Victim in Victoria

by Pamela Kenney

  Victim in Victoria

  Pamela Kenney

  Copyright © Pamela Kenney, 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  Table of Contents

  Victim in Victoria

  Preview of “Body in the Bay”

  More Books by Pamela Kenney

  Chapter One

  Nothing ruins your day more than finding a dead body.

  I should know. I was a homicide detective for decades, but once I retired from the Toronto police department, I kind of expected the body count to decrease. I could not have been more wrong.

  Silly me. I assumed by moving all the way across the country to the lovely city of Victoria, BC, that my crime filled days were behind me. So you can imagine my surprise when I couldn’t even make it here without finding a corpse on the airplane.

  But no more. I was determined to relax. Now that I was here, I was going to find a quiet spot, put my feet up and read a book. The perfect way to start my very first day in Victoria.

  And I knew just where to go to accomplish it in my lovely Art Deco hotel with its large, south-facing balcony complete with four wicker chairs, two tea tables and about thirty potted plants. Sure there was one other person on the balcony, but he was almost completely obscured behind tropical plants, so there was nothing whatsoever to come between me and relaxation.

  But you know how it is when sharing a small space with another human being. Try as you might, you can’t help but notice things about the person. Like their aftershave. Or the hint of mothballs about their clothing. Or whether they’re breathing or not.

  I wasn’t sure at first. I thought perhaps we were just breathing at exactly the same time. So I held my breath. And it turned out I was right. It was way too quiet on the other side of the balcony. Quiet is good. Way too quiet is definitely bad.

  I took a peek in his direction and what I thought, at first glance, was a man relaxing, possibly asleep, turned out to be a guy slumped down in his chair with his legs splayed out at awkward angles in a way that no living human could possibly find comfortable.

  Reluctantly I got to my feet and tiptoed closer. Maybe I was over-reacting. Maybe thirty years as a police officer made me a little bit paranoid. Maybe I’d gotten it all wrong and I could go back to reading my book. Then I saw the blueish tinge to his face.

  “Dammit!” I said, stomping my foot so hard that 28 of the 30 plants rattled in their pots.

  When am I going to get away from murder and mayhem? I thought I was done with all this crap.

  But no. They had dead bodies in Victoria too. And of course I managed to find one. Good job, Meg Spencer, you did it again.

  I stalked over to the stained-glass door and stood in front of it, searching my pockets for a tissue or something I could use to open the door without leaving more of my fingerprints or obliterating other ones that were there already. Geez, will there ever be a time in my life when I can just open a door without having to think about fingerprints, for crying out loud? I shook my head as I stared at my weary reflection in the glass. Probably not.

  “I just want to have a crime free life, is that too much to ask?” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

  That’s when I heard footsteps start running away, as fast as they could, from in front of the hotel.

  Chapter Two

  I hurried over to the edge of the balcony and leaned over the four-foot-high solid wall that bordered the space. The feature that made the balcony a private enclave with no view of the neighbouring houses was the very thing that made it difficult to see anyone in the process of running away from the hotel.

  I caught a glimpse of a skinny young man in blue t-shirt and jeans running away down the sidewalk, his shaggy mop of red curls flopping up and down with every step.

  Of course I couldn’t get a really good look at him as my view was rather obscured by greenery. There were potted plants of every description on the balcony. Then there was a large flowering vine that looked like clematis, climbing up the front of the hotel, blocking a good chunk of my view. Plus there was the tree-lined street creating a lovely green neighbourhood.

  “Hey you! Stop!” I yelled, at the clematis more than anything.

  The young man, of course, ignored me just like every other running suspect before him.

  He vanished around the corner of the hotel before I heard the sound of a car door opening and slamming shut. Three seconds later, a red car flashed into view between some trees, before disappearing again, accompanied by a lot of squealing tires, disturbing the peace of the quiet neighbourhood.

  “Shit!” I threw my paperback down on the floor, unaware until then that I was still holding it.

  This day was just getting worse and worse. I sighed and shook my head, rubbing my temples to try to get rid of the building headache.

  Wasn’t I going to sleep in, Meg? Didn’t I promise myself that I was going to sleep in on my first day of retirement? But no, I still woke up at my usual time. Even earlier than normal, actually, because I was still on Toronto time.

  I could have stayed in bed and wrote in my journal about all the things I was going to do now that I retired early. Thirty years on the force, so able to retire with a full pension, yet still a fit and trim fifty-year-old with lots of energy to accomplish all the other things I wanted to do in life. And after all the death and destruction I’d seen, I deserved a nice quiet life to do whatever I wanted. Like have fun, for one thing.

  I didn’t even look fifty, running a hand through my thick black shoulder-length hair, shot through with only the occasional strand of silver. Staying in shape also shaved years off my age. I’m so glad I kept up with my daily ten-kilometre runs. It really made life so much better to be in shape.

  So there were plenty of things I could’ve done in my room on my first day of freedom. Sleeping in seemed like the thing to do, which of course led to just lying there, wide eyed, counting the ceiling tiles. So I got up and decided to “read a little” on the balcony. What a great idea, Meg, I thought, staring at the dead man.

  “We’re just full of good ideas today, aren’t we?” I asked him.

  He wasn’t listening to me either.

  “Well the first thing I have to do is get off this bloody balcony,” I muttered to myself, walking back over to the stained-glass door and resuming my search for a tissue.

  Which is when I saw her.

  A hotel employee, a maid by the look of it, standing at the entrance to the west hallway. She looked to the west then craned her neck to see across the lobby and down the east hallway, as if searching for someone. Clearly undecided about where to go first, she was too preoccupied to notice me, twisting her long black hair around her finger while gnawing on one corner of her lip, worry lines marring her pretty young face.

  I’ve found that in my line of work it’s always best to stand quietly and observe people when they are acting strangely, especially when there’s gnawing of lips involved. So that’s what I did. And my patience was soon rewarded.

  After a few short paces back and forth, the young woman stuck her hand into the pocket of her uniform and pulled out a cell phone. Looking around surreptitiously to make sure she was alone, she punched one number then waited.

  I strained my ears to listen. I figured I’d be able to hear her side of the conversation if I focussed hard enough and held my breath. The stained-glass door wasn’t thick enough to block the sound of her conversation if I was
quiet enough.

  So when a phone started ringing in the dead man’s pocket, a few feet away from me, I almost jumped out of my skin. I clapped a hand to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. Did not expect that one.

  And it was not just a run-of-the-mill phone call either. You can tell a lot by a person’s ring tone. A sexy song that belonged in a strip club, rather than in a ring tone, seemed to imply something about the relationship between the maid and the dead man. Something I wanted to discuss with her in more depth.

  But just as I was about to put my bare hand on the door handle-I was beyond caring about the fingerprints by that point-the elevator door, directly across from the balcony, opened and the hotel manager stepped out.

  The maid noticed her boss a millisecond before he noticed her and she scurried away down the stairs, all the while stuffing her phone back in her pocket, bringing the song to an abrupt end out on the balcony.

  “Shit,” I muttered. And here I was thinking that maybe this investigation wasn’t going to take my whole week or even my whole morning. Instead, I sighed and made a mental note that here was yet another avenue that needed exploring.

  I remembered then that I’d left my half-empty police notebook in the archives back home in Toronto, along with the countless other notebooks I had filled up over the years, just in case someone needed to look something up about one of my old cases. I’d even left behind the gag notebook that people gave me as a retirement present.

  “You’re going to need it,” Liz had said.

  “Guaranteed.” Bill had nodded, along with everyone else in the room.

  “Wrong,” I’d said. “You cannot be more wrong. I’m never going to investigate anything, ever again. Never going to happen.”

  I sighed with disgust. I was going to have to buy a new notebook.

  Suddenly a gust of wind ruffled my hair as the stained-glass door was pulled open with force, causing a gush of fresh Victoria air to be sucked into the hotel around me.

  “Is everything all right, madam?” the hotel manager asked, gazing at me strangely from a short distance away.

  I looked down at the firm grip he had on the handle of the stained-glass door. I groaned.

  “No. No, everything is NOT all right,” I said, wanting to slap his hand away. “No one must come out onto the balcony.”

  “Why on earth not?” the manager said, trying to step around me. I may be slender but I’m tall and I can take up space when I need to. After several blocking manoeuvres, the manager finally took a step back with frustration and said, “Madam, this is my hotel and I’m the only one who gets to say where people can and cannot go.”

  “There’s a dead body out here. We have to preserve evidence before the police get … ”

  “What?!?” he interrupted with alarm, pushing me to one side before forcing himself onto the balcony.

  I was really beginning to miss my gun.

  “Oh my Go-,” he yelled at the sight of the body until he clamped both hands over his mouth to prevent the loud noises from coming out, his eyes bulging even more than they were originally.

  Looking anxiously back into the hotel, he ran a hand over his thinning hair and looked like he was trying to gauge if any of the other guests had heard the ruckus on the balcony, or his loud outburst. He reached to grab the handle of the stained-glass door, on the balcony side, so he could shut the door for more privacy.

  I blocked that move with a well-timed slap on his wrist and said, “Sir, watch your fingerprints! We have to preserve evidence.”

  Clutching his slapped wrist to his chest, the man said, “Yes. Yes of course. I understand.”

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Leonard Suggs. I’m the manager here.”

  “Mr. Suggs, my name is Meg Spencer. I’m a retired homicide detective so you’re going to have to follow my instructions about this. Do you know this man?”

  Leonard turned with reluctance to look once again at the blue-tinged corpse. With disgust, he quickly turned back to me and said, “No. I’m pretty sure he’s not a registered guest.”

  “Okay. You’re going to need to call the police.”

  “No problem,” he said, pulling out his cell phone and pressing one number.

  He had the police on speed dial? What kind of place am I staying in here? I asked myself. Maybe I should have just stayed in Toronto. Yeah I could have just spent my life in my apartment. Never leaving the condo. I could have had a full life. There are books to read and movies to watch. It would have been fun. Order in food. Relax every day. With exactly zero bodies anywhere.

  “Bill? Yeah it’s Leonard over at the Jimson Hotel. We got a problem. Can you come over right away?”

  I held out my hand for the phone and Leonard reluctantly handed it over.

  “Hello. Who am I speaking to?”

  “Officer Bill Smith. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Meg Spencer. I’m a retired homicide detective from Toronto. There’s a dead body here at the hotel. You’re going to need to send the homicide squad over here.”

  “Oh. Okay. Yeah, I’ll send people right away.”

  “Great. Tell them we’re on the second floor balcony. When can we expect help to arrive?”

  “They are two minutes out, ma’am.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  I held the phone out towards the open doorway, forcing Suggs to walk out into the lobby if he wanted it back.

  “Please stay out in the lobby and don’t let anybody in here,” I said.

  “Sure. Oh sure. No problem,” he said, hurrying towards his phone and away from the body.

  I sighed and looked down at the corpse.

  Two minutes wasn’t a lot of time. I could manage that. Two minutes of standing still and not gathering evidence. How hard could it be? To just stand someplace and not let your curiosity take over? I could do that. No problem.

  So I focussed on the flowers instead. They were lovely and beautiful. But seriously how long can someone examine an African violet? I mean, they’re pretty and all, but when they’re situated right next to the outstretched hand of a dead man, well that tends to pull a person’s focus away from the foliage. Especially when there was something stuffed between two potted plants within reach of the man’s right hand.

  At first I thought it was just a pile of dirt but as I leaned in closer I could see that it was something black and knitted. Like a scarf or a toque or something. But why would it be stuffed between two potted plants and the wall? It was almost invisible, like someone was interrupted in the act of stuffing it away back there.

  I pulled a pen out of my pocket and was about to find a way to pull the material out of its hiding spot when a voice in my head said, “This is not your case, Meg. You’re retired.”

  I straightened up and raised my hands in surrender. Putting the pen back into my pocket, I took two steps backward and sighed. What do I care? I want to not care. There are many police officers on their way to conduct this murder investigation. I’m sure they’ll do a great job. I don’t have to get involved at all. I’m just here on holiday, relaxing. Just travelling around Vancouver Island looking for a nice quiet place to settle down and relax for the rest of my life. And the way it was looking, I was beginning to think I would have to strike Victoria off that list.

  Don’t get me wrong. It was no Toronto. I’d dealt with all the crime I could handle in that city of three million. Gangs and guns and serial killers. Big city crime had found Toronto and I didn’t want to have anything more to do with it.

  Especially when it came so close to home and became so personal. Gangsters hunting me down, trying to make me pay for putting their boss behind bars. I barely escaped with my life and all I got for it was a little medal I could pin on my uniform for special occasions. Oh and severance for the injuries I sustained.

  But it was too close for comfort. Almost losing my life over something like that
, without ever having had much of a life in the first place. No husband. No friends outside work. No fun. Life was too short. It was time to pull the plug on crime fighting and go see what life was supposed to be all about.

  I turned and leaned on the balcony wall, listening to the sirens approaching off in the distance. The sound seemed so strange in this quiet neighbourhood and it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t heard a siren once since I arrived on the island.

  Chapter Three

  The first detective to the top of the stairs was the personification of an over-worked policeman. His unkempt hair matched the bags under his eyes and the irritated, permanently stressed-out look on his face completed the package. His partner, two steps behind him, did not look any better.

  No sooner did they clock the manager standing near the balcony door then they were looking at their watches. Already late and they’d only just arrived.

  Exiting the balcony, I met them halfway across the lobby with handshakes.

  “Detective Liam Perkins,” said the older detective, then jabbing a thumb at his younger partner, added, “Henry Wu.”

  “Detective Meg Spencer, Toronto PD, retired.” I turned and led the way back to the balcony. “You got one vic. Early 20s. Possible strangulation. Your best bet for fingerprints on the door handle is on the balcony side. I witnessed one person running …”

  “You know, Meg.” Liam held up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there. Henry and I are probably not going to be the principals on this case. We were just the closest so we came over to see what we got here.”

  Holding back in the lobby, I watched as the two detectives walked out onto the balcony and turned to look at the victim. Just by watching their faces, I could tell their interest in the case dropped even further than it was originally.

  “Oh yeah, he’s not a tourist,” Liam said, putting his notebook back in his breast pocket.