“Mom, there’s a killer up there. You’ve left your job so you can spend the summer here. Why go back?”
“Call it unfinished business. It’s something I have to do.”
“For Bruce?”
“Yes.”
“Mom, are you and Bruce…?”
I smiled. “Bruce and I are not romantically involved. He’s like a younger brother. He’s made great progress in the past few months, and I want to make sure he doesn’t slide back to where he was before.”
But until Vi’s murder was solved, I couldn’t be sure how well Bruce would do. He needed to know who killed her and why before he could move on with his life.
“I’m counting on you to see that Laura takes it easy this week,” I said.
“Don’t worry about that,” Tracy said. “She has my number at work. Farah will make her lunch, and I’m sure that Kyle will be here every evening. And she’ll follow the doctor’s orders because she wants that baby.”
Driving up the Don Valley Parkway, I debated whether to call Ella on my cell. I didn’t like people dropping in unannounced, but I knew there was a good chance that she would hang up on me. I didn’t make the call.
There was no answer when I rapped on the front door of her bungalow. I went around to the back of the house and found Ella on the deck. She was stretched out on a chaise longue, massaging cream into her hands.
“Hello, Ella.”
A frown creased her attractive face. “What do you want?”
I took the chair beside her. “The first time you went to Frank’s home after he died—”
“Go away.”
“—must have been distressing. You’d just lost your son, and you had to go through his belongings. You had to get the house ready to sell. You didn’t want to go there alone so you took someone with you. Who went with you, Ella?”
Her face smoothed itself into a mask.
“You weren’t there alone. Not that first time.”
She closed her eyes, and a muscle twitched at the side of her mouth.
“The rental contract, the keycard to open the gate and the key to Frank’s locker were somewhere in that house. You never found them. But while you were in another room, the person who came with you did. Who was with you that day?”
She turned her head away from me. “I was alone.”
“A woman’s body was found in Frank’s locker, Ella. She’d been murdered.”
I took a business card from my wallet, scratched out the office phone number and scribbled down Bruce’s new number at Raven Lake. “Give me a call.” I put the card on the table beside her and went back to the Volvo.
Zoe or Riza may have gone with Ella, I thought as I drove back to the highway. Zoe didn’t have a job and Riza appeared to be a lady of leisure as well. They would have been available to give Ella moral support at Frank’s home.
And Zoe had told me that she visited another aunt at Highland Ridge, which meant that she was familiar with the building and its garden. That aunt was Riza’s sister, so Riza visited Highland Ridge too.
But what puzzled me was why Zoe or Riza would want to kill Vi.
My next stop was the cottage at Black Bear Lake. I found a telephone message that Zoe had left the day before. She thanked me for the dinner invitation and said that Tuesday would work well for them.
Today was Tuesday.
I took a business card that I’d picked up at Pickerel from my wallet and made a dinner reservation for that evening. I tried Nate’s home and office numbers, and reached voice mail at both. I left messages saying that I had a problem at the cottage, and that I’d like Nate and Zoe and Riza to be my guests for dinner at Pickerel. I told them that I’d meet them there at six that evening.
I packed up the rest of our clothes and all of our food, and took it out to the Volvo. Then I sat in the car, looking at the cottage that I had rented for a relaxing summer vacation. The rental scamster knew the area, but he could have been running his con from anywhere. From Toronto or Ottawa or Montreal. Anywhere. He may have been watching me as I sat there in the car.
I glanced around the property. The trees on both sides of the house waved gently in the breeze. I shivered and turned the key in the ignition.
The security guard buzzed me into The Times building and picked up the telephone on his desk. “Ms. Tierney is here to see you.”
He lifted his head and smiled at me. “Go on up.”
Bruce met me at the elevator and took me to his office. “I didn’t expect you back for a while,” he said when we were seated.
“There’s nothing more I can do for Laura. Maybe I can…”
He smiled. “Find Mom’s killer and Wilf’s killer and the rental scamster?”
I flashed him a grin. “Why not?”
“I hope you’re not back at Black Bear Lake.”
“No, I’m taking you up on your offer. I’d like to camp out in your spare room. I have my bedding in the car. Tommy is staying with his grandmother in Toronto.”
“Glad to have you.” He opened a desk drawer. “Here’s a key.”
Maria came into the office. “I’m sorry about the cottage, Pat. We’ll give you a refund, of course.”
“I’ll stay with Bruce for a few days, but I may be back at your cottage yet.”
When she turned to go, I said, “Could I use the kayak?”
“By all means,” she said. “That’s the least we can do for you.”
Bruce walked me back to the elevator. “What are you up to today?” he asked.
“I’ll take the kayak over to your place. And I’ve invited Nate Johnston and his wife for dinner at Pickerel this evening. I hope you can join us.”
“Not tonight. I have an appointment with Dr. Reynolds.”
“You’re seeing him again.”
“Once a week.”
I was happy to hear that. “Bruce, I’d like to talk to Wilf’s widow. You said she helped him with his freelance business.”
“Darlene lives at 17 Newcastle Street.” He pointed a finger in the direction of the hill behind the Main Street strip. “Next to the house with the pink flamingos.”
I returned to Black Bear Lake for the second time that day. I went down to the water and dragged the kayak over the lawn to the driveway. I hoisted it onto the Volvo’s roof, secured it with ropes and stowed the two-bladed paddle in the car.
Then I headed for Raven Lake.
The spare room in Bruce’s cabin held a battered dresser and a single bed covered with a colorful throw. A dozen or so boxes were stacked against one of the walls. I put the food I’d taken from the cottage into the fridge and the kitchen cupboards. Then I made up the bed, hung my clothes in the closet and draped a paisley shawl over the dresser.
I hoped my stay there would be short. The cabin was small, and I wasn’t sure how Bruce and I would get on in close quarters. But it would be foolish to return to the cottage I’d rented.
I took the kayak off the car roof and headed back into town.
Number 17 Newcastle Street was a brown clapboard bungalow. It looked like a dowdy wren beside Sally Beaton’s pink house with the flamingos on the lawn. A woman with long brown hair streaked with silver came to the door. Dark half-moons underlined eyes that had run out of tears.
“Mrs. Mathers?”
She looked at me without saying anything.
“I’m Pat Tierney, a friend of Bruce Stohl’s. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”
She held the door open. “My parents took the kids for a week or so,” she said. “I’m not myself right now.”
“That’s understandable. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Darlene took me into the kitchen. We sat at a table covered with empty coffee mugs and a sprinkling of crumbs.
She raised her eyes to my face, telling me to go on.
“Your husband’s colleagues feel terrible about what happened.”
“Wilf worked at The Times for years. Started right after he got his journalism diploma.”
She looked at me with of flash of defiance. “He did his freelance work on his own time. Plenty of newspaper people freelance.”
“Of course. And you helped him?”
“I’m winding up the business—or I will as soon as the police return his computer. Exactly what do you want to know?” There was a shrewdness in her mild blue eyes that told me she didn’t miss a thing.
“What kind of freelance photos did Wilf take?”
“Mostly wedding pictures and kids’ portraits.”
“Did he take any pictures of Riza Santos or Zoe Johnston? Or for them? Family photos, maybe?”
“No. And I would have known because I did the billings.”
“Any of his recent assignments stand out in your mind?”
“One does.”
I wanted to know more. “What was it?”
“He’d just finished a portfolio of photos for Daniel Laughton. He’s the—”
“Environmentalist. Has a place on Raven Lake.”
“That’s the one.”
“What kind of photos did Daniel want?”
“A variety. Candid shots of him at the lake. Head-and-shoulders shots for a new website. Some family photos.”
“How did Wilf get to the Laughtons’ cottage?” I asked. “There’s no road to that part of the lake.”
“Daniel’s wife came for him in the boat.”
“Did Wilf finish the job?”
“He gave Daniel some prints and a flash drive with digital images the day before—” she paused, and a shadow crossed her face “—he died.”
“Did Wilf think the job went well?”
She toyed with a spoon on the table. “No.”
“No?”
“Wilf had a falling-out with Daniel. He was excited when Daniel hired him, he’d always admired him. But he lost interest along the way. He wanted to get the work done and move on.”
“What happened?”
“No idea. Wilf clammed up whenever I asked how the job was going.”
“Why did Daniel hire your husband? Had they already met?”
“They met two years ago at the township’s Sustainable Living Day. Daniel was the guest speaker. Wilf was taking pictures for the newspaper and he talked to him afterwards.” She paused again. “My husband was big on saving the planet—recycling, renewable energy, ethical investing. All that green stuff.”
“He and Daniel had a lot in common. Did they keep in touch?”
She shrugged. “Probably saw each other at council meetings when something came up about the aggregates.”
“Aggregates?”
“Gravel pits. Stone rubble the glaciers left behind during the ice age. There are a few extraction operations around here. The greenies turn out whenever anything about the aggregate companies comes up before council.”
“Do you think the falling-out with Daniel had something to do with your husband’s death?”
Darlene looked startled. “I can’t imagine what. You don’t kill someone over some photos.”
But I had a feeling she didn’t really believe that.
“Did the police talk to you about this?”
“They wanted to know about Wilf’s assignments at the newspaper, not his freelance work. But they’ve got his home computer. There must be emails from Daniel on it.”
I logged onto a computer at the Braeloch library and found a wealth of material about Daniel Laughton. The man was in his seventies, but he hadn’t slowed down in recent years. Since he had left the university a few years before, he’d increased his public appearances and his publications. I skimmed reviews of his latest book, Planet in Jeopardy, and reports of his talks at colleges, universities and conferences. One article quoted him on the subject of ethical or responsible investing—buying shares in companies with good environmental and human rights records. It caught my attention because I’d been wanting to know more about ethical investing myself. Its premise was great, but I wanted to know whether building a better world meant sacrificing investment returns.
“Responsible investments are among the world’s fastest-growing asset classes, with about $34 trillion in assets managed globally,” the article quoted Daniel telling business students at a Toronto university a few months before.
The month after that, The Toronto World ran a piece about Daniel signing on to do celebrity endorsements of The Green Funds, a family of mutual funds operated by Green Unlimited Corp., an ethical investment firm. The article said the ads would start running on national television the following week.
I called up Green Unlimited’s website. “We invest in companies that obey or exceed laws for environmental concerns, safety and public disclosure,” it stated. “We expect them to reuse and recycle, pursue clean and efficient production methods, and have a deep concern for the welfare of animals.”
It certainly sounded good.
“The companies we look for provide fair, sustainable compensation for their employees, extend opportunities to the disabled, and respect workers’ rights to negotiate, organize and bargain collectively.”
I wrote down the names of all the companies held by The Green Funds.
I returned to the articles on Daniel, this time focusing on the photographs. Head shots; photos of him in a canoe, on snowshoes, standing beside a marsh; with high school and university students; and with his wife, Frances Reardon Laughton, president of Toronto’s Sustainable Living Society.
I made printouts of several articles.
My guests were already seated when I arrived at Pickerel. We ordered drinks, and they asked about the problem I had at the cottage.
“I’ve had a few issues,” I said, “but I’d like to forget about them tonight and enjoy myself.”
“Country living,” Riza said. “Mice in the winter, ants in the summer. Problems with the septic. You get used to it.”
We studied our menus for a minute or two, then placed our orders.
“Have you been on Raven Lake long?” I asked Riza.
“Twenty years. I sold the house in Toronto after my divorce and I bought my place on Raven. I rent an apartment in Toronto.”
“Riza has a great home on the lake.” Zoe glanced at Nate. “I’d love to find something like it.”
“Keep looking,” he told her.
“Do you come up in the winter?” I asked Riza.
“Less and less. I thought I’d live there full-time when I retired, but when I left the bank last year, my heart was no longer in it. Winters are lonely up here when you’re on your own. In the city, I have my sisters, my bridge group and my art classes. Summer and early fall are my seasons here.”
“If you paddle into Raven, you’ll see Riza’s place,” Zoe said. “It’s not far from the creek that connects Black Bear to Raven. Her house has a bright red roof.”
“I’m not on Black Bear right now,” I said.
“Where are you staying, Pat?” Nate asked.
“With a friend on Raven Lake.”
“Whereabouts on Raven?” Zoe wanted to know.
“The other end of the lake. Not far from the creek that connects it to Paradise Lake.” I smiled at Riza. “But if I’m ever paddling near you, I’ll drop in.”
“Please do,” she said.
“What bank were you at?” I asked her.
“Bank of Central Canada. A branch in Scarborough.”
A different bank, and a different part of Toronto than where Vi worked.
Our appetizers arrived. When conversation resumed, Nate told us about his two new clients. I asked him how Soupy was doing.
“He has his nose to the grindstone.”
“Soupy?” Zoe said. “That’s—”
“The guy who’s getting married.” To me, he added, “Zoe and I have been invited to his wedding.”
“So you’re friends now,” I said.
“I wouldn’t say that we’re friends,” he said with a smile, “but we’re invited to his wedding.”
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br /> The meal was a pleasant one. The food was excellent, and Riza told us about some of the local events we could look forward to in the coming weeks. The summer fair and rodeo on the first weekend in August. The garlic festival in Donarvon the following weekend. And the tour of artists’ studios in the township on the Labor Day weekend.
“I enjoyed the Canada Day fireworks,” I said. “Until its abrupt end.”
“When that man was murdered,” Zoe said. “The newspaper photographer.”
“That was terrible,” Riza said. “His poor family. He had young kids.”
“You were at the fireworks?” I asked.
“All three of us,” Nate said. “We had dinner at Riza’s, then we drove into town for the fireworks show.”
We sat on Pickerel’s porch after dinner and watched the sailboats on Twelve Mile Lake. I was the first to get up to leave. Nate and Zoe thanked me, and said they’d have me over to their place soon.
“I hope no more renters show up at that cottage of yours,” Riza said.
I looked at her, stunned. “How—”
“Word gets around up here,” she said with a smile.
I thought about what Riza had said as I drove back to Bruce’s cabin. How did she know that my cottage had been targeted by the rental scamster? Bruce’s article in The Times wouldn’t be out until Friday.
Riza had retired from a Bank of Central Canada branch the previous year, but where had she been when money went missing at the bank where Vi worked? She might have changed jobs.
And she was at the fairgrounds the night that Wilf was killed.
Bruce hadn’t arrived home when I got in. I switched on the lamp beside the sofa and took the page Irene had given me out of my wallet. I scanned the names of the people who had worked at the bank with Vi. Riza or Rizalina Santos was not one of them.
But one name caught my eye: Fran Reardon, one of the part-timers. Fran was probably short for Frances.
I went to my room to get the articles I’d printed out in the library that afternoon. The cutline under the photo of Daniel and his wife identified her as Frances Reardon Laughton.
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