic.
Avery set down the coffee carafe, cream jug and sugar. At the last minute, she offered him the precious second cinnamon bun, mostly so she could eat hers in front of him without guilt.
“Are you working on a Saturday?” she asked.
Solomon nodded. “Briggs has me covering the farmers’ market this morning. It’s a slow news week. Pearl and I went to the police station to look at the case file as we promised.” He gave her a quick suspicious glance. “I don’t mind helping if I get the story, but if you’re just going to waste my time—”
“You’ll get the story if there’s a story to tell. We’re more or less stalled at the moment. Jesse Sutcliffe is very likely not the killer but we can’t prove it and we don’t know who is. What did you find out?”
“Nothing. As it turns out, the police won’t share case files with the public when a case is still ongoing. It’s cold but they haven’t closed it. The public is kept informed of new developments through the press. The officer who told me all this, looked at my press credentials and said ‘There are no new developments.’ That’s as much as I’m entitled to know. The original investigating officer is retired and living in Victoria. A new officer has been assigned, Detective Stewart Denton. I was given his phone number if I had any questions.”
“Well, that’s disappointing. You said there was something I needed to know.”
“It’s about Elliot Marks. Were you aware he was a person of interest in this case?”
Avery set her cinnamon bun down, her appetite suddenly gone. “No, I wasn’t.”
“I spoke to Detective Denton. He just made detective a month ago and he’s a big believer in soliciting the public’s help with investigations. He told me with a case
this old, it might help to shake the tree a little and see what falls out. He gave me an off-the-record rundown of the people interviewed in 1975 and guess who fell out? Elliot Marks.”
“What could he have to do with it? He was a sickly ten-year-old boy at the time.”
“Denton said Marks had spent time in a psyche ward and there were tons of red flags in his school records. He had issues. A witness said he was fixated on Jenny Blake and had delusions of being her knight in shining armour.”
“That doesn’t sound threatening, Solomon. That sounds like your average ten-year-old boy.”
Solly shrugged and took a huge bite out of the cinnamon bun, destroying Avery’s hope that he might give it a pass. “Nowadays, he’d probably be called precocious. Back then, they must’ve thought it was peculiar enough to question him where he was that night.”
“And where was he?”
“He says he was home in bed, but Denton tells me his shoes were wet and there was dirt stuck in the soles. They didn’t send them to forensics because they believed Jesse Sutcliffe was the perpetrator. With limited resources, they can’t afford to follow every anomaly. The detective in charge of the investigation targeted the most likely suspect to make a case. Explain to me, if Elliot was in bed that night, how did his shoes get wet and dirty?”
“I don’t know,” Avery replied tightly. “But I can’t see a ten-year-old boy strangling his beloved babysitter.”
“And that’s another thing. He knew she was strangled. How did he know that?”
“He said Jenny’s parents told him in a letter a year later.”
“I’d like to see that letter. According to my buddy, Denton, the police weren’t giving out that information because they were hoping to trip up the killer. The only person outside of police who knew how Jenny was murdered was the murderer. Ask yourself—is that something the victim’s parents would share with a kid? I’m not saying Marks is the murderer, but his actions are definitely shifty. In fact, this whole club thing is shifty.”
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