Killer Cables

by Reagan Davis

  The bar is surrounded by various types of seating: booths along the walls, tables and chairs in the centre, and two cozy seating areas with sofas and club chairs around a fireplace.

  The tables and chairs can be cleared away, to make space for a dance floor and DJ booth when needed.

  There’s a centre hall staircase immediately behind the bar that leads upstairs where there are two large function rooms, Sheamus’ office, extra washrooms, and a large open foyer overlooking the main floor with an intricate wood railing to lean on.

  Beyond the staircase there are more tables and chairs. It’s quieter behind the stairs than the rest of the pub, so that’s a good place to hang out when you want to hear the people you’re speaking with. Past those is the patio door.

  The Irish Embassy is one of the few businesses on the south side of Water Street, so the patio overlooks the park and the water. It’s a beautiful place to spend a summer night. The patio has tables, chairs, umbrellas, and if there’s a live band, they pipe the music out to the patio with speakers.

  I’m facing the bar and can see Eric tucking into a big bowl of Dublin Coddle, the dinner special tonight.

  He sees me too and lifts his fork to wave. I lift my glass. Craig turns to see who I’m waving to, and Eric nods at him. He nods back.

  “My tenant,” I explain. “He lives in the apartment over the store.”

  We talk. He spent his twenties becoming a doctor and his thirties working with Doctors Without Borders; I spent both those decades being a mom and wife. He loves kids; I like them in manageable doses. He wants kids soon; I’ve been there, done that, and have the university bills to prove it. He’s never been married and can’t wait to find the right person; I was married for twenty years and not sure I want to do it again.

  He’s funny and charming. He’s handsome, and he’s a great conversationalist. Hopefully, my conversation skills are better than they were on Thursday, and I’ve redeemed myself since my medication-fuelled attempt at interacting with him at the hospital.

  “Can I ask you a medical question?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  “If a seventyish-year-old woman, who’s otherwise healthy except for a broken leg, took an overdose of digoxin, how long would it take for her to die?”

  “That’s an oddly specific question, Megan,” he says, chuckling. “Would this have anything to do with Laura Pingle?”

  “You know her?” I ask.

  Duh. Of course, he knows her. He grew up in Harmony Lake. Why do I keep forgetting that?

  “Yeah, she’s a friend of my mum’s. I knew her, and her husband, Dr. Pingle. In fact, I saw her the morning she died. I visited her in her room just before they discharged her,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s hard to believe she’s gone. And so tragically. She was such a nice person. Who would want to hurt her?”

  That’s what I’m trying to figure out.

  “Were you her doctor?” I ask.

  “No, I was on the surgical recovery floor doing rounds and stopped by to see her and say hi.” He leans forward and rests his arms on the table. “She likely died quickly,” he explains in a soothing voice.

  I imagine this is the voice he uses when he delivers bad news to patients and their families.

  “She probably wasn’t in much pain or discomfort. Her heart rate would have become erratic. In Laura’s case it became too fast, a condition called tachycardia, until her heart couldn’t keep up anymore and stopped working. Also, she would have been weaker than normal because she had just had surgery, which may have sped up the process.”

  “I see,” I say.

  I hadn’t thought about her final moments. She looked so peaceful in her chair, that I just assumed her passing was peaceful and I’m glad to hear that was likely the case.

  “I also think,” Craig adds, “that whoever killed her knows about digoxin. They either researched it, have some medical education, or are familiar with it because of their own medical history.”

  “Why do you think that?” I ask.

  “Because they knew how much to give her.” He raises his index finger. “They timed it so she would be dead when someone found her, which means they knew approximately how long it would take to kill her.” He puts up his middle finger next to his index finger. “And they crushed it ahead of time because they knew it doesn’t dissolve easily.” He raises his ring finger.

  I didn’t realize the information about the pills being crushed was public knowledge. Eric told me and I’m a member of the public, and now that I think about it, he didn’t ask me to keep it to myself, so I guess it is common knowledge.

  We finish our drinks and nachos and his cell phone starts chiming. The first on call doctor isn’t reachable, so he has to go. I totally understand. I try to pay the bill, but he won’t let me and suggests that I can get it next time.

  He drops me off at home and asks permission to call me. I grant permission, but wonder why, because we are at different places in our lives and we clearly want different things.

  April and Connie text me. Whoever their spy is at the pub must have told them we left. They want details and want to know if I want to see him again. I tell them about my evening, put Sophie out in the backyard, and get ready for bed.

  Chapter 11

  Sunday January 12th

  I wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, put both feet on the floor, and delicately put some weight on my foot.

  So far, so good.

  I stand up carefully, keeping most of my weight on my good foot.

  No pain.

  Cautiously optimistic, I gently shift some weight back and forth between my good foot and my injured foot, adding a bit more pressure on the injured foot each time I shift.

  It feels good to have both feet functioning and on the floor again.

  The swelling is way down compared to yesterday and almost all the purple bits have been replaced with various shades of yellow. I put some more weight on it and tentatively take a few steps.

  Surprisingly, it feels fine.

  It only hurts if I poke it, and oddly I get the urge to poke it often. Why is my first reaction to a bruise always to poke it? After thirty-nine years, you’d think I’d know better. Bruises are tender and poking them hurts.

  My foot feels good, but I don’t want to push it by standing in the shower, so I run a bath instead.

  Adam texts and asks if he can let himself in when he gets here. I reply that yes, he can. He says when he gets here, he’ll take Sophie for a walk and feed her.

  It’s Sunday, and Adam and I FaceTime Hannah together every Sunday. He makes breakfast for him and me while we have a virtual visit with our daughter and hear about her week. We’ve been alternating between his place and mine. This should be his week, but because of my foot he offered to come here.

  Adam is in the kitchen whisking batter for French toast when I walk in proudly, using both feet.

  “Look at you—you’re walking!” he says. “Don’t do too much too soon, right?”

  I nod, then I pick up my tablet and FaceTime Hannah. The three of us get caught up, and I show Hannah my yellow foot.

  We finish eating, say our goodbyes and I love yous to our daughter, and I end the FaceTime call.

  “How was your date last night?” Adam asks.

  “How do you know about that?” I answer his question with a question.

  “Everybody knows,” he shrugs. “If you don’t want people to know, you should go on dates away from Harmony Lake.”

  “It’s not a secret. It wasn’t even a real date. It was just a drink with Mrs. Pearson’s son who also happens to be the doctor who treated me after my fall.” I give him a one-shoulder shrug.

  “I’m only teasing, Meg. I’m glad you’re putting yourself out there.”

  “Are you seeing anyone?” I ask gently, treading carefully into what I know is a sensitive subject for Adam.

  “No.” He shakes his head.

  I sense he has more to say but is hesitant, so I sit silent
ly, and wait patiently.

  “I’ve set up a profile on a dating website, but I haven’t done anything with it,” he adds.

  “You should meet people. You deserve to be happy,” I say.

  I mean it.

  “We both do,” he points out.

  “The chances of what happened last time…happening again…are near zero. Zero chances.” I bring the tip of my thumb and the tips of my fingers together to make a zero.

  “Isn’t that what you said about the odds of finding another dead body?” he asks. “And then it happened.”

  Touché.

  “Would it help if I left you a review on the dating site?” I ask, joking.

  He throws his head back and laughs.

  “I’ll give you at least three stars,” I add. “OK, maybe four stars. And if I email them a copy of our marriage certificate, maybe I can get one of those Verified badges next to my name. You know, like on shopping websites where the reviewer has Verified Purchaser next to their name.”

  “I don’t think that’s how dating sites work,” he says, laughing. “But maybe you can give me a written reference and I’ll take it with me on first dates.”

  We’re both laughing hysterically now, and he stops talking to catch his breath. Then, laughing so hard that it’s difficult to understand him, he says, “and I’ll update my profile so it says, reference available upon request.”

  Now, it’s my turn to throw my head back and laugh. I pick up my napkin from the table and dab tears of laughter from my eyes.

  When we do decide to date, whoever dates us will be lucky. We’re hilarious!

  Adam leaves, and I put on my boots. Both of them. And brag to Sophie when I’m able to get the left boot to fit comfortably on my left foot. It’s nice to wear boots on both feet again. I bundle myself in my coat, hat, cowl, and mitts to face the bitterly cold day.

  I drive to the store to pick up Mrs. Willow’s yarn order, then drive out to the Willows farm, where I pull into the long driveway and park behind Mr. Willows’ red pickup truck, which is parked behind Mrs. Willows’ silver four-door sedan.

  I’d forgotten that Mrs. Willows drives a silver four-door sedan.

  I need to find out where this car was on Tuesday morning, and who was driving it.

  I get out of my car and walk to the house. The Willows have a large farm with lots of land and multiple buildings. I glance at the barn closest to their house and see the white van from the Animal Centre with its logo sprawled across the side and back of the van, plain as day.

  Who would be here from the AC on a Sunday?

  I knock on the door to the house, and no one answers. I knock again and listen for the sound of anyone inside. Nothing. Maybe they’re in the barn.

  I walk to the barn and peek my head through the open door. Mr. and Mrs. Willows are standing in front of one of the horse stalls talking to Dr. Val White, the head veterinarian from the Animal Centre. Mrs. Willows sees me. She smiles and waves, then comes over.

  “Let’s go to the house,” she says, “and get out of this drafty barn.”

  She leads the way and I follow. She invites me in, and I step into their kitchen.

  “Is the horse in the stall OK?” I hand her the bag of yarn.

  “Thank you, Megan.” She takes the yarn from me. “Yes, it looks like she’s fine. She’s pregnant and has been off her food for a few days, so Henry called the vet to come and check on her.”

  “I’m glad mum and foal are both OK,” I say.

  “Yes, Henry loves those animals, every single one of them. He worries about them and sometimes he overreacts,” she explains.

  “I completely understand,” I say. “They can’t tell us what’s wrong, so it’s difficult to know how serious it might be, or if they’re hurting.”

  “Listen, Megan, I’d like to apologize for Henry’s outburst at the florist shop on Wednesday. I heard you were there and saw what happened.”

  It’s not her job to apologize on behalf of someone else, but I appreciate the sentiment, nonetheless.

  “The situation with Mega Mart must be stressful enough. Laura’s death probably makes it even more stressful,” I say, “especially with her death being so sudden and so close to the deadline for Mega Mart’s offer.”

  She nods, then opens the bag of yarn to check that it’s what she ordered.

  “I hope Mr. Willows is feeling...calmer...now,” I say.

  Mrs. Willows closes the bag of yarn and places it on the kitchen table. She uses her hands to cover her face and her shoulders start heaving up and down. She’s crying.

  We stand in silence for a moment while Mrs. Willows composes herself. She tears a sheet of paper towel from the roll on the counter and dabs her eyes.

  “It’s not just Mega Mart,” she says, pulling a chair away from the kitchen table and sitting down. “Henry’s been having...” She pats her chest while she searches for the right word. “...episodes. They thought it might be his heart, so they referred him to a cardiologist in the city. That’s where we were on Tuesday.”

  She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to make a connection or draw a conclusion.

  “You’re saying when Laura died, you and Mr. Willows were in the city at a cardiology appointment?” I ask. “That’s funny, I could have sworn I saw you and Mr. Willows in your car driving down Water Street on Tuesday morning.”

  It’s a lie. I didn’t see either of the Willows’ on Tuesday. I’m trying to determine if they were driving her car on Tuesday, who was in it, and what time they left Harmony Lake for their appointment.

  “That would be Henry,” she admits. “I was at home until we left for the city just past noon. Henry ran errands in the morning before we left. He likes to use my car because it’s better on gas.”

  “So, you were in town until noon,” I confirm.

  Laura died before noon.

  Her eyes well up with tears and her chin starts to quiver. She dabs her eyes with the paper towel, and nods.

  “We lied,” she sobs. “We knew Henry would be a suspect, and aside from a couple of errands, and driving around, he didn’t have an alibi, so we lied.”

  Her quiet sobs become loud sobs.

  I walk over to the counter, tear another sheet of paper towel from the roll and hand it to her. She dries her eyes and blows her nose.

  “He didn’t do it, Megan.”

  She places a hand on my wrist and looks at me pleadingly.

  “I know he’s loud and short-tempered, but my Henry could never kill someone.”

  I believe her. I believe that she’s convinced he’s not capable of murder.

  “Who do you think might have done it?” I ask. “Do you have any theories?”

  “I think they should ask Dr. White where she was when Laura died,” Mrs. Willows says emphatically. “Everyone at the AC knows Dr. White and Laura didn’t get along. They argued about everything, especially after Laura found out Dr. White’s uncle is the CEO of Mega Mart.”

  Her uncle is the what? Did I hear her right? The veterinarian at the AC is the niece of the man who’s trying to purchase the AC and tear it down?

  Chapter 12

  “Are you OK, Megan?” Mrs. Willows asks.

  I nod and close my mouth, realizing it’s open because my jaw literally dropped when she told me about Dr. White.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I say, trying to act like I’m not completely flabbergasted.

  I shake myself out of it and refocus.

  “How was Mr. Willows’ cardiology appointment?” I ask. “Is his heart alright?”

  “Yes, thank goodness,” she replies, sounding relieved. “The cardiologist thinks Henry has been having panic attacks. We’ve been so worried, Megan! I can’t tell you how many hours we’ve spent on the internet researching his symptoms and reading about all the different heart conditions we thought he might have. The internet is full of worst-case scenarios. I’m not sure if being able to access all that knowledge so easily is a blessing or a curse, to be honest.�
��

  I wonder if they happened to come across information about digoxin on their internet travels?

  Mrs. Willows gets up from the kitchen table and throws her used paper towels in the garbage. “Panic attacks brought on by all the Mega Mart stress, no doubt,” she mumbles under her breath.

  She clenches her jaw and gives me a tight-lipped smile.

  I’m about to back out of the Willows’ long, narrow driveway when an SUV pulls up behind me and parks, leaving no room for me to back up around it. I get out to speak to the driver and am shocked to find myself looking at Jay Singh. He rolls down his window.

  “Are you trying to leave?” Jay asks.

  “Yes, if you pull over a bit, I think I can back up around you,” I reply.

  He looks at me, smirks, and points at me. A look of realization flashes briefly across his face. He recognizes me, and he’s trying to remember where and how we met.

  “My friend, April, and I visited you and your adorable twins last September? Right after a mutual friend of ours died?” I say, trying to jog his memory.

  I might be forgettable, but a murder isn’t easy to forget.

  “Right! Of course. How’s it going?” he asks. “Hey, solved any murders lately?”

  We both laugh.

  Not yet, Jay, not yet. But I’m working on it.

  I ask after his twins, and when I chide him for working on a Sunday, he doesn’t deny he’s here for work. Considering Jay’s business is providing discreet, high interest, short-term loans, I assume the Willows are having some financial difficulty and might need the Mega Mart deal more than most of us realize.

  I pull into my driveway, turn off the car, and root through my bag until I find my phone. I heard it ding while I was driving.

  Craig: I’m sorry I had to bail in such a hurry. Hope we can do it again soon? I promise not to run away next time ;)

  Me: No worries! I hope everyone made a full recovery. I’ll check my calendar and be in touch.