by Lila K Bell
At least I could be certain of finding what I needed.
I approached his desk and flipped through a series of photos all neatly labelled with team and year. Helpful.
Page by page, I skimmed the faces, skipping over the lacrosse, soccer, and swim teams and jumping straight to the hockey.
A bunch of familiar faces stared up at me, some of them men my father had invited over to dinner, others from the community or Mother’s social occasions. Robert Carlson appeared in all of them, looking intense and proud.
But he wasn’t in the photo from twenty-five years ago.
There was the date, in stark black letters at the top of the page, and there Carlson wasn’t.
A frisson of excitement rippled through me.
“Was he taking the photo?” I asked, wanting to cover all my bases before I made any assumptions. I did my best to sound disappointed that the man I was fawning over was missing.
Leonard guffawed as though it was the most ridiculous question I could have asked. “He didn’t play that year, the son of a gun.”
I feigned surprise. “Amazing that you remember.”
“How could I forget? We came within minutes of losing our winning streak. Carlson was one of our best players and his replacement was garbage. It was a last-minute hat trick that won us the game. We never let him live it down.”
He shook his head as he laughed.
“Why didn’t he play?”
“The idiot tore his ACL that winter and was out half the season.”
The fact that I managed not to grab Leonard’s shirt and shake him in my eagerness to get answers deserved one of those trophies on his shelf.
“Oh wow, that’s awful,” I said, widening my blue eyes in horror. “The poor guy. I’m sure he made it out to the last game, though. To cheer you on?”
“Nope. He was a sore loser, even then. He couldn’t play, and he didn’t want it rubbed in his face that the rest of us could.” He chuckled again. “Or maybe he really did have a meeting at the bank like he said he did.”
The bank? At that time of night? Yeah, right. The guy had certainly polished his skills of deception since then.
Now that I had the information I’d come for in my back pocket, I wanted nothing more than to get out of here. The reek of nostalgia was overpowering.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Wimbleton,” I said. “It was fun to go back in time for a bit. You were all so handsome.”
His chest puffed out. “Any time, Fiona. These scrapbooks enjoy an airing now and again.”
Frances followed me to the door with that sly look still in her eye. “Don’t be too disappointed in Carlson, Fi,” she said. “Maybe his knee still bothers him after all these years and he needs someone to help him nurse it.”
I tried not to gag and crossed my fingers, toes, and eyes that neither Frances nor her father would think my “romantic interest” amusing enough to spread to all their friends.
As soon as the door closed behind me, I started my walk home, having no other plans to fill my day and wanting some time to sit with what I’d learned. Not only did Robert Carlson not play in the game that night, he hadn’t shown up to the rink at all.
He’d lied to me.
Hardly a surprise — so far everyone involved in this case had told me some tall tale — but not a great start for a would-be mayor.
As I walked, I brought up Veronica’s number and gave her a call. Now that I’d disproved one part of Carlson’s alibi, I was even more eager to confirm the other half. But there was no answer at home, and when I called the salon, they said she hadn’t made it in today.
So where had Carlson been that night, and where on earth was Veronica?
18
I got home with those questions still looping in my head, along with the grim resignation that if Veronica didn’t make an appearance soon, I would have to reach out to Sam and let him know one of his witnesses had disappeared.
What did it mean if she had? Had she skipped town out of guilt because she’d killed Amelia and she didn’t like that someone was asking so many questions about what she’d been up to that night?
I didn’t want to think so highly of myself to believe I’d chased her away, but the timing was too much of a coincidence. Something had scared her off. People with successful businesses didn’t just disappear and leave all their appointments — and money — behind.
I mused over the possibilities as I unlocked the door and was so caught up in my thoughts I didn’t notice anyone calling my name until Gramps shouted at me.
“What?” I asked, spinning toward him.
He was sitting in the sunroom next to Bea, who was staring at me with deep concern.
I walked into the room and plopped down in the armchair.
“Hey,” a third voice said, and I jumped on finding Sybil in the chair next to me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. I worried about what Sam would say if he found out. He’d been pretty clear that his sister was off limits.
Unless he hadn’t made it clear to her?
“You were supposed to give me an update and you didn’t,” she said, crossing her arms. “So here I am.” A smile lit her face up, creasing the corners of her eyes, which, I noticed, were touched with a soft pink shadow instead of their usual heavy eyeliner. “And Bea fed me chocolate chip banana bread.”
My mouth fell open as I turned to Bea. “There is chocolate chip banana bread in this house, and it is not in my face?”
Bea’s lips quirked in a half smile as grabbed a plate off the end table. “I thought you might want some when you got home.”
I swooped down on her and chomped on the heel of the bread — my favourite part as far as Bea’s banana bread was concerned. The sugar swept over my tongue, and I collapsed into the chair with a moan of absolute pleasure.
This woman knew how to turn a bad day into a dream.
“So?” Sybil said. “What’d you learn?”
I didn’t want to answer her. Especially not while I was enjoying my banana bread. But she wasn’t the only one watching me with bright curiosity in her eyes. Gramps and Bea had both sat forward. One blue gaze and one dark brown boring into me as though they were trying to hear the latest without my having to say anything.
I swallowed the bread and picked at a chocolate chip, not yet ready to let go of my snack.
“Are you sure you should be here?” I asked Sybil. I thought of the look she’d given me at the station the other day. Sam must have guessed even then what I was up to. He would kill me if he found out she was here.
She shrugged. “Life’s been boring this week without you around, and Sam’s shut down about the case now that he knows you’re on it. I haven’t learned a single thing except that the murder weapon was a trophy. Boring. That was in the papers. So I want to know what you’ve picked up.”
I leaned back in my chair and scanned the three of them.
How much my life had changed since I’d started this whole crime solving thing. During the Brooks investigation, Bea had sat me down with another chocolate chip banana loaf to get me to tell her what I’d been up to, and she’d been horrified to learn how I’d been spending my time. She and Gramps had both asked me to leave the case alone.
And Sybil, well, when she first came back into my life, she barely spoke three syllables to me at a time.
Now the three of them were like hounds waiting for scraps.
Charlie was the only one who didn’t seem to care. He was passed out across Gramps’s feet, his chest heaving with the contented sighs of a pup who’d gone on a good long walk today.
At least one of us was happy.
Whatever. What was the harm of telling them everything? We were here and safe in the house. Even if Sybil heard the stories, nothing would happen to her. I was willing to dare Sam’s discontent that far.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve run into some snags.”
I tried to remember where I’d left things off with them, and opted to start at last nigh
t’s adventures.
“Let’s start with Veronica,” I said. “She admitted she had a thing for John, but now says she’s glad it never worked out. She also claims she was in the office that night and overheard an argument that John says never happened. Or at least, never happened the way she says it did. Now she seems to have disappeared, which only casts more suspicion on her because the last time we chatted, Sybil here kind of insinuated that her jealousy could have been motivation enough for her to kill Amelia. Her only alibi was that she was in the office. Carlson might have backed up that alibi by saying he was doing the nasty with her behind his wife’s back, but I can’t prove that until I talk to Veronica again.”
“Ew,” said Sybil.
“Then there’s Victor,” I said as I nibbled another bite of banana bread. “Did he leave after taking a swing at John or did he go inside and have it out with Amelia? The fender bender was reported half an hour later than John said the argument was. I don’t think it’s enough time to go in, argue, kill your daughter, and bury her, but is that just wishful thinking? It’s more probable that, after punching out his daughter’s fiancé, Victor was too ashamed to go home. Unfortunately, we’ll never know. The only way to prove he didn’t kill his daughter is to prove someone else did.”
“I hope it’s not him,” Bea said. “Poor Irene. To lose your daughter only to discover your husband’s the one who stole her from you? How would she live with the truth?”
“Finally there’s Robert Carlson,” I said. “Brookside’s sweetheart. Grandson of someone important.”
“One of Brookside’s founders,” Gramps said, and I shrugged. I really didn’t care.
“Carlson bugs me more than anyone else, but that could just be because he’s a politician. It doesn’t help that his story is all over the place. First he says he left early, but when I caught him out on that lie, he said he was with Veronica. He told me he made it to his hockey tournament just on time, but I found out today from his old team captain that he missed the game because of a torn ACL.”
I leaned forward. “The problem with Carlson is that he has no motive for killing Amelia. She was John’s personal secretary, he was John’s aide. Could there have been personal conflicts? If so, no one’s let it slip. Especially not Carlson.”
“Could they have been having an affair?” Sybil asked.
Without the eyeliner, her eyes looked bigger than usual, staring at me with so much interest, I was worried they were going to fall out of her head.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It occurred to me, but, again, no one’s saying anything.”
“I wonder,” Gramps said, tapping his thumb against his lower lip.
Charlie whined and looked up at him. When he saw no one was going anywhere, he dropped his head back down on Gramps’s foot and fell asleep.
“What is it, Philip?” Bea asked.
“It might be nothing, but it’s just that, even at the time, John suspected Robert was working against him, preparing his own campaign even while he helped with John’s. I mentioned that to you, Fi.”
I nodded. “Just like he’s doing with Evelyn Flannery.”
“Maybe Amelia was involved somehow? Or found out? We know she was working late.”
“It’s as good a theory as any, but it doesn’t get us closer to the truth,” I said. “I wouldn’t even know how to find out. Carlson certainly wouldn’t tell me. He’d spin it around like he’s done everything else. So now I’m stuck. In my opinion, the case against John has never been shakier, but I have no way of proving it. Even less of a chance if Veronica doesn’t come back.” I released a groan and sank back in my chair. “I’m sorry, Gramps. You asked me to look into this, and I failed. John is going to be sent off to prison and the trial is going to show everything against him.”
“Hey.” Gramps leaned forward far enough to rub my knee. “You did everything you could, and I’m grateful you tried.”
“What about Sam?” Sybil asked.
I rolled my head toward her. “What about him?”
“What if we brought all this to him? Have you told him yet what you found?”
I didn’t want to tell her he hadn’t given me the chance. “Not yet.”
“Well, why don’t we start there? We might have done everything we can, but maybe it’ll bug him enough that he’ll want to check it out for himself.”
A sharp rapping at the front door cut the conversation short, and I, being closest, went to answer it.
Imagine my surprise on opening it to find the very person of whom we were just speaking standing on the doorstep.
Sam’s face was red with anger, and, without giving me a chance to say hello, he said, “Is she here?”
I opened my mouth to say yes, but he cut me off. “Don’t both answering. You’d probably lie to me anyway. Mom told me she went out after school, and there’s only one person she would rush to see.”
I was flattered he thought of me, but hurt that it came with such venom.
“Sam?” Sybil called from the other room. She rushed to the foyer, her eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”
“Come on, I’m taking you home. We’ll talk about this later.” He stepped aside to give her room to pass him.
“What? No way.” She planted her feet, crossed her arms, and glared at him.
Part of me was proud of her for standing her ground and not letting some overprotective man order her about. It boded well for all her relationships to come.
The other part of me hated that she was making things worse.
“Sam…” I said, hoping to calm the situation down, but he didn’t even glance my way.
“Sybil, come on. You can’t get involved with this. I could get in serious trouble.”
“We’re just talking,” she said.
“Yeah, and I can guess what about.” He blew out a huff of exasperation. “It’s bad enough my team thinks I’m leaking information to Fiona, but if they suspects you’re getting information from me, too?”
“But you’re not!” Sybil said, throwing up her hands.
He really was making a big deal about things being leaked when other people on his team didn’t seem nearly as fussed about it. “Even if you did, it happens by accident all the time,” I said. “Like with John’s jacket.”
Sam started and turned his gaze to me, his expression hard. “Excuse me?”
“John’s jacket,” I repeated. “Carlson told me Amelia was found wearing it. When I asked him how he knew that, he told me the officer who questioned him had let it slip.”
His eyes widened. “I’m the one who spoke to Carlson. I didn’t say anything about the jacket.”
Silence descended on the foyer, and I looked over my shoulder to discover Gramps and Bea had joined us. They stood in the doorway to the sunroom, far enough back to stay out of the argument, but close enough to have overheard everything.
“If no one spilled the beans, how could he know?” Sybil asked.
“It is strange,” Bea said. “I could see a man taking off his jacket and giving it to his sweetheart if the night was chilly, but from what Fiona’s saying, they’re supposed to have had an argument before he killed her? Nuh-uh. When my husband argues with me, the last thing I want is something of his wrapped around my shoulders. Cold or not, she would have given it back or thrown it on the ground.”
That particular detail hadn’t even occurred to me, but she was right. “I was wondering why he would have left it on her body after he killed her. For one thing, someone would have noticed him leaving without the jacket he arrived with, and for another it would have pointed right to him if she’d been found.” I rolled my eyes. “Like everything else has.”
Sam cleared his throat. “The lieutenant’s theory is that there was too much blood to salvage it.”
“Was there?”
“Some along the collar, but not enough to make a dry cleaner suspicious.” He flushed, as though embarrassed at being caught having doubts about his own case. “But it was also a ha
sty burial. It’s possible he didn’t think of it before he covered her up. It would explain the trophy being thrown in with her as well.”
I paced the foyer, my thoughts spinning with ideas.
Carlson knew about the jacket when he couldn’t have. At least half of his alibi had been blown to pieces.
“What about the trophy?” I asked, thinking about the dozens that lined Leonard Wimbleton’s shelves. “Were there any identifying features on it? A name?”
“No, just the year. A golf club. But,” he added quickly, “it’s the same year that was missing from John’s shelf, the one from the last tournament. We asked him about it, and he said he didn’t play that year because between the campaign and the wedding, he didn’t have time. A pretty weak excuse for a man who hadn’t missed a tournament in a decade.”
“You have to wonder though…” I said, and resumed my pacing.
“What are you thinking, chickadee?” Gramps asked.
Charlie padded out of the sunroom and fell into step beside me as we tracked the tiles first in one direction and then the other.
“I’m wondering about Carlson’s trophies,” I said. “He has a shelf of them, too. Hockey, gardening… He also claims he heard John and Amelia arguing in the courtyard, which is an argument Veronica had to have made up because it never happened. Not with John anyway. He says they had a little wedding-related spat in his office. So did Carlson get the information about the jacket and the fight from Veronica, the woman who is now missing?”
“This is starting to not look good for her,” said Sybil. “Or him.”
“Doesn’t that deserve a closer look at Carlson?” Gramps asked Sam. “Even if it’s just to go over the details?”
The hope in his voice was so strong it pained my heart. What would happen if no one listened to us and John went to prison?
“It’s a great theory you’ve got — it really is — but it’s all circumstantial,” said Sam. Gone was his anger, and in its place was a hint of regret that he couldn’t do more. Not without giving away to Detective Curtis and the rest of his team that he’d chatted the case out with civilians.