by L E Fraser
“Extensively, as I understand it,” Roger said in agreement. “Graham would leave on Saturday morning and not return until late Sunday night. Because of his erratic business schedule, he dawdled about the farm during the week. Brenda found his idleness and ineptitude off-putting.” He crushed the plastic lid from his chai latte, and his knuckles turned white. His eyes were dark with hatred, and his tone was low and gruff when he said, “His family lived like animals.”
The rabid anger in Roger’s eyes reminded Sam of his expression on the day he’d bludgeoned his sister with the hammer. She didn’t understand why he had such strong feelings about a man he claimed he didn’t know well. It didn’t make sense.
“Did Graham ever confront you about the affair?” she asked.
Roger looked startled. “No. Of course not. I… I didn’t even realize he knew.”
“Well, he did. The kids knew, and they both said their father also knew.”
Roger didn’t respond. He dropped his eyes and started tearing the crushed plastic lid.
“What did Graham do for a living after leaving football?” she asked.
Roger looked up. His expression had shifted from raw hatred to mild interest. “Oh, some guest spots with The Sports Network,” he replied airily, dropping the crushed and torn plastic lid to the table and sipping daintily at his tea.
His about-face was disconcerting—it was as if he’d hastily popped on a mask to hide his true emotions. Sam watched him in silence, and a nasty feeling of suspicion washed over her. She’d known Roger for over twenty-five years, ever since her parents had bought the house on Vero Beach when Sam was four and her father had left London Police Services to join the Toronto force. Today, it felt like she was talking with a stranger.
“Graham was competing for a coaching job with the Toronto Varsity Blues,” Roger continued in a pleasant tone. “I’m not certain if that came to fruition, but he was pushing his son to attend U of T and play football. Jordan didn’t want to. He wanted to go to UBC. Graham threatened to cut off financial assistance if his son didn’t comply and stay in Toronto. Their relationship was ugly. Contentious.”
Reece was following up with the Argonauts to get a list of Graham’s acquaintances. Sam added TSN and the University of Toronto to the list she was making on a memo app on her phone. She thought about Roger’s statement that Jordan was at odds with his dad before the murder. A disagreement over where to attend school wasn’t exactly solid motive to off your father. But money was and she’d have to find out the details of Graham’s estate.
“Does Reece know our history?” Roger’s earnest eyes held hers.
“Yup.”
He gazed across the café. “I want to speak with him and apologize. My hospitality left a bit to be desired when I invited him for lunch the week before last.” His eyes drifted back to hers. “I want you to be happy. After everything we’ve been through over the years, you may not believe me but it’s the truth.”
The last thing she wanted to do was rehash ancient history. There wasn’t any point. It was what it was and it was over.
“Come on. Take me up to see Brenda,” she said.
“This is a waste of time. She hasn’t spoken and doesn’t respond to external stimuli. Her primary prescribed Risperidone.” He stood, leaving his garbage littered on the table. “But I don’t concur that schizophrenia is the correct diagnosis. She witnessed something in that cellar.”
Sam gathered up the trash and dumped it in the can. “Atypical antipsychotics are gaining ground in treating post-traumatic stress,” she reminded him.
“Perhaps.”
“Isn’t the main objective to pull her from catatonia?” Sam followed him to the main elevators.
“Yes, but my concern is Risperidone will impede psychogenic amnesia treatment. We may never find out what happened.”
Memory loss was a possible side effect of the drug. If witnessing her husband’s murder had caused the mental break, recovering the episodic memories would be hard. Harder if a psychotropic drug blocked a therapist’s efforts.
“Maybe it’s not what she saw,” Sam suggested. “Maybe it’s what she did. Could Brenda have killed Graham?”
Roger didn’t respond. They rode the elevator in silence. When they reached their floor, Sam grabbed his arm to stop him from exiting. “Roger, could Brenda have killed her husband?” she repeated.
He sighed, shrugging his arm out of her grasp and stepping out of the elevator. “They argued and it escalated to violence sometimes. On more than one occasion, she admitted to striking him after he hit her.” His hand twitched at his side. “The marriage was a war zone. I wanted her to leave.”
He’d just told her he had no interest in pursuing a serious relationship because Brenda wasn’t an intellectual giant. Why would he urge her to leave the marriage? Either he hadn’t encouraged his lover to end her marriage, or he was more serious about Brenda than he’d admitted. Either way, her friend was lying to her. A dark knot settled in her stomach.
They hiked down a long corridor to a set of locked double doors, and a nurse buzzed them through. Changing the direction of her questions, Sam asked, “When you were at the house that day, did you hear anyone other than Brenda and Graham?”
“It sounded like more than two people arguing.” He thought for a minute. “I assumed Jordan was in the basement. After—” He rubbed his eye and cleared his throat. “When I looked through the window, he was in the kitchen. I couldn’t tell for sure if he’d been in the cellar and had come upstairs or if someone else was downstairs with Graham and Brenda.”
Patients in robes, nurses, and orderlies flowed around them. Roger was motioning at her to move, and Sam followed him from the centre of the hallway to a wall between two room doors.
“How about cars?” she asked, and leaned against the wall. “When you pulled in, was there a car you didn’t recognize?”
“Two, in fact. Brenda’s was at the top of the driveway, but there was a truck and an old BMW in the yard. I don’t know what Graham drove.” He paused before rushing to add, “Brenda has a history of socially unacceptable behaviour.”
Sam frowned. “What?” That last statement seemed to have come out of nowhere.
“I was working with her on controlling incidents of extreme rage, followed by impulsive yet calculated behaviour,” he replied calmly. “The week before, she’d had a disagreement at a grocery store. She waited in the parking lot for the other woman. Then she followed her home, tailgating and utilizing intimidating behaviour.” He held her eyes. “It wasn’t the first time Brenda felt victimized and retaliated.”
The knot in Sam’s stomach tightened. Now he was throwing his lover under the bus. It felt like deflection, a means to shift attention off him.
“On the day of the murder, did you go into the cellar when you heard yelling?” she asked.
He continued walking down the hallway. “I did not enter the house.”
A lie.
“Roger, police found your fingerprints in the stairwell, and Jordan told Reece the bottoms of your pants were wet. If you hadn’t been in the cellar, why were your pants wet?”
He stopped in the corridor and she nearly ran into him. He turned to face her, his eyes angry. “Jordan’s lying! I saw him in the backyard when he arrived from school. Brenda and Graham were arguing inside. He’s trying to incriminate me! My trousers weren’t wet and he’s a liar.”
Fingerprints didn’t lie. He had been inside the house in the stairwell that led to the crime scene. But he hadn’t denied being in the house in the past. Maybe the fingerprints weren’t recent. If the blood the police found on the cellar stairs and on the landing wall turned out to be Roger’s, that would confirm that he’d been in the house on the day of the crime. They’d know soon enough.
Deciding not to challenge him on his declaration that he hadn’t been in the house, she asked, “Do you remember what you were wearing?”
“Of course.” Roger continued walking down the hall with lo
ng strides.
Sam had to jog to keep up with him. “A lab can confirm the absence of biodegradable waste,” she said. “Sewage had backed into the standing water that flooded the cellar.”
He stopped with his back to her and his shoulders stiffened. “I had my trousers dry cleaned.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re having them tested,” she retorted. “Negative results will prove to police that Jordan lied and you weren’t holding Graham’s head under the water.”
Without turning, he asked over his shoulder, “Why would the pants be wet? The culprit wore rubber boots, which proves Jordan is lying.”
She didn’t recall telling him forensics had matched the boot print on Graham’s neck to rubber boots. Police hadn’t released that detail to the press. Perhaps the detectives had mentioned it to Roger during their interview.
She grabbed his shoulder to turn him to face her. “I want the pants.”
Roger exhaled impatiently. “Then you shall have them.” He stopped at a closed door. “Can we not talk about this in front of Brenda? Although she’s unresponsive, we don’t know how much she hears and comprehends. It’s important not to upset her.”
Sam nodded and stepped through the door Roger held open.
Brenda was sitting in a chair by the window. Her blue eyes were wide and blank. She was indeed a beautiful woman. High cheekbones, wide-set eyes, and a straight nose were symmetrically set in a milky complexion. Wispy bangs veiled her eyebrows, and her straight hair was a shiny sheet down her back, ending just before her waist.
Sam stood in the doorway, watching with confusion as Roger held Brenda’s hand and chatted to her. Although she couldn’t hear the words, there was an intimacy in the exchange. The show of affection felt contrary to the negative remarks he’d just shared in the hallway. While Roger stroked Brenda’s cheek and whispered in her ear, the woman didn’t move or indicate awareness. Sam watched the hypocritical picture with unease.
After a few minutes without any response from Brenda, Sam accepted that there wasn’t any point in trying to talk with the woman. The lights were on, but Brenda Harris wasn’t home.
Chapter Eleven
Reece
THE TORONTO ARGONAUTS defensive coordinator had kept in touch with Graham after he’d left the team. The man gushed about Graham’s generous nature and kind disposition. According to him, the ex-football player had visited sick children in the hospital, delivering free season tickets and footballs signed by the team. In response to Reece’s query about friends, the man provided him with contact details for someone he said Graham had brought to meet the team last summer. Reece figured it was a good start to tracking down Graham’s squad.
Claude Malletier’s office manager directed Reece to a Habitat for Humanity site on Dalton Road in Sutton, an hour north of Toronto on Lake Simcoe. The site was buzzing with construction activity, and Reece stopped at a trailer to ask for Claude.
While he waited, he wandered around the site, chatting with volunteers and learning about the project. They couldn’t have broken ground too long ago, because they hadn’t poured the foundations. The beep-beep-beep of cement trucks backing up rang in his ears, along with loud guffaws of laughter that came from the groups of men and women who stood around the house lots, holding shovels and waiting for the trucks to dump the cement.
The idea of volunteering to build family homes intrigued Reece. His fondest childhood memories included the large Tudor style house in Windsor where he had grown up with his brother. This summer marked the twelfth anniversary of the accident that killed his parents and brother. Not a day passed without Reece grieving the loss of his family.
The volunteers were nice and welcomed him when he stopped to ask questions. One of the on-site engineers showed Reece the architect’s plans, explaining how they maximized their budget to produce high-quality homes. The houses would be simple, no fancy fixtures or finishes, but they would be solid and functional.
Helping to build them might be fun. Reece could swing a hammer and was good at following directions. Giving back would be nice. Maybe Sam would want to volunteer and they could make some new friends together. It wouldn’t disappoint Reece to see the back end of her current group, especially Lisa and Roger.
A man’s cheerful greeting startled him, and Reece turned to find a middle-aged man walking across the packed dirt toward him. The man removed his white construction helmet and wiped sweat off his sunburned, bald crown. His smile exposed stained yellow teeth, and a calloused hand pumped Reece’s arm with enthusiasm.
“My office called, said to expect you. Claude Malletier at your service.” His bow made Reece laugh.
“Reece Hash, Toronto PI. I’m involved in the investigation into Graham Harris’s murder.” He handed Claude a card.
The man shook his head. “Damn shame. I still can’t believe it. Come on over to the picnic tables. Whatever I can do to help.”
“How did you know Graham?” Reece asked.
“Here. Well, not this site, we only broke ground a month ago. The Brimley site in Markham last year.”
Settling onto the picnic table bench across from Claude, Reece said, “So Graham volunteered.”
“You bet, for about two years. He was on the Brimley project from start to finish. Was here for the groundbreaking ceremony and on the roster for this tour of duty. Hard worker. When it comes to working with their hands, some men won’t admit they’re up shit creek. Not Graham. He’d ask for help. Everyone liked him. He’ll be missed.”
That was what the Argonauts had said. Graham was a great guy. It didn’t fit with what the family or Roger claimed. Maybe these outsiders hadn’t known Graham well.
“How often did he volunteer?”
“Every weekend, in like clockwork. First one to arrive, last one to leave. Worked on the interiors during the winter. He stayed with me a couple of times. Wife liked him, and she’s a crusty old c—” He caught himself with a sheepish grin and cleared his throat. His expression turned serious. “Makes me damn mad what happened.”
Maybe Graham had a second squad. One he didn’t wear his public face around. But participating in Argonauts charity events, volunteering every weekend building homes, and working for TSN didn’t leave much time for Graham to cavort with his buddies.
“Did Graham ever bring anyone with him to the job site?” Reece asked.
Claude’s expression hardened and his lips pressed together. After a moment he mumbled, “Yeah, his boy once.”
“Just the once?” Reece prompted.
“Once was enough.” He snorted. “The apple fell far from the tree with that kid.”
“You didn’t like him?”
“The kid is an asshole,” Claude said. “If he were mine, I’d be smacking the smug grin off his face.”
“Jordan doesn’t appreciate what you’re doing here, eh?”
Claude rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t have an ounce of human kindness in him. Embarrassed his old man by making fun of the houses. He even made snide comments about the people we’re building them for. Graham never brought him again.”
“Did you and Graham ever go out drinking after work?”
“Nah, Graham never touched the stuff, even beer. Working in the sun, I bring cases for the end of the day when we’re roofing. Graham stuck to soda and water.”
Hiding a drinking problem was tough. It was doubtful that the man could have spent every weekend working with Claude without touching a drop of booze.
The Argonauts defensive coordinator had also told Reece that Graham didn’t drink. It seemed that Roger had lied to Sam. But Roger admitted that he didn’t know Graham, so the more likely explanation was that Brenda had lied to Roger. Maybe she wanted people to believe her husband was a hard-drinking, abusive man to excuse the fact she was cheating on him. That didn’t explain Jordan’s comment to him or Jordanna’s to Sam. The more Reece thought about it, the more convinced he became that Graham’s family were intentionally sullying his reputation.
Clau
de was looking impatient and Reece asked, “Was he skilled at construction?”
The man held out his hand and rolled it side to side. “He could follow directions, but he couldn’t think outside the box, if you know what I mean. Thing was, Graham got it, you know? He didn’t fiddle with shit he didn’t understand. He’d back off and wait for reinforcements. Never had a problem tearing something out and redoing it.”
If that was true, Graham must have thought the electrical problem in the basement would be easy to fix. A crossed wire in the receptacle maybe.
“How was he around electricity?”
“Didn’t touch it here. We only use licensed trades. I can introduce you to the others. Rajah is here. Ran into him an hour ago. Thirty years’ experience as an electrician. He and Graham got on. Raj taught him some simple stuff for his house.” He shook his head sadly. “Great property, but they needed to pull down the buildings, especially that old barn. They should have stayed in the city and worked on the farmhouse part time.”
“Why did he move his family, do you know?”
“He said something happened and the move was good for the kids.” Claude shrugged. “Never said what.”
“Did you visit the farm?” Reece asked.
“Sure. Met the little woman and the girls. The youngest is a cutie-pie, sweet as sugar. And his wife, mamma mia!” He fanned his face with his hand and grinned. “Wouldn’t mind coming home to her.”
“Did Brenda and the kids know he was volunteering here?” Reece asked.
“I guess so.” The man peeked at his watch. “They knew we were from Habitat for Humanity.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer to speak with people who knew Graham,” Reece said, standing and circling the table to Claude’s side.
They walked around the site, and Claude introduced a dozen men and women. Everyone said the same thing: Graham Harris was a hard worker, a dedicated volunteer, and a great person.
Graham hadn’t been out drinking and gambling every weekend. He’d built houses for disadvantaged people and tried to learn how to fix up his ancestral home. He was either the most misunderstood man in the world, or his wife and kids were misleading people. Dead people couldn’t defend themselves, and it made Reece’s blood boil that Graham’s family was tarnishing his memory.