Her Dark Path

by Ken Ogilvie

  After nursing her coffee for twenty minutes, she put some coins on the table and slid out of the booth. Robbie didn’t look up when she left, but the cold treatment no longer surprised her.

  It took her one minute to walk to Parker’s Grocery, the blister burning all the way.

  She thought about O’Reilly. He did seem anxious to solve the murder, so why didn’t he want her around? He should be pleased that someone was looking at the case with fresh eyes. Was he hiding something? She had better watch him closely.

  The shoppers in Parker’s Grocery glanced at her furtively. If she met anyone’s gaze, they turned away. She began to panic. If she couldn’t get to know the locals, her investigation would fail. Surely they must want this murder to be solved?

  “Hello, miss. Can I help you?”

  At last, a friendly voice. “Yes, please. I need disinfectant, gauze, and some bandages for my blister.” She stepped back and pointed at the reddened skin on her heel.

  “Yes, ma’am, right away.” The clerk hurried off, returning moments later with the items. She caught him looking her up and down.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “I’m from Orillia. DC Rebecca Bradley. With the OPP.”

  He blenched and stared at the floor. “Well, y’all have a nice day.”

  “You too.” Rebecca left the store smiling.

  She headed south along Main, past Duffy’s Doughnuts. Townsfolk stared and a rusted Buick LeSabre slowed to a crawl beside her, the driver leering and gesturing from within. She realized it was the car that had almost hit her this morning on her way in. Rebecca bridled, and briefly pictured herself holding a flamethrower to Conway.

  It took her two minutes at a casual pace to get to Abigail’s house, where Kingsley still lived. By her reckoning, the total time needed for Abigail to walk the entire route and return home should have been forty-nine minutes. But Abigail had taken fourteen extra minutes to get from Hagger’s Creek to Robbie’s Diner, and no one had seen her return to her home.

  So what happened to her? How could she have vanished in broad daylight without anyone in this close-knit town seeing anything? Those added minutes puzzled Rebecca. Did Abigail meet someone on the way to Robbie’s, or go somewhere? But she had shown up later on at Parker’s Grocery. The crucial question was what happened after she left the store. Rebecca could only conclude that Abigail was abducted, or had been picked up by someone, right after she left Parker’s. But that was just what Cartwright had thought a year ago. She’d made no progress at all.

  Then an image of the wild-eyed jerk in the Buick flashed into her mind, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up. He wasn’t just a jerk. There was something menacing, something threatening about him.

  Chapter 7

  Rebecca had been right about someone following her at Hagger’s Creek. At Duffy’s that morning, a woman had been watching her closely. She studied Rebecca’s features, noting the slender build, high cheekbones and auburn hair. Then O’Reilly called her DC Rebecca Bradley, and she knew who this must be. Steven Bradley’s granddaughter, or maybe a grandniece. Steven Bradley, the rotten crook who had ruined her life.

  She had long dreamed about getting revenge for what Steven Bradley did to her and her family. Then someone murdered him, along with her dreams of retribution. The filthy con had peddled hundreds of worthless goldmining shares to the gullible folk of Conroy. His rough charm and handsome, deceitful face still haunted her.

  When Rebecca left Duffy’s, the woman trailed her to O’Reilly’s office. She hid in a clump of bushes and waited until Rebecca emerged. She followed her to Kingsley McBride’s house, and to the south bridge of Hagger’s Creek. At the north bridge, Rebecca whirled round to look behind her, and the woman hid behind the long branches of a weeping willow. Then she trailed Rebecca again and saw her pause at Herman’s Fuel Emporium before continuing south along Main to Robbie’s Diner and on to Parker’s Grocery.

  The woman’s pupils shrank to tiny black dots. I know what you’re up to. O’Reilly had called her DC. That meant Detective Constable. She was here about Abigail. That was why she’d gone to Kingsley’s house, and then returned to it. But he was in Toronto, at his mother’s funeral. He would be away for days. Anyway, the bitch would get no satisfaction from Kingsley. He was far too clever for her, and too clever for Constable Jack O’Reilly and those stupid detectives who’d stumbled about Conroy last year. They didn’t figure out what really happened to Abigail, and neither would DC Bradley. She wouldn’t live long enough.

  * * *

  Kingsley McBride sat glumly in the Toronto funeral home, his right foot tapping to the rhythm of some half-remembered rock song. He was bored. When would this service end? He put a hand over his ear to muffle the droning of the funeral dirge. The priest noticed and glowered down at Kingsley while he continued to prattle on about his mother’s virtues. As far as Kingsley was concerned, she had none. He had never been close to her, even when he was a child. A childhood in Conroy. Such a boring town. Kingsley was sorry he’d ever gone back there. He would have left his childhood home forever if there wasn’t so much profit to be made. The abandoned gold mine north of Conroy, along with his linked subdivision scheme, would soon net him millions. Who could have guessed that old Steven Bradley had been right, although his timing was way off base. The mine had turned out to be viable after all, now that rapidly rising gold prices made it worth developing. The gold assays Kingsley had seen were promising and his new partner, George, Steven Bradley’s son, had made a convincing case for reopening it. It would cost Kingsley a bundle, especially with the heavy front-end payments to George for his mining expertise.

  Kingsley’s thoughts returned to his mother. As a young woman she had run around with all the local men. She’d even made money at it from time to time, so Kingsley had been told. Then she got tired of the fast life and tried marriage. She couldn’t be bothered with a child, and paid scant attention to Kingsley when he came along. She soon wearied of marriage too, and made life miserable for his father, who put up with her abuse for fifteen years before abandoning both of them. Walter was another pathetic parent Kingsley had no use for. The fool hadn’t turned up for the funeral, so maybe he was dead. Kingsley didn’t give a damn.

  Two years before she met Walter, Kingsley’s mother had borne an illegitimate child. She had never told Kingsley about his half-brother, but Tony Albertini was sitting next to him now. Kingsley admired Tony. He was a big shot in the Ontario crime scene, tough, dynamic, rich — and now a silent partner in his subdivision deal.

  Kingsley had discovered him a year ago. He visited his mother’s shabby flat in Toronto, in order to rummage through her belongings and cart away anything of value before she died. She had owned nothing worth keeping, except for a scribbled note stapled to a faded yellow certificate that stated where the baby had been placed.

  Kingsley checked around and found out that Tony hadn’t been adopted. He’d spent his childhood and early teens in various children’s homes — when he wasn’t in juvenile detention centres. At fifteen, he ran away for good. Kingsley eventually tracked him down in Hamilton, Ontario, where they met, and got along famously. Tony became the brother Kingsley had always wanted, and Tony had family for the first time in his life. He’d never been told who his mother was, and didn’t care, until he met his half-brother. Although Kingsley professed not to know who Tony’s father was, he had his suspicions. These he kept to himself. No point in sharing information that might be useful further down the line.

  Kingsley’s lifelong fascination with criminals meshed perfectly with Tony’s. The Godfather was their favourite movie, and Kingsley often imagined himself as Don Michael Corleone.

  * * *

  When the funeral service finally ended, Tony got up to stretch his legs. Kingsley greeted the few mourners and suffered through several minutes of insincere condolences. Finally the last of them shuffled away.

  Tony strutted over to him. “Well, Kingsley
, you’re free of her now. She didn’t have many friends, did she?”

  Kingsley snorted. “No close ones that I know of. Nobody from Conroy bothered to come. Maybe they didn’t know about the funeral. I sure didn’t tell anyone, except for my secretary and one very discreet friend.” He glanced at the coffin and chuckled. “Anyway, good riddance. I’d better take one last look before I close the casket — the priest didn’t seem pleased with me. At least all this gave us the chance to get together again, that’s the only good part of the whole thing. And thanks for the great time last night.”

  Tony slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it, bro. Guess I’ll be going now. Try not to cry too much. And remember, there’s a job waiting for you in Hamilton. I need a good accountant, and the sooner the better. Your future’s bright with me. And I owe you for bringing me into your scheme. You wouldn’t believe the profits we make in my kind of business, I’m always looking for places to invest the money, if you get what I mean. But know this, pal. Making dough’s the easy part. It’s cleaning it up that’s hard work, and risky. That’s where you come in.” Tony strode away.

  Kingsley looked around, and then made his way to the coffin. He stared down upon his mother. “Thanks for nothing, you penniless old hag.” He reached out to close the lid, and saw something glitter. Her wedding ring. She had insisted that it be buried with her. Well, she wouldn’t need it anymore. That stone might even be a diamond.

  Kingsley glanced over his shoulder, the priest was nowhere in sight. He lifted her ring finger and intoned, “Farewell, dear Mother. Thank you for what I am about to receive.” He wrenched it from her finger, tearing the skin, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He placed her hands so that they covered the damaged joint. Then he closed the coffin lid, and, whistling a happy tune, left the building.

  Chapter 8

  Sorry I haven’t written for a while, diary. I’ve been busy at police college – it’s so exciting I can hardly believe it! I met a real homicide detective today, DI Cartwright. He caught my eye while he was lecturing and there was definitely a spark there when we talked after. He went off to Orillia, but I’ve heard he’s coming back next year for a longer stay. His lectures are very popular with the new students.

  — The diary of Rebecca Sarah Bradley (2002)

  By 4:30 p.m., Rebecca still hadn’t looked for a place to stay. The Royal Oak, a fleabag hotel on Main, didn’t appeal to her. Then she recalled a note on a bulletin board at Parker’s, advertising Maggie’s Home Away From Home — best and only room and board in town. She pulled out her cell phone and called, arranging to visit there and then.

  She strolled through Conroy, looking around. There wasn’t much to see. Stan’s Hardware, Duffy’s Doughnuts, the Royal Oak Hotel, a bank, once elegant, now converted to a library, Parker’s Grocery, Robbie’s Diner, Herman’s Fuel Emporium, and a disreputable-looking pub named Georgie’s, all interspersed with backyard repair shops and houses advertising local hairdressers and various other services. A few tired-looking houses were mingled with small businesses along Main. The residential streets branching off it ended in stands of hardwood and softwood trees surrounded by lots of scrubby bush. The only attractive building was an elegant mansion at the north edge of town, which happily turned out to be Maggie’s.

  The mansion was delightful, with lime-green shutters, whitewashed siding and a freshly mowed lawn. Neatly trimmed shrubs surrounded the front yard, and a lush flower garden hugged one side of the house.

  Maggie was waiting for her on the doorstep, straw broom in one hand, dustpan in the other. Rebecca got the impression of a friendly, but no nonsense, landlady. Maggie had shaggy grey hair, cropped short, and looked to be in her late fifties. As soon as Rebecca got out of her car, she set down the brush and pan and bustled forward.

  “Welcome!”

  “Hello, Maggie. My name’s Rebecca Bradley. Sorry, I don’t know your last name.”

  “Not to worry, just Maggie to you and most folk around here. Mrs. Delaney to those I’ve got no time for, although the ‘Mrs.’ is a front. I never married. But Delaney’s a fine Irish name, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, indeed. I’ve met many of them. I had Delaneys as neighbours when I was a kid.”

  A shadow seemed to cross Maggie’s face. Then she ushered Rebecca inside.

  “It’s a beautiful place.” Rebecca peered down a hallway that led to a parlour and, farther on, to a large dining room. The high ceiling gave the foyer a stately air, but the interior was homely. She stepped through a carved wooden archway leading into a living room that stretched the length of the house. Massive bay windows at either end let in the light. The back window opened out onto beds of colourful blooms.

  Maggie beamed at the admiring look on her face. “Gardening’s my passion. Now, should I call you Rebecca, or Ms. Bradley? Surely not Mrs. Bradley?”

  “Rebecca, please. And definitely not ‘Mrs.’ I’m not sure when that will happen, if ever.”

  “Well the pickings in this town are rather slim, I have to say.”

  Rebecca laughed.

  “Staying long?” Maggie asked.

  “One week for sure, maybe longer.”

  “Best news I’ve heard all summer. You’re a welcome addition to my other two boarders. I take it you’re here on business, although I can’t say there’s much of that going on these days.”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, I’d like to unpack and make a call.”

  “Certainly. Let me show you to your room. It’s on the second floor. It has an en suite washroom, a large window, and a private balcony where you can relax in peace. It’s quiet, especially at night. Apart from the crickets, that is.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  The bedroom was magnificent, with a four-poster oak bed, and matching chest of drawers and side tables. Antique lamps, faded paintings, and a Persian rug resting on a shiny hardwood floor complemented the tapestry drapes. There was no air conditioning, but the large ceiling fan would suffice, Rebecca was sure. Mature sugar maples in the backyard cast a welcome shade.

  “This is better than I could ever have imagined.” Rebecca ran her fingertips over the highly polished chest of drawers. The waxy smell reminded her of her home in northern Ontario. She thought of her mother, and her throat tightened.

  “Dinner’s at six.” Maggie backed out of the room and headed downstairs.

  Rebecca unpacked, deciding to leave her call until later. There was just enough time to take a bath and tend to her blister before dinner. Judging by the wonderful smells seeping into the room, it would be a treat.

  * * *

  Two men were seated at the dining room table when she arrived, and rose to their feet.

  She smiled brightly. “Hi, I’m Rebecca.”

  The first to reply was an eager-looking man, fresh-faced and she guessed in his early thirties. “Fred Stafford. Pleased to meet you. Call me Freddie.”

  “A pleasure, Freddie.” She turned to the older man standing at the head of the table. He was somewhere in his sixties, lean and darkly tanned, with a sour expression and a shrewd, calculating air about him.

  “Archie MacDougall, an ye please.” He sat down. His accent was hard to follow. A dour Scot. She’d met others like him in Prospect.

  A rich meaty aroma filled the room, and Maggie appeared, bearing a platter of roast beef. Rebecca’s mouth watered.

  “Dig in. There’s no formalities here.” Maggie hurried back to the kitchen and the room filled with the sound of scraping cutlery.

  Freddie ate with gusto. He gave the impression of being a happy-go-lucky guy, and he wasn’t bad looking either. Rebecca looked up and found Archie staring at her. He lowered his eyes.

  Rebecca ate her fill and leaned back in her chair. She planned on wringing as much useful information from her fellow guests as she could, as well as from Maggie. Both Freddie and Archie must be outsiders to Conroy, but that could be useful. They might notice things the locals took for granted.


  “Okay, Freddie, tell me about yourself.”

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Let’s see. Oh, yes. I was born in Windsor in 1972 — makes me thirty-five next month. My father worked at the Chrysler plant, assembling cars and trucks. He got me summer jobs when I was in high school. I started university there, did civil engineering, but dropped out and went to work in Toronto. Served tables and did low-paying jobs. My goal was to have fun, and I did.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “But time passed and my crowd moved on, so I applied for a job with a construction firm. Slaved on roads for a while and got laid off. I moved to Conroy seven years ago. I work at Stan’s Hardware now. Life’s pretty quiet and I spend too much time at Georgie’s Pub. You’re welcome to join me there for a drink or six.” He laughed. “So what’s your story?”

  Rebecca knew she would have to tell them sooner or later, and it might as well be now. But just then, Maggie barged into the dining room carrying a pot of coffee and a huge apple pie. Freddie licked his lips theatrically, but Archie stared straight ahead. Rebecca had a feeling something was bothering him.

  Maggie sat down. “I’ll join you now, I ate dinner while I was cooking.” She cut the pie into four huge pieces.

  Rebecca thought wistfully of her waistline. A week of this and her clothes wouldn’t fit.

  “What’ve you kids been talking about?” Maggie passed the plates around the table. “Not me, I hope. There’s nothing to tell there anyhow. Flowers, cooking, scrubbing, gossip, that’s my life. Hear any gossip, you bring it straight to me. Understood?”

  Freddie cut in. “Rebecca was about to tell us about herself. My story’s done, and you’ve heard it before anyhow. Shall I tell it again?”

  “Not on your life,” Maggie shot back. “I’m waiting for the movie.”