As she walked in the back door of the courthouse, she noticed a man watching her from across the parking lot. When she came in and described him to Adam, he told her the man was likely the reporter, Atkins.
"What does he want with me?"
"He wants to ask you general questions about genealogy research. I told him you wouldn't answer anything else. The Culvers own the paper, and he's worried he'll offend them."
"So much for freedom of the press."
“They're proud and private people."
"If he catches up with me, I'll listen to his questions. That is all I may do, listen."
"Up to you."
Adam spent the morning report writing but sent Brad out to learn what more he could about Morrison. Anne planned to research the Culver lands to see if any parcels belonged to Douglas then forward to find out what had happened to them. Computers made this checking easy. They were lucky both victims had used theirs so extensively.
When they broke for lunch, Brad took Anne to the library and met Adam at Lil's. As they settled into booths, Adam questioned Brad about his morning.
"Did you learn anything about Morrison?"
"I went out to the construction site, but the only guys out there were the framers. They're trying to get the houses closed in, so they weren't much for talking. One fellow said Morrison was usually an okay guy to work for, but lately he had been ugly."
"Ugly?"
"Yeah. Taking something out on the crews. Nothing was ever right. Some of the guys were thinking of quitting, in spite of decent wages."
"Because the boss was hard to get along with?"
"So they said, but I don't think I have the whole story yet. Doesn't explain why Morrison's wife is so wound up either."
"Maybe she's what's on his mind?"
"I can't find anyone who knows her. He's local. His family owned the property he's building on. At least most of it. I think he had to do some deals for some of the shorelines."
"Legit?”
"I doubt it. The brother wasn't too happy about me talking to the crew. He came along and suggested I leave. I didn't think you wanted me to make something of it, at least not yet, so I left."
Brad hesitated, waited for a nod from Adam and went on. "I think we should talk to him. Morrison, not the brother."
"After lunch."
After lunch, they rode out to the worksite where six houses were in various stages of completion. The wind whistled through the gaps left for windows, swirled leaves across the plywood floors, picked up scattered sawdust, and blew it into small piles against the walls. No workers. Not even equipment. Adam and Brad swung up into the open doorways, crossed from lot to lot. Nothing.
"Let's go visit the lady," Adam said.
Brad backed the car down to the main road and pulled into the lane leading to the Morrison home. Only silence met their repeated knocks on the door, though smoke curled in lazy circles from the chimney.
"Mrs. Morrison. It's Brad Compton, police. We'd like to talk to you."
Silence.
"I'll check the lakefront," Adam said. "Keep on calling to her."
Grass and weeds were taking over most of the flower beds. Maybe the lady was depressed. He could hear Brad calling her first name now. He walked across the terrace to the sliding doors. The drapes weren't entirely pulled.
Something was out of place in the perfect room. Adam realized he was staring at a shoe attached to a foot visible at the corner of the white leather sofa.
"Brad, Brad. Get around here."
He pushed open the sliding door and knelt by the woman on the floor. Alive, but only just, he thought. Pale, clammy skin and shallow breathing. Shock, he thought.
"Call an ambulance. Tell the crew we'll meet them at the rock-cut with the victim. I don't think we have time to get them all the way in here."
He did a quick search of the room while Brad called in. A bottle of Johnny Walker Red whiskey and a glass sat on the big polished slice of a tree trunk that served as a coffee table. He found a pill bottle on the dark green carpet beside it. Ativan. That was some sort of tranquillizer, he thought. No note. They'd come back after they met the ambulance.
Adam picked the tiny woman up and carried her through the front door. Brad sat with her in the back seat, holding her head in a safe position, while Adam slammed the cruiser into reverse and headed out the lane. The road was so rough Brad hugged the woman's body to his to keep her on the seat. Adam made better time after they reached the smoother road over the old railway bed.
The siren of the ambulance wailed as they crossed the causeway, and they saw the flashing lights when they turned the final corner. The crew waited by the open back doors of the ambulance.
"She's still breathing but awful slow," Brad said as they hoisted her out of the back seat and onto a stretcher.
"We've got her, Brad," said one of the paramedics.
"Hey, Mac. Her heart's awful slow too."
They had her hooked to a monitor before Brad was out of the car. The other paramedic wrenched the end from the iv tubing with his teeth as he held the needle in the vein. Mac spoke to the doctor at their base hospital.
Adam leaned against the cruiser, his face impassive as he watched the scene. Long minutes passed while the other two worked, shooting medications into the iv lines as the doctor followed their progress on his monitor at their base. Finally, they loaded her into the ambulance.
Adam walked over to Mac.
"She's stable now, Lieutenant," he answered Adam's unspoken question. "We're taking her to Culver's Mills. Looks like she took a lot of those pills."
"Will she make it?"
"Likely, if the Ativan and alcohol are all she took."
"We'll check the house again," Adam said.
Turning to Brad, he said, "Back to the lake. We'll do another check for pills and a note."
At the property, Brad checked the garage, a miniature of the house, with the same double A-frame construction and enough room for three cars. One was there, a dark green Chevy with mismatched doors, one of them only base painted, and a rusted-out license plate.
Adam circled the house checking the doors and windows. No signs of any disturbance. All the doors except the front and the sliders were locked tight. When Brad joined him, they went in, pulling on gloves.
"Any vehicles?" Adam asked.
"An old clunker, hers likely. I bet Morrison drives something better."
A wall of glass in the living room faced the lake, while the fieldstone fireplace filled the opposite wall. A long piece of unstained cedar formed the mantelpiece.
A tiny oriental woman enveloped in the arms of a tall, muscular blonde man, smiled down at him from a picture on the mantle. Mr. and Mrs., Adam guessed. What had Brad said her name was? Denise. Brad said she was frightened. Of him? Or what?
They found empty end tables, no bookshelves, and no clutter of any kind. A long counter separated the living area from the kitchen. Pale oak cabinets with dark burgundy inserts in the doors hid a tidy collection of dishes and pots and pans. The dishwasher was empty.
A scarlet cover on the bed, embroidered with fanciful birds and flowers struck a vivid and unexpected note in the room. A pane of glass with no mullions took half of one wall, opening the bedroom to the forest and lake beyond.
A spicy odor reminded him of her. He had smelled it when he carried her to the car. Her scent, he guessed and found it on the dressing table in the bathroom. He picked up several different bottles of pills. All had her name on them, some older, all with the same doctor, Kavanagh in Culver's Mills. She tried a lot of things to feel better or to sleep. No note.
On the way back to the station, Adam called the hospital. The woman was in intensive care, ventilated, but expected to recover. No one had been looking for her.
He wanted to talk to Anne, but she hadn't returned from the library.
Chapter Twenty-One
Anne worked for an hour at the library to confirm her information. When Douglas Culver died
, he owned a piece of land independent of the family holdings, outside present-day Burlington. Anne couldn't find any record of its transfer or mention in probate. Somehow, the records were lost in time. She and the librarian decided the land belonged to Peg and May.
Maybe Brad could drive her to the land, she thought, as she walked back to the station. She was so tired of being afraid. She had known women, abused women, who lived with this feeling all the time. It was exhausting. She couldn't live this way, even for a little while. Adam would understand.
The station was empty of officers. No one to understand or to ask. On the walk back to Catherine's she contemplated packing and leaving. She could go.
And do what, she asked herself. The anxiety would remain, even across the border. As she walked towards Catherine's the same man who was in the parking lot earlier walked towards her. Fear clutched at her as he approached.
"Dr. McPhail?"
"Yes."
"Ted Atkins, from the local paper. Could I ask you a few questions? Maybe Lieutenant Davidson mentioned I would be around?"
"Yes, he did. You do realize that I can't talk about the investigation, do you?"
God, she sounded so uptight and rude, she thought.
"I know that, but what is this genealogy stuff about?"
"If that is all," Anne said with relief, "come up and sit on the porch for a few minutes and I will show you."
Anne got her computer and showed Ted the program she used and sketched how genealogy research was done.
"Jennifer blackmailed people," he said. "How could that be done?"
“Take my own family. I confirmed that one of my ancestors was aboriginal. There might be someone in my family who found that an offensive notion, to the point of being prepared to pay to keep that secret. Or I might run across information about some other family as I searched, such as evidence of past criminal behavior, or illegitimacy, or bigamy. I've seen instances of all these things."
"All in old records? Where do you access them?"
"Yes. On-line, or in archives or in church records, newspapers, land records, old books. I visited a lot of local libraries. You would be surprised at the documents that people leave to their library."
"And what have you found here in Culver's Mills. Any old scandals?"
"Oh no, Mr. Atkins. Everything that I have done here is information I gathered for the police. You will have to ask them."
The reporter's crooked grin beamed at her. "Okay, Dr. McPhail, thanks for spending time with me."
"When this is over if I am allowed to tell you any more, I will."
When he left, she resumed her internal debate, to stay or to go. By the time she talked herself into staying, she was on the road to Burlington.
The librarian loaned her a detailed county map so finding the parcel of land was easy. The route took her very close to Burlington. She expected farmland but was met by gates and a large developer's sign. Peter Horvath, Inc. Who was Peter Horvath and how was he developing land he didn't own? A construction trailer stood on the property, empty. Strange that a big construction site wasn't working on Saturday. As she pulled off the site and headed back to Culver's Mills, a black Jeep passed her. The sight of one of those made her heart race.
Anne broke a few speed limits on her way back. Usually, she enjoyed driving, but today her attention was divided between watching the road ahead and her rear-view. As she pulled up in front of the courthouse, another SUV entered the square. She waited in her car until he drifted pass, and sprinted for the door, bursting through as Adam came out.
"Anne, where the hell have you been? What happened? Come in and sit down. Brad, get Anne some coffee."
"I went to look at some land that Douglas Culver owned. The librarian and I found the records, and we can't find any transfer to anyone else, so the property should belong to Peg and May."
She stopped to sip the hot coffee that Brad handed to her.
"So?"
Adam was still angry.
"So there's a big development by some guy called Howarth going up on it. How can he be building on land he doesn't own?"
"Maybe you missed the sale record?"
"Someone there drives an SUV, a black one, and followed me again. I couldn't read the license because the plates are caked with mud, but the car, truck, whatever you call those things, is clean."
"What do you think, Adam?" Brad asked. "Would title be clear for this guy if Peg started contesting it?"
"I can't see how. It does make a motive, if Jennifer knew him, if she blackmailed Howarth, if we can place him at the scene. Find out what you can about him, and call the director of land records. I want to know what title is on that land.
"Adam, I think I came across Howarth in Davis's files."
Brad played his fingers across the keyboard, calling up financial records.
"Yeah, here he is. Paid Davis one hundred thousand dollars as a "retainer". Davis's bank account shows forty thousand of that being withdrawn over five weeks as a cash withdrawal."
"Cash. What do you suppose he handed over to Jennifer at those dinners in Burlington?"
"It hangs together, but we have to interview this guy. Like I said, find some information on him. Come on, Anne, I think you need to be back at Catherine's. You've done enough detective work for today."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anne was looking forward to the weekend when she woke on Saturday morning. She still had her own research to work on. Now that she had traced the paternal side of her family back to 1793, she wanted to begin on the maternal side. A lot of work had been already done by yet another cousin, a missionary priest known as Father Frank in the family, who worked in Saskatchewan. He found a Yorkshire couple who immigrated to Canada in 1820. They were her maternal grandmother's ancestors.
It was the grandfather she wanted to find now. He came to Canada in the great British migration before the First World War to homestead in Saskatchewan. The farm was lost in the thirties when, to use her mother's phrase, "the land blew away."
Anne intended to return to the library to do some more digging. She also wanted to learn more about the Beauchamps and their connection to her family. On-line, she found references to several generations of Beauchamps descended from Daniel, until about 1862, when the last male Beauchamp of the line died in the Civil War. He died bravely too and was awarded a medal posthumously. Surely the Beauchamps would appreciate knowing this, in spite of the aboriginal link.
After a fruitless morning at the library, Anne decided to drive out to the Beauchamps after lunch. As she stopped her car in front of the imposing stone building, she noticed the bright blue door. Imaginative, she thought. She wondered which one of them decided on the paint.
The ringing doorbell brought an unusually sunny Tracy in answer.
"Good morning," she almost sang. "Can I help you?"
"I wonder if I could see Mrs. Beauchamp or someone in the family for a few moments?"
Anne handed Tracy one of her business cards as she spoke. On the back, she had written re Beauchamp genealogy.
"Please come in and wait."
Anne waited in the small foyer that opened into the center hallway of the home. A wide staircase all polished and carved wood, with an oriental carpet runner, rose to a landing. Brilliant dark eyes of a beautiful woman gazed at her from a portrait hanging on the wall above the landing. How lovely she is, Anne thought, with those high cheekbones and dark hair, especially with her pale skin set off by a gown of deep red velvet.
The same lovely face approached her from a door to her right.
"Dr. McPhail?"
"Yes, I have been admiring the portrait. You, I assume?"
Anne smiled and offered her hand.
"Yes, many years ago, now." Mrs. Beauchamp said, turning to look at her younger self after briefly touching Anne's hand. "What can I do for you?"
She turned back to Anne, suspicion clouding those lovely eyes.
"I have been doing genealogical research here, and whi
le looking into my own family, I found references to yours, I think, as well as a connection between the two. I thought you might like to see it."
"Would you be asking anything in return, Doctor?” she asked, pulling back slightly.
"Not at all. I know you must be concerned because of all that has gone on here, but I don't want anything at all. In fact, I almost didn't come because some of the information might upset you."
"Upset me! Why? Oh, do come in here.”
She led Anne into a library. More of the same dark, carved wood surrounded bookcases fronted with beveled glass doors. High backed eighteenth century armchairs, covered with flame-stitched upholstery sat before a fireplace faced with red brick aged to a pale rose.
Mrs. Beauchamp lowered herself into one, not sitting back, but holding herself upright, ankles together and tucked away under the chair.
"What have you found that might upset me? Does it upset you?"
"Not at all. I have known for some time that one of my own ancestors married an aboriginal woman. The family didn't know exactly where they had lived, because he was a soldier, among other occupations, and of course, early records are scanty. Legend had it they had spent time in Vermont. One of my cousins found evidence, a hint really, that they had been here. Your library and the church records have been helpful."
Anne could see the elderly lady growing restive.
"The reference librarian showed me a small diary, donated to the library when it was first opened. A young French woman, following her soldier-husband, had come here. The diary covered many events, including a scandale," Anne went on, using the French word, "that involved Michel Beauchamp, and his marriage to an aboriginal woman, Marie-Angelique de la Ronde. Later on, I found a baptism of a son, Daniel, whose godparents were your husband's own ancestors. I can't find anyone in the line after 1863 when the last male died in the Civil War. He was a hero, I might add, who was awarded a medal for bravery. I have brought photocopies of all I could, and I have digital pictures of the records at the church, which I can print for you if you would like them."
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