by Ken Ogilvie
“Shorty, I don’t know what to think. Why would you tell me this now, when Hound’s your friend?”
“Because Hound wants to help you, I can see that. He just doesn’t know how to do it. With Hound, things are never simple. His mind works differently from other people’s. Even that cretin Lukas sees it. That’s why we’re his friends. It’s a lonely world if you’re Hound. It’s hard to make friends, and even harder to trust anyone.”
“Thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about. I’ll talk to Lukas now.” She closed her notebook.
“Forget it. He left while we were yakking. Wait before you talk to him. He won’t tell you anything until he’s checked it out with Hound. He’s strange, but loyal.”
Rebecca shook her head.
She left Duffy’s and headed along Main to Kingsley McBride’s office. There, his secretary told her that he had appointments all day today, and tomorrow, and couldn’t be disturbed. Moreover, he would be away all weekend. After a lengthy struggle, Rebecca arranged a meeting for Monday afternoon.
She left his office building. A weird feeling made her glance over her shoulder and she shivered. Once again, Butch was watching her, this time through the window of his Buick. She hurried off along Main. Butch gunned the motor and followed. She looked around. The street was deserted.
Where the hell was everybody?
O’Reilly’s office was a block away. She should go straight there and report the jerk, but he was right behind her now. Panicked, she turned into a gap between two buildings, eventually finishing up in the town cemetery.
Then the squeal of brakes sounded. A car door opened and slammed shut. Butch was coming after her. Too late, Rebecca realized that she should have stayed on Main.
She broke into a run.
She darted between the gravestones, hearing his footsteps thud behind her. Her mind raced and her heart thumped. She was getting farther and farther from Main. Then she slowed to a walk. What was she doing, running like this? How could she let this jerk frighten her? She turned around to confront him, and saw Hound rise up from behind a tombstone.
Butch skidded to a halt. All the colour drained from his face. He spun about and made to run, but Hound lunged forward and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. He picked him up and shook him like a rag doll, then threw him to the ground. Butch lay there, stunned.
Hound stood over him and his hand balled into an immense fist.
“Stop!” Rebecca cried out.
Hound froze. He whirled round to face her. He looked savage.
“Leave him, Hound,” she gasped. “Please.”
He looked back at the figure on the ground and grunted. Butch scrambled shakily to his feet and stumbled out of the graveyard.
Rebecca and Hound were both breathless. “Thank you,” she said. “That man is crazy. He followed me around town yesterday and tried to intimidate me.”
Hound nodded grimly. “He won’t come near you again. If he does, I’ll kill him.”
“Please don’t talk like that, Hound. I’ll be careful from now on, and I’ll tell O’Reilly about him.”
“Do that, and watch out. This town’s dangerous.”
“What do you mean?” Rebecca frowned, recalling what Maggie had said.
“Just take care.”
“All right, I will. Don’t worry. I can take care of myself. I’m going back to Maggie’s now to rest before dinner.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.” Her legs were shaking. So much for taking care of herself.
When they arrived at Maggie’s, Hound asked, “Are you still okay for dinner this evening? We could do it another time.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m pretty resilient, you know.” More bravado.
He nodded slowly, turned, and walked away.
O’Reilly had said Hound wasn’t someone to mess with when his blood was up. Now she knew what he meant.
Chapter 17
It’s official, sort of. But still secret. Jonathan and I are a couple. We’ll be discreet, even after I finish constable training. We can find ways to get together on weekends and holidays. I trust him, and that’s an amazing feeling. Other than my father, he’s the first man I’ve trusted since I was eight years old.
— The diary of Rebecca Sarah Bradley (2003)
Rebecca climbed upstairs to her room. She collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep immediately, exhausted by the adrenaline. The sound of dinner chatter downstairs woke her at half past six. She showered and put on a clean shirt.
When she arrived at the Royal Oak, Hound was sitting at a corner table, looking smart in a brown suede jacket with a black silk tie. The other diners too were well turned out, and Rebecca realized she should have worn her skirt and blazer.
Hound saw her and rose to his feet, Gulliver surrounded by Lilliputians.
She waved, headed straight towards him, and tripped, crashing into a table of elderly diners. Loaded plates slid to the floor and a carafe tipped over, sending red wine everywhere. People watched in horrified silence while the serving staff fussed around the angry, wine-splattered diners.
Rebecca followed helplessly, offering profuse apologies, but staff and diners brushed her aside. She cast a mortified look at Hound, noticed that red wine had stained the front of her shirt, and hurried off to find a washroom. Just outside the dining room a woman barred her way. The hotel manager gave Rebecca a glare that could have melted steel.
“I’m so sorry . . .” Rebecca began. The hostess’s dark eyes had narrowed to slits. Rebecca saw the venom there and felt a chill hand grasp her heart.
“Tell those poor people I’ll pay for their dinner and dry cleaning.”
“I most certainly shall.” The woman swivelled about and disappeared behind a door.
Hound materialized beside Rebecca. “That lovely creature is Mrs. Jackie Caldwell. I’ve been told she shot her husband in a hunting accident some ten years back. I saw the look she gave you. You’d better watch out.” This last was said with a smile.
Rebecca tried to laugh. It withered quickly. What a town. So that was Jackie Caldwell. How many more bizarre characters would she meet?
Hound was waiting for her when she came out of the washroom. She peered down at her stained clothes and sighed.
“Perhaps you’d like to go to Maggie’s and change into something fresh,” Hound said. “I’ve told them to hold dinner until eight.”
“Thank you. I hope Mrs. Caldwell will let me back in. I think she’s digging my grave out back.”
Hound chuckled. “I can’t guarantee it. She wasn’t happy when I told her, but this is the only place in town where you can get an evening meal. We’ll risk it.”
“You’re right. I’ll dash back to Maggie’s. See you at eight.”
“Hold on, my car’s out back. I was planning to give you a ride home later.”
Rebecca smiled up at him. “You think of everything.”
They went out to the parking lot, and Rebecca gaped when she saw a vintage Bentley, like something out of a classic film.
They rode to Maggie’s house in silence, and Rebecca felt as if she were in a dream. When they arrived, she turned to thank Hound, but he was gazing through the car window, seemingly lost in his own reverie. She caught his attention and thanked him, then left the car to enter the house.
* * *
In the end, they had a wonderful dinner. When they had finished laughing at Rebecca’s earlier dramatic entrance, Hound told her about his unhappy childhood and how he came to be in Conroy.
Rebecca told him her own story, about her family, and life in Prospect growing up as the spoiled only daughter of George Bradley.
As they finished their wine, Rebecca said, “Hound, don’t you find it strange that years can pass without anything much happening to you, then in a few days, events seem to change your life forever?”
“It can happen quicker than that.” He looked through the restaurant window at the night sky. “What will you
do when you finish your work here?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Return to Orillia, I guess, and carry on with my career. And you?”
He shook his head. “If you had asked me two days ago, I’d have said my life will just keep going, day after unchanging day. Now I’m not so sure.”
“But you can do anything you set your mind to, Hound. Conroy’s just a place you came to for peace of mind, isn’t it? You can always move on.”
“Where would I go? I’ve got more than enough money, and I have friends here, good ones. Life in Conroy is pleasant, in a quiet sort of way — at least it was until Abigail died. It could be again, I suppose.” He didn’t seem convinced.
“How about police work? Have you thought about that? You’re interested in mysteries.”
“I can’t see myself as a policeman on the force. I wouldn’t fit in. Perhaps I could become a private investigator. I’ve thought about it, but not seriously. I enjoy helping O’Reilly when he asks, although I’ve only been involved in petty stuff. But perhaps you’re right, maybe it is time for me to consider moving on. I just don’t know where.”
Rebecca recalled what Shorty had told her earlier. “Hound, Shorty said something strange this afternoon.”
He gave her a wary look. “He does that sometimes.”
“He said you might know what happened to Abigail. Actually, he said you do know. What did he mean by that?”
Hound grunted. “He’s a clever fellow. At least, he is when he’s not having a go at Lukas.”
“You mean he’s right?”
Hound huffed out a long, slow breath. Rebecca’s heart began to race.
“Hound, I’m here to solve her murder, and you wait until now to tell me?”
“Sorry, but I’ve been trying to figure out what to say. It’s difficult, and I can’t even be sure I’m right.” He shifted his enormous bulk, and his chair creaked.
“I don’t understand. Why? And why didn’t you tell Cartwright or O’Reilly last year?”
Hound was silent for a moment. “Because I’m protecting someone.”
“Who?”
He sighed. “Herman Vogel.”
“Please. Just tell me everything.” Rebecca gripped the table edge.
“Not tonight. I need to talk to Herman first and let him know. I’ll do that tomorrow morning. He won’t like it.”
“You’re kidding. You really won’t tell me now? Hound, Abigail was murdered.” Rebecca’s hand tightened on the table, but he remained silent. She sat back. “Okay, then. Just show up at the station tomorrow at nine. Tell O’Reilly and me you have new information about Abigail’s murder.”
“I can’t,” Hound said simply.
“Why not?”
“Because she wasn’t murdered.”
“What!”
“Like I said before. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” And Hound leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
Chapter 18
Hound stayed up most of the night, worrying about Herman. He wanted to help Rebecca, but he also wanted to spare Herman. He couldn’t avoid telling Rebecca now that he’d begun, but Herman had bound him to silence. He didn’t know what to do. He kept picturing Herman driving Abigail’s body to her home while Kingsley was at work.
Kingsley’s secret deals were distressing enough for Abigail, but when she learned that Herman was in charge of the finances her father had invested, she felt so betrayed that she hanged herself. She did it in Herman’s basement. He’d told Hound that he had to take her back to her home. Herman was a deeply religious man, and burying Abigail without a church funeral was unthinkable.
Abigail had told Hound in confidence that she was planning to leave town with Herman, so he wasn’t worried when she disappeared. He was glad she was leaving Kingsley; such a secretive and cynical man didn’t deserve her. And she had become more and more quiet and reserved every year that she was married to him. She was still his best friend, though, and they would meet again. But when O’Reilly gave him the news of her horrific death, it shook him to the core. He went to Herman’s house, and was told everything. Since then, he couldn’t get the image of Abigail hanging in the basement out of his mind.
* * *
The morning after his dinner with Rebecca, Hound rose early and headed into the town. As he approached Herman’s Fuel Emporium, he saw blue flashing lights. A police van and an ambulance stood outside, and a small group of townspeople had gathered, whispering among themselves.
O’Reilly was leaning against his dust-covered Chevy. He waved to Hound.
“What happened, chief?”
“Herman was murdered last night, sometime after closing.” O’Reilly pointed at a man standing beside a blue Honda Civic. “That guy over there came in early and found no one on duty, so he went behind the station to look. He found Herman lying in a pool of blood, stabbed in the back.” O’Reilly shook his head, his voice weary. “Jesus, Hound, another of my people murdered.”
Hound’s stomach lurched. How could this be?
“Was he robbed?”
“No,” said O’Reilly, “that’s the puzzling part. Herman didn’t have much money on site. People mostly use credit or debit cards these days. Gas station robberies don’t happen often, especially around here.”
They watched the police photographers going about their work.
Hound looked at O’Reilly. “Why aren’t you helping with the investigation, chief?”
“Because that asshole Cartwright ordered me to stay clear.” O’Reilly struck the door of the Chevy with his fist. “This is my town. The bastard has no right cutting me out.” He paused. “Uh oh, here comes Miss Fancy Pants in her fancy car.”
With a squeal of brakes, Rebecca’s convertible came to a sudden halt. She leapt from her car and stood still, peering around the lot.
“Oh no,” mumbled Hound.
O’Reilly looked at him. “What is it, Hound? Get it out, fast, before she comes over.”
Hound swallowed hard. “I came here this morning to tell Herman I was going to reveal what happened to Abigail.”
“What! You know who murdered Abigail?”
“Except it wasn’t murder. I wish I’d told you last year when I first found out.”
“Out with it. Quick.”
“Abigail . . . Abigail committed suicide. Herman told me she hanged herself.” Hound looked down.
“Go on. Bradley’s heading towards us like an express train.”
Hound sighed. “Abigail and Herman were lovers. They were planning to run off together. Abigail had had enough of Kingsley and his shady deals. So instead of coming home from Parker’s that day, she came here, and Herman drove her to his house. She hid out there for two weeks, until she found out Herman was involved in Kingsley’s schemes. It was too much for her to bear, and she killed herself. Herman waited two days, and then took her home. It was Herman who put her on the kitchen chair. Nobody saw him do it. I asked him what had happened, and he told me everything.”
“Hound, you’re an idiot. How could you keep that from me?”
“I’m sorry, chief. It’s just that I promised Herman I wouldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want the whole town to know about their affair, I wanted to protect him from the stares and the gossip.”
Rebecca hurried up to them and the men fell silent. She glared at Hound. “You let the investigation proceed although you had crucial evidence. You should have told me everything last night.”
She was right, of course. Hound suddenly understood the enormity of his mistake. And O’Reilly was right too — he truly was an idiot. “I don’t know what to say, other than I’m sorry. I made Herman a promise, and I wanted to respect Abigail’s reputation, and her privacy. I know that’s no excuse.” He wrung his hands.
“We’re going to O’Reilly’s office now to take down your statement.” Rebecca sounded weary.
O’Reilly frowned.
“Cartwright will want a firsthand account of this,” Rebecca said. “Sykes’s detectives are alread
y here and he told them he’ll come to Conroy as soon as he can. Dammit — Sykes — that’s all I need right now.” She shook her head. “Hound, go over and wait by my car. I need to talk to Constable O’Reilly, and then I have to call Superintendent Cartwright. But don’t you dare leave on me.”
Hound nodded and trudged off.
“O’Reilly, this is really bad,” Rebecca said. “Cartwright will be furious. We don’t know who stabbed Herman. But if it turns out that whatever information Hound withheld could have prevented it, we’re all in trouble. Come to the station with me. Cartwright won’t let you in on Herman’s case, but you can still help with Abigail, as long as he doesn’t cut you out of her case too.”
O’Reilly nodded.
Rebecca called Cartwright. He had heard the news about Herman, and he was in a foul mood. After wishing the entire town of Conroy would go to hell, he ended the call before she could tell him about Hound’s suicide claim.
* * *
Rebecca was numb with shock. O’Reilly sat next to her, with Hound hunched over on the opposite side of the table.
“Let’s begin.” Rebecca switched on the tape recorder. “Friday, 6 July, 2007. DC Rebecca Bradley, Orillia OPP, Central Region, joined by Senior Constable Jack O’Reilly, Conroy office, questioning Mr. Thaddeus Hounsley about the death of Abigail McBride on or around 26 May, 2006. The interviewee is asked to state his name, address and telephone number, for the record.”
Hound began to talk.
Chapter 19
I can barely concentrate in class. All I can think about is Jonathan. He’s finished lecturing, but he invited me to spend next weekend in Toronto with him. I’m excited, but really nervous too.
— The diary of Rebecca Sarah Bradley (2003)
Rebecca left the station, still angry that Hound hadn’t talked to her last night, and stunned by his claim about Abigail’s death. The whole investigation was a mess. She headed to Duffy’s to think.
When she arrived, Daisy was nowhere to be seen, and a new woman was staring at her from behind the counter. Rebecca ordered a coffee and went to a window booth. Butch drove past and glanced at the shop. He didn’t seem to notice her. Well, thanks to Hound, Butch no longer worried her.