by Ken Ogilvie
Rebecca laughed, noticing that Archie still sat stony-faced. Before she could speak, he stood up, plate in hand, and thanked Maggie for the meal. He nodded at Rebecca and went upstairs, apparently to finish his pie in solitude.
“Barrel of laughs, that one.” Maggie waved her fork in the air. “You’ll get used to him. Has two words in his vocabulary — hello and goodbye. Added a new one tonight — thanks. First time I’ve heard it, though I’ve known him for years. Flowed like honey off his lips, it did.” She turned to Rebecca. “Well? Care to tell your story?”
“Okay. But first I want to tell you why I’m here. Maybe you can help.”
“We’ll get the whole story later, over some fine Irish whiskey,” Maggie declared. “What say you to that?”
“It’s a deal. Suit you, Freddie?” Rebecca looked at him.
“Sure. Long as Maggie’s pouring.”
Maggie smiled.
Rebecca cleared her throat. “Well, actually, I’m a police officer. I work at the OPP Central Region office.”
Maggie interrupted her. “Wait a minute. What’s a classy young lady like you doing on the beat? Expensive clothes, a posh car, and I can tell you’re educated. Why waste your life on the police? Begging your pardon and no insult intended.”
“I’ve got my reasons. I’ll tell you another time. Anyway, my goal is to become a detective and maybe someday open my own private investigation agency. I finished basic training four years ago and got a job in Orillia. So far, all I’ve done is routine police work. But I’m in Conroy to investigate the death of Abigail McBride.”
“Well I’ll be stuffed,” Maggie exclaimed. “A real detective in my house. Won’t that be the talk of the town? Freddie, better watch yerself. Keep the drugs out of sight. And Archie’ll have to move the stiff from the basement. Please, Rebecca, go easy on us. We’s just simple folk tryin’ to get by.” Her eyes darted around the room.
Freddie burst out laughing and choked on his pie.
Rebecca waited for him to recover. “I got this assignment because all the homicide detectives are tied up on other cases.” She crossed her fingers. “But I’m having trouble coming up with new ideas. Constable O’Reilly’s helping me, but he thinks the case might never be solved.” She sighed, and turned to Maggie. “Do you know anything about what happened last year?”
“Of course, dear girl. Oops! Guess I should be calling you Detective. Anyway, Conroy’s a small town. Never had a murder before poor Abigail, as I recall. You were here, Freddie. You remember.”
Freddie nodded. “Sure do. Never knew the lady, though I’d seen her around. And I’ve, uh . . . chatted with her husband a couple of times at Stan’s — but I don’t know him well. Nobody talked about anything else for months. But I’m surprised the police never caught the killer, because this is a close town. It’s hard to hide a secret here. Must’ve been a stranger, someone passing through. Has anything new been found?”
“I think I’ve said enough for now,” Rebecca replied. “But perhaps we can talk about the case tomorrow, after dinner? I’ll buy the whiskey.”
Maggie rubbed her palms together. “Done!”
Rebecca thanked her for dinner and bade them goodnight. She had some thinking to do.
She lay in bed, mulling over the evening, and three things in particular. Firstly, Maggie’s frown when she said she’d grown up next door to some Delaneys. Secondly, Archie’s abrupt departure from the dinner table, just as she was about to talk about herself – after which it would have been his turn to tell his story. Finally, Freddie’s hesitation when he mentioned Abigail’s husband.
Rebecca made a note of these observations, and settled back. But her brain still raced, and sleep would not come.
The hours of the night wore on. Suddenly, she heard the sound of rustling outside her window. Heart pounding, she told herself it was probably just an animal moving about. Then she heard the backyard screen door squeak.
Someone was trying to break into the house!
She jumped out of bed and rushed to the window. Opening the curtains, she pressed her nose to the glass. It was pitch black outside, but she was sure she detected movement below. She unlatched the window and thrust her head out, but the backyard was deserted. She watched intently for a few seconds, looking again for movement, then closed the window again.
Rebecca felt compelled to go and see. Her gun was in Maggie’s safe, and there wasn’t time to retrieve it. Trying to control her fear, she went downstairs and checked the windows and doors. They were all locked. She peered through the windows but nothing moved. Whether or not a burglar had been trying to break in, all was quiet now and the house was secure. She was probably just spooked from thinking about what had happened to Abigail.
She decided not to wake Maggie. She would tell her in the morning. Rebecca returned to her room and went back to bed, where she listened for another hour, but heard nothing. Eventually she fell into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter 9
So tired. This term has been crazy with studying. I’m ready to go home for the holidays, but I’m worried about how me and Dad will get along. We haven’t talked for two whole months. I feel us drifting apart. My fault as much as his.
— The diary of Rebecca Sarah Bradley (2002)
Rebecca rose early on Wednesday morning, anxious to get on with her investigation. Outside, dark clouds threatened rain. Maggie was bustling about in the kitchen getting breakfast ready, so Rebecca headed out back to see if she could find signs of the intruder.
Gusts of wind whooshed through the towering treetops. She meandered about the yard, checking for footprints. On either side of the house fields of swaying grass stretched into the distance. Dense woods crowded against the back fence.
Rebecca’s thoughts drifted back to her childhood. Her wealthy family traced its roots to poor English farmers who came to Canada in search of a better life. Their wealth originated with her paternal grandfather, Steven Bradley. He became a prospector and got lucky digging in the right place at the right time. But along with the riches came bodies buried in the cold Ontario earth, mysterious deaths, including her mother’s, and the grandfather she had never met. Their murders hung like curses over her family.
The wind gusted and whipped her hair about her face. She turned to face the house, and saw curtains move in an upstairs room. Archie. Why had he stared at her yesterday?
Thunder rumbled, and droplets of rain began to fall. Rebecca scurried into the house. She found Freddie seated at the dining room table. Archie joined them moments later. He sat down and studied his placemat. The smell of frying bacon drifted in from the kitchen, accompanied by Maggie’s happy humming. Again, Rebecca thought of her early childhood. Staying at Maggie’s was like being at home with her mother. Tears came to her eyes.
Quickly, she went into the kitchen and told Maggie about the intruder, acknowledging she may have imagined the whole thing.
“Not to worry, dear,” Maggie said. “There’s a pile of petty theft going on around Conroy. My house has been burgled before, and someone stole a few antiques. The prime targets, though, are my home-baked pies. I once caught a little girl with her hand in my cookie jar. She got a stern lecture and was sent packing with a bag full of the evidence.” They both laughed.
“Thanks, Maggie. I was worried so I checked all the windows and doors and it’s pretty secure.” She gave Maggie a big smile. “I’ve stolen some cookies in my time too. Please don’t tell my boss.”
Maggie nodded solemnly.
Rebecca went back into the dining room. “So tell me, Freddie, what’s the second best way to start the day in Conroy?”
“Best being Maggie’s breakfast, you mean?”
“Of course, what else?” Rebecca sensed Archie’s eyes fixed on her.
“Well, you’ve already done it. Duffy’s. But you should know — rumours about the new woman in town are spreading fast. Everyone’s talking about it. Should’ve warned you last night, but I didn’t want to spook you on your f
irst day.”
“And here I was thinking I’d been so discreet. Why didn’t I think of Duffy’s?”
Maggie came through the kitchen door carrying plates loaded with fried eggs and bacon. “Coffee’s on the way.”
Rebecca turned towards Archie, but he looked away.
“Heard you had some excitement at Duffy’s.” Maggie bustled back into the dining room, a carafe of coffee in hand.
Rebecca looked at her. “Does nothing escape you?”
“Not much.” Maggie beamed.
“Good. You can be my master spy. Find out everything about everything. Freddie, you’re my Baker Street Irregular, if you’re willing to help me.” She looked at him.
“Certainly, detective Bradley. Anything to catch Abigail’s murderer. It was such a horrible shock to the town. But what’s an Irregular? I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” Archie growled. “Don’t know yer Conan Doyle, do ye, lad?”
“Why, Archie, you can talk.” Maggie blew him a kiss. He grunted, and stared down at his plate.
Rebecca nodded. “Yes, Archie’s right. The Baker Street Irregulars were street urchins who helped Holmes with his cases.”
“Fine, you can count on me.” Freddie saluted. “I’ve always been a bit irregular, and now it’s official. I’m Freddie the Irregular from here on in. But who’s this Sherlock Holmes fellow?”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open.
“Kidding!” Freddie dodged an imaginary blow.
“Thank goodness for that,” Maggie said. “I was preparing to have you thrown out of the house.”
“Sorry, Mom.” Freddie took his seat again. “Does that make Rebecca Inspector Lestrade?”
Maggie snickered.
Rebecca turned to Maggie. She wanted to know more about the young giant at Duffy’s who had stared so openly at her. “Maggie, who is Hound?”
Maggie took some time to answer. “I guess you’d say he’s a man of mystery. He’s a likable fellow, though a mite eccentric. He won’t tell anyone where he comes from. He’s been in town for seven years or so, moved here as a teen. He boarded with me for three years, then bought his own place four years ago, just up the road. No one has any idea where he got the money for it, but I’m bettin’ he has a stash somewhere. He even imported an expensive old car from England, and he has a tiny roadster that he seldom uses. It’s way too small for him.” She chuckled.
“He was reading a comic book at Duffy’s. Has he got some sort of problem?”
“You mean challenged, something like that? No way. Give him a crossword puzzle, a Sudoku, a brain bender of any kind, and he’ll do it in minutes. He’s a quick mind, although he hides it. He never went beyond high school. Didn’t care much, I reckon.”
Rebecca finished eating and rose to her feet. “Thanks, Maggie. Wonderful breakfast. I’ll have another cup of coffee at Duffy’s, then kick around town for a while, get a feel for it. Bye, y’all.”
“Georgie’s Pub at five,” Freddie hollered at her retreating back. “First drink is on me.”
Rebecca smiled over her shoulder. “Can’t promise. And don’t forget we have to be back here by six.”
“Darn right,” Maggie muttered. “Late ones get leftovers.”
Rebecca peered out the front door. The rain had stopped, but the overcast sky promised more. She grabbed a guest umbrella and set off. She would leave her shiny new convertible at Maggie’s. It could stop people talking. Why had she brought her fancy car and smart clothes? Today she was wearing light brown cords and a cream cotton blouse, although blue jeans and a red-checkered shirt would have been better. And she should have rented a wreck like O’Reilly’s Chevy.
The townspeople were already out and about. Most of them ignored her, but a couple did nod. One even mumbled a “hi.” Well, it was something, she supposed.
She peeked through the window before entering Duffy’s, hoping to see Hound. He intrigued her. She wondered what had made her look back at him after she’d left the coffee shop yesterday. She had a feeling that she’d met him before — which was impossible. No one could forget the sheer size of him.
She was lucky. He was sitting alone at a table, reading a large hardcover book. Rebecca squinted at the title — War and Peace.
She went up to the front counter.
“Hi, Daisy. A small coffee, please, black.”
Daisy filled a mug. “Fresh perked, and served in my finest china. I save the regular cups for the chief. My best ones go to Hound over there, poor lad, although he likes milkshakes better.” Daisy looked at him and smiled warmly. “He’s my favourite, but don’t tell him I said so. Too bad about what happened yesterday. And I haven’t seen you-know-who today, in case you’re looking for him.”
“Thanks, Daisy.”
Rebecca took her coffee to a booth across the aisle from Hound. She was about to sit down when he looked up from his book. “Uh, hi. Nice day.”
“Sort of.” Rebecca glanced out the window towards the heavy clouds that darkened the sky.
“I mean, if you want a good soaking.” He looked timid, almost frightened.
“Care to join me?”
“Me? Sure.” He laid down his book, grabbed his brimming coffee mug and wriggled free of his chair, which creaked ominously. The coffee shot out of his mug, and Rebecca jumped back, spilling her own drink which sprinkled her pant legs.
Hound jerked his mug back, slopping more coffee onto his white shirt. He looked horrified. “Oh, God! I’m sorry.”
“No problem.” Rebecca dabbed at her pants. “But you’ll need a refill.”
He peered into his empty mug and winced. “I guess the coffee’s on me.”
Rebecca smiled. A hush descended on the room as Duffy’s regulars openly strained to overhear their conversation.
“I guess it’s better than a milkshake bath,” Hound said, and his face flushed crimson. He waved at Daisy and pointed at his coffee mug.
Rebecca slid into the booth, and Hound wedged himself in across from her.
“My name’s Rebecca.” She spoke gently, to ease his discomfort. “And yours?”
“My friends call me Hound.” He patted his shirt with a napkin.
“Good book?” She pointed at War and Peace.
“Pretty good, I think. Not really my style, but better than comic books.” His eyes shone.
Rebecca could tell he was attracted to her. Plenty of men had told her how beautiful she was, but it only made her suspicious. Her mother had been beautiful, and look what happened to her.
“I never got into comics. My father tore them up whenever he caught me with one. Made me read classics like that.” Rebecca pointed at his book. “I’m a mystery junkie, myself.”
“No kidding? Me too.” Hound positively bounced. “I read everything I can get my hands on. Got most of the movies on DVD too. I’ve even helped Chief O’Reilly a few times. Petty theft, things like that. You’re a detective, aren’t you? I heard O’Reilly call you ‘DC’ yesterday. Are you here on an investigation?”
Rebecca bent towards him and lowered her voice. “I see I’ve met the right person.”
Hound inhaled sharply, and blew the air back out. “How can I help?”
She spoke casually. “I’m investigating the death of Abigail McBride.”
At the mention of that name, Hound’s shoulders slumped. His voice was flat. “That was a year ago. Even Chief O’Reilly couldn’t figure it out.”
“You’re right. The police investigation didn’t turn up any leads. But before I came to Conroy, I found one new piece of information. Abigail McBride wasn’t her birth name. She was born in the Netherlands as Marijke van Rijn. She moved to Canada thirteen years ago and changed her name to Abigail Smith, before she married Kingsley McBride and took his name. Everything seemed to be fine. Until someone killed her.” Rebecca decided to reveal this information now to see if Hound knew about Abigail’s past – they were apparently close friends. She wanted to do it before she qu
izzed O’Reilly on it, because it was a detail he should have known about and told to Cartwright during the original investigation. In any event, Abigail’s birth and childhood records were among the first things that Cartwright should have checked. She was beginning to understand Commissioner Hardy’s decision to move him out of the CIB, although it puzzled her why he’d been promoted, rather than demoted.
Hound broke into her thoughts. “I knew Abigail well.” He spoke more urgently now. “I talked to her a lot at Robbie’s Diner. She never came to Duffy’s. Sometimes we hiked along Hagger’s Creek together. I used to help carry her groceries home from Parker’s. I was devastated when she died.”
“Didn’t anybody interview you?”
“The chief and I talked about it, but I couldn’t help him, so he left it at that, I guess. The investigators didn’t ask me anything.”
“Very interesting. Would you mind if I interviewed you formally? Not now. Later this morning, say, at eleven o’clock in O’Reilly’s office?”
Hound twisted his hands together.
“What’s wrong?”
He hesitated. “All right, but could you come to my place instead? People around here notice things, you see. I live a short distance outside of town, at the north end along Main. I could show you my mystery collection.” He looked up with an eager smile.
She nodded. “That’s okay with me. Write your address and phone number on this napkin.” She would have to tell O’Reilly about the interview. Hound didn’t look dangerous, but you never knew.
He scribbled on the napkin, stood up and tucked War and Peace under his arm. Rebecca reached for her purse, but he touched her shoulder gently. “Remember, it’s my treat.”
“Thank you, I forgot.” She watched him lumber to the front of the shop.
On reaching the counter, he shoved a hand into his pants, and stopped. He pulled out an empty pocket and stared at it, a horrified look on his face.
Someone sniggered.
Chapter 10
My worst Christmas since Mom died. Dad and I argued for days. He’s still angry at me. I have to leave here – I’ll just stay in Toronto for a while before college starts again. We can’t be around each other, that’s for sure.