Death in the Garden City

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Alan’s driving, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I wouldn’t use my phone if—’

  John interrupted. ‘Tell him to pull off on Chapman Road and wait for me. I can get to you a lot quicker. Traffic’s mostly coming in to the city. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘John, bring some sandwiches or something,’ I said, but it was too late; he was gone.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t mentioned food,’ said Alan.

  ‘Me, too. I don’t suppose … no.’ Chapman Road turned out to lead not much of anywhere, and there were certainly no shops or fast-food outlets, just what looked like a used-car lot. I was getting thirsty, too, but I decided not to mention that. And the sun was getting very warm. I rummaged in my purse and found the remains of the pack of gum I’d bought to alleviate ear problems while flying. It was pretty dry. I took a stick and handed one to Alan, who took it without comment.

  John got there before we quite perished, and bless the man, he had some bottles of water. ‘They’re not cold, I’m afraid, but I thought you might be feeling a bit dry, baking here in your car. Now let’s see Silas’s treasure. Ah, yes. Yes, the old boy’s done us proud. This is going to let us nail one case.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Alan cautiously, but John paid him no attention.

  He called the details in to the RCMP. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to get back very fast. Even if I had my old police car with lights and siren, other cars can’t get out of my way when there’s no place to go. In fact, now that they’ve got the information at headquarters, there’s no real need to hurry. How about some lunch? I know a little place around here, nothing posh, but the food’s quite acceptable.’

  I would have eaten raw oysters by that time, and they are the one food I detest. Fish and chips were more than ‘acceptable’. The little café was crowded enough that we could talk in reasonable privacy.

  ‘Have they had any luck yet in finding Alexis and/or her friend?’ I asked. ‘Oh!’

  Both men looked at me quizzically.

  ‘I just remembered something I meant to do first thing this morning, and Silas knocked it out of my head. Alan, don’t let me forget when we’ve finished eating.’

  John looked as if he wanted to ask what I was talking about, and I decided there was no reason he shouldn’t know. ‘I’m going to call my friend Nigel, back in Sherebury, and given the time difference, I need to do it soon. I want him to do some research on Alexis.’

  ‘We’re doing that, you know.’

  ‘I know. But Nigel’s approach might be … um … slightly different from yours.’

  John looked at me over the tops of his glasses. ‘Slightly less legal, you mean. I thought you said he was “strictly legit”.’

  ‘And he is. He would never hack into anyone’s files in order to steal anything.’ I left it at that, and John sighed.

  ‘Okay, I don’t want to know. Information obtained illegally can’t be used in court, you know.’

  ‘I do know. But it can be useful, all the same. Would you pass the vinegar, please?’

  We spent the rest of the meal talking about the various Canada Day celebrations, and then I excused myself to call Nigel.

  ‘No, I wasn’t in bed. It’s only a little after nine here; we’ve just got the kids in bed. What’s up?’

  ‘First, I need to catch you up to date.’ I told him that Alexis and Alice had been identified as one and the same, and as Alexis had had the opportunity and a whopping motive to kill Hartford, they were looking for her. ‘But she seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. I want you to find her.’

  ‘Oh, right, I’ll hop on the next plane.’

  ‘Not that way – as you know perfectly well. I want you to get into her computer and come up with some likely places she might go.’

  There was a pause. ‘And you’ll pay my bail?’

  ‘Anything. But you won’t get caught. And Nigel, it’s urgent! She’s got to be found.’

  ‘Yes. Well, no promises, but I’ll do my best. Any ideas about a password?’

  ‘None that you couldn’t guess as well as I. Permutations on birth date, addresses, names of friends. Oh … you might try some variation of Lucia, since that was her obsession.’

  ‘Right. I’ll be in touch.’

  And we went home by a leisurely route John had suggested to Sadie, and if it took at least as long as the main highway would have done, at least we weren’t breathing exhaust fumes all the way.

  We got back home in time to see some native dancing (very impressive) and hear some music and eat a good deal of picnic-style food and, when the sun finally set, to watch fireworks over the harbour from our balcony, before we fell into bed at the end of a very long day.

  I was not best pleased to be awakened, for the second day in a row, by the telephone. This time I didn’t even speak when I answered.

  ‘Dorothy? Are you there?’

  ‘Mph.’ I tried to focus on the display. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Oh. Did I wake you?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m always awake at 4:37 in the morning.’

  ‘You did say it was urgent.’

  I yawned hugely. ‘I did. It’s just that yesterday … oh, well. Never mind. Hang on a minute while I get up and go to the kitchen.’

  ‘This is costing a lot, you know,’ Nigel complained when I spoke again.

  ‘Send us the bill. I had to get to the coffee. Now, what have you got that justified getting an old lady out of bed at this ungodly hour?’

  ‘It’s worth it, I promise. I haven’t found her, though I do have some leads. But I got into her computer and found a piece of dynamite. A-a-and – wait for it – I wasn’t the first hacker to find it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘There are footprints, if you know how to look for them. Anyway, I found a document that will set your sweet little community over there on fire. It’s a press release, written a couple of weeks ago and due to be sent to the media yesterday. It details, chapter and verse, all the dirty tricks Paul Hartford had been playing for months – all those petty crimes. Then it goes on to explain why he was doing all this – a ploy to create a problem which he then could promise to solve, once he was elected.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what we thought was happening. Why would Alexis …? Oh.’

  ‘Yes. Her revenge. Brilliant, actually. The release doesn’t actually say so, but it’s pretty obvious that her planning was behind all this.’

  ‘But then, why would she kill him? This plan was much worse. Build him up, lead him on, and then destroy him. That massive ego torn to bits. What a diabolical woman! Though one admits he deserved it. But murder? Where does that fit into the plan?’

  ‘It doesn’t. Which is why I thought you’d find this interesting. I’m going to send it to you. You have, of course, no idea where it came from. I’ll keep looking for her hideaway. Go back to bed, darling,’ he added sweetly, and ended the call.

  I wished I could do as he suggested, but my body was too full of caffeine and my mind too full of conflicting thoughts.

  It was too early to call John. It was too early to wake Alan. I sat with my own tangled thoughts, drinking cup after cup of coffee and trying to work out a reason for Hartford’s murder.

  I jumped when Alan walked into the room, and knocked my cup off the table. He started to apologize. ‘It’s all right. That’s about my fifth cup, and I certainly don’t need it. Did it break?’

  ‘No, tough stoneware. Why so much coffee?’ He got paper towels and cleaned up the mess while I started another pot for him.

  ‘I’ve been up for hours. Nigel called, and I have a tale to relate.’

  I told him, briefly. ‘Nigel’s going to send the press release to us, maybe has already. Does it make any sense to you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I see why you needed so much coffee. No, it doesn’t make sense. The plot to take him down is understandable. Brilliant, in fact. We had worked out that he was cre
ating a problem in order to solve it – but we didn’t go the next step and sweep the whole thing out from under his feet. That I see. But why, with that plan almost to fruition, she would murder him – no.’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t. Maybe we’re all wrong. Maybe he – oh, I don’t know – committed suicide. Had an accident.’

  ‘And then, while dead, moved to a different location to be found.’

  ‘Maybe he wasn’t quite dead.’

  ‘With a severed aorta.’

  ‘You see, that’s the trouble. I’ve been thinking all those things, hoping coffee would clear my head, but all it’s done is give me the shakes. And I’ve thought maybe someone else murdered him, after all, but why? And why, in that case, has Alexis disappeared?’

  Alan looked at his watch. ‘I overslept. John must be up and about by now. I’ll call him.’

  But his phone rang before he could pick it up. ‘Yes? Oh, I was about to phone you. Yes? Good! Well done! We have some things to tell you, too. Have you had breakfast? Well, then, come over and have it with us.’ He clicked off. ‘They’ve got Elizabeth’s killer, one of Hartford’s employees, as we suspected. The receipt led them straight to him. John’s coming to tell us all about it. What would you like for breakfast, French toast?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! All I need is a sugar high on top of the caffeine high. You’d have to scrape me off the ceiling.’

  ‘Ah. Well then, how about a nice surfeit of cholesterol? The fat should buffer the caffeine, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. If caffeine is the antidote to alcohol, is the opposite true? Maybe what I need is a good shot of bourbon.’

  ‘Maybe what you need is some fresh air. Go out and enjoy the beautiful morning. I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.’

  The fresh air didn’t help much, but breakfast did, I had to admit. Maybe part of the shakiness was just plain hunger. And it was good to talk things over with John, but he didn’t have any solution to our conundrum, either. Nigel had sent the press release; John read it and shook his head.

  ‘That woman belongs in a Greek play. An ancient Greek play. The idea of waiting that long for her revenge, of planning out such an elaborate scheme – whew! I wouldn’t want her mad at me.’

  ‘John, we’ve got to find her. How can such a conspicuous person vanish so completely?’

  ‘Well, there’s one way.’

  ‘Yes. I thought of that. There’s plenty of nice deep water around. But would someone who could be that wrapped up in revenge even consider surrender? Because that’s what suicide is – surrender to one’s troubles.’

  ‘I agree it doesn’t seem in character. Well, I’d best take this to the police. Might as well make them as confused as we are.’

  ‘Anyway, we’ve got one murderer by the heels. How did you do that, by the way? I never had a chance to ask.’

  ‘Just routine police work, once we had that receipt. When we talked to the guy – his name’s Sam Ellis – he couldn’t confess fast enough. I think he was afraid Hartford would be blamed, and even though the man’s dead …’ John sighed. ‘Loyalty sometimes settles in strange places. Sam told us he knew Elizabeth wasn’t responding to Hartford’s advances, and he thought he could teach her a lesson and give Silas some trouble at the same time, but it all went wrong. She tried to fight him and he got carried away.’

  I was too appalled to speak.

  ‘It won’t be a murder charge, probably,’ John went on. ‘Homicide, certainly, but the guy’s pretty convincing when he says he never meant to kill her. He also says, and I believe this, too, that Hartford never ordered that little piece of mayhem. It was his own sweet little idea.’ He shook his head. ‘Some of those geeks – they know everything there is to know about electronics. Show them a computer, and they can make it fire a rocket to the moon. They can create Artificial Intelligence till the cows come home. But as far as ordinary human intelligence, ordinary common sense and compassion …’ He spread his hands in the universal ‘no way’ gesture. ‘Nothing, nada, zilch. I really must go.’

  THIRTY

  ‘Come, love,’ said Alan, when the door had closed behind John, ‘let’s go for a walk. Most of this lovely city remains unexplored. I think we need a fresh outlook.’

  ‘I have a better idea. We’ll probably be going home soon. I’d like to see Butchart Gardens one more time and remind ourselves why this is the Garden City, rather than remember it for all the awful things that have been going on here.’

  ‘Are you up to it, on very little sleep and too much coffee?’

  ‘I want to forget all about crime and misery for a while, and there are lots of benches.’

  ‘And if you fall asleep on one of them, doubtless one of those stalwart groundskeepers will help me haul you back to the car. Very well. Shall we take a picnic lunch or eat in the café?’

  ‘It had better be the café. Our food supply is running low, and I don’t want to buy a lot more.’

  ‘Right you are. And I hate to mention it, dear heart, but were you planning to get dressed?’

  The day was, of course, perfect. The weather had become monotonous. ‘I’d love a nice thunderstorm about now,’ I said as I negotiated downtown Victoria traffic.

  ‘Not now. After we’ve had our little outing.’

  The gardens were crowded, as I should have expected. ‘I suppose a lot of people took the whole week off,’ I said after we finally found a parking place.

  But once we got into the gardens proper, the crowds weren’t bothersome. The place is big enough to accommodate a lot of people. And the flowers … ‘Alan, it’s all different, and only a couple of weeks later.’

  Many more roses were in bloom, and their fragrance filled the air. I found it impossible to dwell on bitterness and revenge in such a place. Those old storytellers who envisioned Eden as a garden were right on the money.

  But Alan was right, as he so often is. I ran out of energy suddenly, as we approached the Italian Garden. I sagged onto a bench and gulped from my water bottle. ‘Lunchtime, do you think?’ Alan asked.

  I nodded. ‘If we can get in. Maybe we should have brought that picnic after all.’

  ‘It’s early. We can but try.’

  The nearest eatery was the smallest and most expensive, the Dining Room, housed in the original home of the Butcharts. It was barely past eleven, when they opened, but the place was already full. ‘I’m afraid, at this time of year, you really do need to make a reservation,’ said the hostess, sounding genuinely sorry. ‘You might try the Blue Poppy, but I imagine there’s quite a line.’

  ‘Oh, dear. I … is there someplace where I could buy a candy bar or something? I feel foolish, but I think I really do need food quickly.’

  The woman looked alarmed. ‘You’re not diabetic, are you? Because I could get you some orange juice …’

  ‘It’s Mrs Martin, isn’t it?’ The woman had come up behind us. ‘And Mr Nesbitt. Do you remember me?’

  ‘Yes, of course – at the gala – but … oh! Ms Underwood, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I’m afraid I overheard part of your conversation. I have a table for three booked here, but I just heard that the other two can’t make it. If you don’t mind sharing a table, I’d love to have you join me.’

  ‘Oh, we wouldn’t want to intrude …’ I trailed off.

  ‘Nonsense. I hate eating alone, and you’re white as a sheet. Come and sit down before you fall down. My usual table, Kathleen?’

  We were seated and Ms Underwood had made me eat a crusty roll, lavish with butter, before she would let me say anything. ‘That’s better. Are you in fact diabetic?’

  ‘No. Just very, very tired and hungry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  ‘And you’ve been having a trying time. I may say I know most of what you’ve been going through. Amy is a good friend. Have another roll.’

  While my mouth was full, Alan gently probed Ms Underwood’s knowledge.

  ‘Yes, Amy told me you’d learned
who Alexis really was. And her tragic story. Oh, yes, please, iced tea for all of us, and we’ll start with the vichyssoise. I hope you don’t mind my ordering – if you’d rather have something else – it’s just that they’re so busy, and I didn’t want to keep anyone waiting.’

  I started to say that vichyssoise sounded fine, but Ms Underwood swept on. ‘I never warmed to Alexis, I must say, but now that I know what that disgusting man did to her – and I’m going to be just like the dean and say what I think about him – and I’m so glad he’ll never be our MP, but poor Alexis – or Alice, as I suppose I should call her—’

  Alan interrupted her. ‘Ms Underwood, do you have any idea where she might be? She seems to have disappeared, and the police are rather interested in talking with her.’

  ‘They think she did it, don’t they?’

  ‘There’s a good deal of evidence that way, although it’s not conclusive.’ I tried to say it gently. ‘I have a good deal of sympathy for her, too, but private vengeance can’t be condoned.’

  ‘No. Ah, here’s our soup.’

  We worked our way through the soup and a huge Caesar salad and a chocolate mousse to die for, and Alan told her about the arrest of Elizabeth’s killer. ‘He’s confessed, so I’m not spreading tales.’ He didn’t talk about Nigel’s discovery of the press release; that information wasn’t yet public.

  Alan tried to pick up the bill when it came, but Ms Underwood wouldn’t let him. ‘You’re doing a public service here in Victoria, and not getting a cent for it. I can certainly buy you lunch. And there’s something else I can do for you. I’ve made up my mind. Alice Ingram is staying with me. Here’s my address and landline number. And my name, by the way, is Pat.’

  And she was gone before we could do more than gape at her.

  We tried to call John, of course, but got voice mail. ‘Alan, we can’t just turn this over to the police. She trusts us. Let’s go over and talk to Alice.’

  Alan shrugged. ‘Who may be a murderer.’

  ‘But may not.’

  He shrugged again and led the way to the car.

  Sadie got us there easily. As we might have expected, Ms Underwood – Pat – lived in a big, beautiful house in a beautiful neighbourhood. We pulled into the drive, and before we got to the door a vaguely familiar-looking woman opened it and stood there framed in the doorway.