“Was Dennis there?” Vega said, interested. “And did Lee see him?” He wondered if this was a case of a jealous husband tired of being humiliated. It had happened before.
“No,” Andi said, “he didn’t show all evening. Not really surprising, given the news of Ricky, but I saw Nadine keep checking her phone. I thought she might be waiting for him and she could have been texting Dennis when I left, I don’t know.”
“We can find that out,” Vega said, making a note to see if the forensic search team had found Nadine’s cell phone. “Who else was missing who you thought should have been there?”
Andi shrugged. “Jade Thompson. She’s mayor. It’s the start of her festival. She wasn’t very enthusiastic about belly dancing when I interviewed her — we had a bit of a giggle about it, actually — but she’s been pushing this festival and attracting tourists since she got elected, so I was surprised she didn’t at least drop in.” Andi added, “And I made a point of looking for her throughout the evening.”
Vega nodded. He agreed with Andi. It made little sense, and he couldn’t see how Jade could be connected with Nadine’s death, but he had to keep an open mind.
“Anything else?” Vega asked. He intended to get Andi to give a written statement at the detachment, but he knew how vital it was to get as much information from Andi when it was fresh in her mind. Memory was a weird thing.
Andi opened her mouth to reply, but there was a loud rap on the door.
“Inspector? Andi? It’s only me.” Walter walked in with a mug of tea in his hand.
Vega couldn’t hide his irritation.
“We really need some privacy . . .” he started to say, as Andi took the mug.
“Plenty of sugar for the shock,” Walter said, ignoring Vega. “Hey, would you look at that! Now I know who that guy reminds me of.”
Walter was pointing to Terri South’s photos of the bikers in the gravel pit. But he wasn’t pointing to a biker.
Andi got off the bed and went over to Walter. “Who do you recognize?”
“Oh, it can’t be the same person. Must just look like him. This guy’s been dead for years,” Walter said, jabbing at the picture with his finger. “Art Whilley. Used to live in Dagg’s place, years ago.”
Vega cursed under his breath. “Walter, thanks for the tea.”
“Oh, sorry, Inspector, did you want one?”
“No, Walter, I don’t—”
Before Vega could finish, Sergeant Fowler walked in.
“Inspector, could I have a word?” she asked.
“Sergeant, can it wait? I’m in the middle . . . Walter, please could you leave us?”
“No, sir, I need to speak to you now. Right now,” Diane Fowler said emphatically.
“OK.” Vega could see from Diane’s face it was serious.
“Walter, go back to the bar and wait for an officer to take a statement. And please don’t chat with Andi here or Cheryl, it’s imperative we get your own recollection of events. And Andi, same for you. We’ll talk again later.” He gave Andi a brief smile and then ushered Walter out of the apartment.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“Sir, that lady over there,” Diane Fowler nodded to a grey-haired, thick-set woman who was talking to a uniformed officer. She was clearly distressed, Vega could see. She had red eyes and was clutching the arm of the officer, as if she had difficulty standing up.
“I see her, what’s happened?”
“Sir, she’s the Haverses’ housekeeper, Joanna Campbell. When she got to the house this morning, she found Dennis Havers dead in his study, blood everywhere and a gun beside him — and, sir, I’m afraid Sandra Havers is dead too. She was shot while sleeping in her bed.”
“Shit,” Vega said, running a hand through his hair. “Shit.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Haverses’ house seemed untouched. There was no sign of forced entry. The only sign anything was wrong, Joanna explained, her voice cracking with emotion, was that the French doors to the patio were wide open.
“I closed them,” she said in a whisper. “And then I put coffee on. I was going upstairs to knock and ask if Mrs Havers wanted some breakfast. She hasn’t been eating since . . . since Ricky, and I was trying to get her to eat some eggs. I saw the study door was open and thought Mr Havers might like coffee. I pushed it open . . . and . . . and . . .”
“It’s OK,” Inspector Vega said, “take your time.”
Joanna’s voice was a whisper as she told him how she’d seen Dennis Havers and the pool of blood. She knew he was dead, so she ran upstairs shouting for Sandra.
Then she described how she’d found Sandra Havers curled up under the covers, the blood-soaked duvet the only sign anything was wrong.
“Did you touch Mrs Havers?” Vega asked.
Joanna nodded. “I hoped she was still alive. But she wasn’t.” The woman broke down in tears.
Vega called for an officer to escort Joanna away, and Sergeant Fowler directed officers to tape off the entire house as a designated crime scene.
Vega stood at the door of the study, careful not to touch anything. The metallic smell of blood filled the room, with something else. Vega sniffed. Booze? An empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s sat on the desk beside Dennis Havers’ head, which was resting on one side, with his arm stretched across the desk.
There’s the answer, Vega thought, as he took in the gory scene. Splatter and congealed pieces of brain tissue obscured the view from the large picture window, while a pool of blood was turning brown as it soaked into a rug beneath the desk.
Suicide? Vega thought. Some kind of suicide pact? Was that why Dennis Havers didn’t want to see him yesterday? Because he knew he was going to kill himself? But something was off, and Vega scanned the room again.
A crime scene technician stood beside him and must have been thinking the same thing. But he answered out loud.
“Not suicide, sir,” he said, and pointed to the gun on the desk. “The gun would have fallen if he shot himself. Not been placed neatly on the desk.”
Vega nodded. “Of course.” He mentally kicked himself. He must be tired or overwhelmed. Usually, he’d have picked up on that immediately. Then he noticed something else.
“What’s that?” he asked the technician. He could see a piece of paper poking out from under Dennis’s inert arm.
“Looks like an envelope, sir.”
“A note? Can you look, please?” Vega asked.
“I’m not supposed to . . .” the technician started to say.
“I’m not asking to take it,” Vega snapped, “just look in the envelope and tell me what’s in there.”
The technician eased out the envelope. “Addressed to Joanna Campbell, sir. Just cash, I think . . . Oh, there is a note.” He read it aloud to Vega, who thanked him and told him to put it back exactly as he found it. They would photograph the study and the bedroom next.
“Terrible day, sir. First Nadine Dagg,” Diane Fowler said to Vega, appearing at his shoulder. She looked as stunned as he felt, Vega thought.
He nodded, “And now the Haverses.”
These killings must be connected, he thought. But two different methods? Damn it.
“Where’s the coroner?” he asked.
“On her way, sir. The house is sealed off, and I’ve got some officers coming from Nanaimo, they’ll be here shortly. How do you want to play this, sir?”
“I’ll speak to Sinclair, see if we can get another forensic team over here. If not, they’ll have to do double duty. Speak to the team leader, please. Get some uniforms to round up everyone who attended the belly dancing night, including Andi Silvers, and get their statements. And Sergeant? Bring in Lee Dagg. Make him wait at the detachment.”
“Does he know his wife is dead, sir?”
“That’s what I’d like to know, Sergeant. As I see it, Ricky Havers was found on his or his family’s property, and Nadine here was supposedly having an affair with Dennis Havers. That’s a connection I need to follow
up.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?” Fowler inquired.
“Yes. Get officers knocking on doors. I know this place is away from the town centre, but usually you can’t fart around here without someone knowing. Someone must have seen or heard something. I don’t want the community to panic, but if we can’t find a connection between these victims soon, we’ll have to assume we have a crazed gunman killing randomly in Coffin Cove.”
“Not just a gunman, sir,” Diane Fowler said. “Someone who knows how to use a knife.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Doug South stood in the doorway of his workshop. It had been a good morning, all things considered. He lit a cigarette and inhaled, letting his body cool down after working up a sweat underneath the car hoist.
Terri hated the smell of cigarettes and never let him smoke in the house. It was OK. He smiled. Terri and her throw cushions and “show towels” in the downstairs cloakroom. How many times had he repainted the interior of the house? He couldn’t remember and he didn’t care. He’d paint it a thousand times more for her if she asked him to. Terri had moved in when they got married and looked after his mother. She had never complained, never asked to move, even after Ma died. So small sacrifices like smoking outside and peeling off his oily clothes before he went in the house were fine by him.
He’d stopped smoking a pack a day years ago when Ma got cancer. Now, it was an occasional sneaky reward after a particularly productive day. And today was just that. The old Mustang was coming along. When he’d started, he’d had nothing but the rusted-out chassis. After years of sourcing parts from collectors and working on it between fixing customers’ vehicles, it was nearly complete. Just the bodywork left now. Coats of glossy red paint, the exact shade of the original, and it would be ready to take Terri for their first ride.
It had been a labour of love. That’s what he told himself, anyway. In solitary moments, leaning against the workshop door and looking through the trees to the dark shadow of Whilley’s old net shed, he acknowledged this wasn’t really about love. It was about guilt.
That’s what he’d felt the day before when he found Jim Peters and that other reporter talking to his wife. When that woman looked at him, he felt sure she knew exactly how he was feeling. He’d been open and truthful about everything — why shouldn’t he? He had nothing to hide. He hadn’t been involved in that drug racket. He’d tried to help Art. He’d tried to do what his mother asked.
When he let himself, Doug could still remember every detail of that last night. The finale.
Something was going to happen, he’d felt it for weeks. Something bad. It had gotten wild and dangerous over at Art’s place. More than partying, more than bikes racing up and down the trail and idiots performing burnouts and smashing beer bottles. There had been a tension in the air, a palpable threat. Doug’s heart was heavy. They’d just buried his mother. Terri and he were wandering aimlessly around the house, unable to settle. Just as they were ready to go to bed, they heard a huge explosion, a split second before they felt the vibration. The force was powerful enough to rattle the windows.
Doug stood up.
Terri said, “Don’t go, Doug.”
He knew he had to. He’d promised his mother. She’d clasped his large hands with her fragile fingers, and with great effort lifted her head off the pillow.
“Look after Art,” she’d whispered. “He has no one. Not like you. You have Terri.” And she sank back, exhausted from the effort.
Doug had promised.
When he neared Whilley’s place, it was chaos. Bikers were scrambling to leave, their heavy machines spinning their wheels in the dirt.
Like scattering rats, he thought. The heat hit him as he reached the gate. White-hot flames leaped into the air, the smoke a dark, choking black. Doug held his shirt over his mouth, remembering Art had bottles of chemicals in the cabin.
Summoning his courage, Doug ran towards the fire, knowing he was crossing into Hell.
Days later, what was left of the cabin was still smouldering. The police had come and gone. They’d wandered into the old net shed, which miraculously suffered only minor damage, searched the site and declared Art Whilley dead.
The bikers never returned. Wayne was gone. Dennis Havers acted as if he’d never known Art Whilley. It was as if he’d never existed.
One morning, Doug walked up to Art’s place. He’d never called it Hell’s Half Acre. When he got there, he saw a woman standing by the ashes, her head bowed, as if in prayer. It was Clara Bell. Doug raised his hand to wave, and she looked up. She gave him a stiff nod and walked away.
Doug hauled away the burnt-out Mustang. It was the last time he ever went there. He’d thought it was all over. But now, he had a sinking feeling he couldn’t shake off.
Doug finished his cigarette and turned to go back into his workshop. Hearing vehicles approaching, he waited to see who it was. An RCMP cruiser and a dark sedan passed his house and headed towards the Daggs’.
This was it, then. Doug looked upwards and sent a silent prayer and apology to his mother.
Chapter Thirty
Lee slumped in the uncomfortable metal chair in the interview room. He had no idea how long he’d been there. An unsightly film was forming on the surface of the mug of tea in front of him.
An officer, one of those who’d driven him to the detachment, had placed the mug on the table.
“Someone will be with you soon, sir,” he’d said, and with a gesture of sympathy, had gently squeezed Lee’s shoulder before leaving him alone.
That was a while ago. Maybe an hour? Five? Lee didn’t know.
Time wasn’t important right now, except he knew Katie would be worried. Thank God she had Terri. Terri had been like a mother . . .
The thought caught on his emotions like barbed wire.
Mother. Motherless. Katie was motherless. Officially.
Lee almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. All these years he’d wished Nadine would either mother her daughter or just move along and let them be . . . Well, that’s what they say, isn’t it? Be careful what you wish for?
Is this my fault? he’d wondered, sitting in his living room earlier that day. He had his arm around his daughter. He was confused. He was trying to understand what the two RCMP officers had just told him.
He must have said it aloud because he saw the officers exchange glances.
“How did she . . . ?” He couldn’t say the word out loud. It was inconceivable Nadine was dead.
Look around, he wanted to shout at the officers. See this couch? Nadine bought it. And these cushions? We argued about these fucking cushions. Now you’re telling me she’s not coming back?
The officers explained a little. It still didn’t make sense. She was belly dancing. For fuck’s sake. At the Fat Chicken. All the people there knew her. They knew she was a flirt. They knew everything about her. She’d grown up in this town.
“She’s an administration officer at the city,” Lee had said. “She works for the mayor.” He didn’t know why that seemed important to him, but he wanted these officers to know Nadine was a serious person. She wasn’t just some flaky middle-aged woman who liked to dance in fancy dress. She was . . . more.
“Yes, sir,” they’d said respectfully. And then, “Is there someone who could look after your daughter?”
Lee had become aware of Katie clinging to him, her body heaving with sobs.
“Go to Terri’s,” he’d told his daughter. “Go there and I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
“Come with us now, sir.”
He’d obediently walked out to the waiting car and got in the back.
He didn’t know why, but he thought they’d take him to see Nadine. But instead, they arrived at the detachment. And now, he was waiting.
Lee was aware of activity and noise outside the room. They must be busy, he thought distractedly. And then remembered why.
Lee laid his head on his arms and started to cry.
* * *
/> Katie watched in disbelief as the RCMP cruiser took her father away. Her legs wouldn’t hold her up. She sank to her knees on the porch.
Her mother was dead? And they thought her father killed her?
A voice came from a long way away, and she noticed a police officer speaking to her.
“Katie? Is there someone who can stay with you? I’m afraid we must search the house now.”
Katie looked up and managed to whisper, “Terri.”
“It’s OK, officer,” she heard a familiar voice boom, “I’ll take Katie to my wife.”
Katie held her hand out, but Doug South ignored it and put his arms around her, as if she were a small child.
The officer was talking again, something about keys, and Katie realized they would pull the house apart. She cried again.
“Shh, it’s OK, Katie. They have a job to do. They’ll find out your dad has nothing to do with any of this. He’ll be home before you know it.”
Katie nodded. She felt in her pocket for the door keys and a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Doug bent down to pick it up.
He turned the card over and over in his hand and then hugged Katie tighter.
As he helped Katie home to Terri, who was waiting for her with outstretched arms, Katie didn’t understand why Doug kept whispering to her, “I’m so sorry, Katie.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Jade was having the strangest dream. She was laughing with Summer about an old black-and-white movie. They used to watch them all the time. When she was little, Jade’s favourite was Charlie Chaplin. He made her laugh until she couldn’t stop. Summer used to do an imitation of the way he walked and doffed his hat whenever Jade felt sad after a hard day at school. Summer also used to pretend to swoon, like Chaplin’s leading ladies, her hand held dramatically to her forehead as she dropped onto the couch. Jade would rush over, joining in the pretence, and pat Summer’s cheeks or wave imaginary smelling salts under her nose, until Summer grabbed her daughter and tickled her, both of them collapsing with laughter.
HELL'S HALF ACRE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 2) Page 20