Copyright © 2018 Alexis Koetting
Published by Iguana Books
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Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M5S 2R4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
Publisher / Editor: Mary Ann J. Blair
Front cover image: Noose by Mega Pixel/Shutterstock.com /
Grunge background by Nik Merkulov/Shutterstock.com
Author photo: Helen Tansey
Cover design: Ruth Dwight
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77180-257-4 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-77180-258-1 (EPUB)
ISBN 978-1-77180-259-8 (Kindle)
This is an original print edition of Triple Threat.
For Grady-the-Great
Alive on these pages and in my heart
A threat is a declaration of intent to cause harm, pain, injury, or punishment. The word triple indicates something that consists of three parts or that occurs three times.
In the theatre, the term triple threat refers to someone who can sing, dance, and act.
Chapter 1
CFA, or “come from away,” is an East Coast term given to anyone not born on the East Coast. Prince Edward Island takes it one step further and bestows the moniker to anyone not born on the Island itself. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve lived there or what great contributions you might have made to the province; if your first breath was not of island air, then a CFA you’ll always be.
My parents were born and raised on PEI but moved away shortly after they were married, making me a first-generation CFA. They were killed in a car accident when I was eight and the Island that had only ever been “the place where Grandma lives” became my home. Whether it was out of pity for my orphan status or respect for my grandmother, I had no idea I came with a label. It wasn’t until I started high school that my name took on the notorious post-nominal initials.
At first it was only a few whispers. Then one of the older boys came up with the idea to adapt the Styx song “Come Sail Away” to “Come from Away” and took to singing the musical refrain, “Come from away, Come from away, So get away from me,” whenever he was in my vicinity. I was a sullen child who grew into an even more sullen teenager. If I had allowed myself any sense of humour, I likely would have appreciated his cleverness or even recognized that the attention he was paying me was a ruse to get me to notice him rather than the cruel torment I took it to be. I knew the only reason I was on the island was because of an unspeakable loss. I blamed everyone, rejected any offerings of friendship or comfort, and saw to it that my high school years were miserable for all.
Mercifully, but by no means quickly, I outgrew my hatred of the world and everyone in it. But standing at the base of the steps of Niagara-on-the-Lake’s Niagara District Secondary School, known familiarly as NDSS, I could hear the ghosts of my past start in with, “I’ve come from away …” and every fibre in my being told me to run.
“Ms. James?” A male voice called a halt to my escape.
I looked up to see a large man weaving an easy descent against a sea of oncoming students. No small feat given his size. The man was huge in every sense of the word, and when he finally reached me at the foot of the stairs, I had to shield my eyes against the sun to meet his gaze.
“Ms. James?” he asked again.
“Bella. Please.”
“Gerald Harvey,” he said, extending a hand that completely swallowed my own. “I’m the principal here. I’m afraid … um … I understand you were supposed to meet Al Macie.”
“Yes, when I spoke with him on the phone, he said he’d meet me in front of the school.”
Principal Harvey surveyed the students, nodding greetings and offering smiles. He did so with tremendous effort, however. Only an expert in pretending everything is fine when it’s not would be able to pick up on it and unfortunately for him, I was one such expert.
“Mr. Harvey, is everything all right?”
He looked at me and revved up his smile. “Just a busy morning. But know we’re very happy to have you here, Ms. James. Bella. This is a wonderful opportunity for our students,” he said, referring to the pilot project the Shaw Festival was running in cooperation with the school.
In addition to offering world-class theatre, the Festival offered workshops to both teachers and students throughout the school year and an acting intensive during the summer. This season the Festival was trying out an Artist-in-the-Classroom program as a possible extension of its already successful education series. Company members in various disciplines—design, acting, dance, and directing—would work in the classroom alongside a teacher at the school as a means of enhancing the arts program. I’d been paired with Al Macie.
“Mr. Macie told me his students are very excited. I’m looking forward to meeting them,” I said as convincingly as possible.
If truth be told, I had come aboard this project kicking and screaming. I was in no rush to relive any of the high school experience, even if I had some semblance of authority behind me this time. Then there was the question of scheduling. Unlike my previous season at the Festival where I had opened my first show before my second even went into rehearsal, this season had me rehearsing two shows simultaneously. The addition of two mornings every week at the school for an eight-week period had sent me into a full-on panic.
“Yes, the students are thrilled about having Emma Samuel as one of their mentors,” Principal Harvey said.
“I should have guessed,” I said, laughing.
Detective Emma Samuel was a role I’d played on the TV series Port Authority for many years and, in spite of the critical acclaim I had garnered on stage at the Shaw Festival during the previous season, everyone saw Detective Samuel when they looked at me.
An awkward silence fell over us.
“So, shall I wait here for Mr. Macie or—”
“Ms. James, we’ve had a little … um … There’s been … Perhaps you’d just better come with me.”
Chapter 2
“Have a seat,” Gerald Harvey said, ushering me into his office and closing the door.
I settled in one of two chairs facing the desk while he circled around to stand on the other side, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his forehead en route. Although we had been walking quickly and while it was true that the man was likely morbidly obese by definition, I didn’t think the sweat forming on his brow was from overexertion.
“Mr. Harvey,” I began tentatively.
A knock on the door cut me off.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” a tall, slender blonde said, as she poked her head in. She glanced at me and waited for permission to continue in my presence. Gerald Harvey gave a nod and she went on, “The police have arrived. I’ve asked them to wait outside until the bell. I figured the fewer students lingering the better.”
“Yes, absolutely,” Harvey said, bringing the handkerchief into action again as new beads of sweat formed.
“I told them you’d be right out,” she said, sympathetically.
“Thank you, Donna.” The woman made no move to go. “Is there something else?”
“I’ve gone ahead and covered Al’s first class. Cynthia’s taking it.”
Harvey nodded then caught himself. “She’s not—”
“No,” Donna said, anticipating his question. “She’s taking the
m into the cafeteria.”
“Fine. Good.”
My ears pricked up at the mention of “Al,” who I assumed to be Al Macie.
“Do you want me to see if I can find someone to cover the rest of the day?” Donna asked.
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
Donna smiled sadly and made her exit.
Gerald Harvey tucked the handkerchief into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and jammed his hands into the pockets of his pants. His eyes focused on the floor for a few moments before looking to me.
“Ms. James,” he started, “Al Macie committed suicide. Here, at the school. His body was found first thing this morning.”
“Oh my god.”
My mind whirled back to the conversation I’d had with Al earlier in the week. He had talked of his students’ excitement about meeting me and I got the feeling he was using theirs to disguise some of his own. He’d been passionate about his class and enthusiastic about our partnership. I remember thinking right away I was going to like him.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, through my shock.
Harvey nodded his thanks.
“I’m sure we’ll be able to make other arrangements for you, but for the moment …”
“Of course,” I said, standing, fully aware he had already spent more time with me than necessary and was needed elsewhere. A zillion elsewheres, I imagined.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said.
I watched Principal Harvey walk heavily out of his office and out into the main hallway of the school where he stopped to receive some good-natured ribbing from a couple of boys about the loss of some sporting event. I admired how, for even a few minutes more, he was trying to give his students the normal day they had expected when they’d woken up.
I hadn’t paid attention during the walk to Harvey’s office and, as a result, found myself wandering the maze that was the high school looking for an exit. As I passed a series of open lockers, my nostrils twitched against the onslaught of sweaty gym socks, pubescent B.O., and teenage angst. I heard the morning announcements ask students to please clear the hallways, as the police would be conducting random locker searches during the first period. This sent a groan and a few choice words rippling down the corridor. I knew small amounts of marijuana were, at that precise moment, being furiously moved from one hiding place to another to avoid detection, and I suppressed a smile. I also knew if the police were hoping to remove Al Macie’s body discreetly they’d have to come up with something better than a locker search.
As if reading my mind, the voice on the PA system added, “And there will be an assembly in the auditorium during period two. Attendance by all students and staff is mandatory.”
Another groan.
An exit came into view just as the national anthem started to play. I stood dutifully at attention while students fidgeted around me and staff members stared at the floor with glazed eyes. I imagined many of Al Macie’s colleagues had only had a chance to take a few sips of their morning coffees before hearing the news of his death, which alone would have come as a shock. The details of his demise would have made the news particularly hard to digest.
The song was in its final verse when a flutter of the blinds in the window next to where I was standing caught my attention. Through the slats I could see a young female student, visibly shaken, sitting alone in an office. She had a wad of tissues in her hand and an empty Kleenex box in her lap. Her red eyes met mine for a brief moment before a stern looking woman entered the office with tissue reinforcements and clicked the blinds closed. Movement in the hall resumed as the anthem played its final chords and, taking my cue from the students, I inched closer to the exit, anxious to take advantage of the few unexpected free hours that had just opened up in my schedule.
My descent down the steps of the school was met by a wolf whistle. I rolled my eyes in the direction of the sound and was just in time to catch the culprit in the act of removing his fingers from his mouth.
“Does your wife know you go around whistling at women?” I asked a smiling Detective Sergeant Andre Jeffers.
“How do you think I got her attention in the first place?”
Detective Jeffers was one of the six detective sergeants that made up the Homicide division of the Niagara Regional Police’s Major Crime Unit. He was also one of my best friends.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, joining Jeffers across the street from the school where he was waiting along with the team from the coroner’s office and a number of uniformed police officers. Gerald Harvey was among them, speaking into a walkie-talkie. He took little notice of me. There was not a sniffer dog in sight, which would have tipped off any student with the most average of GPAs that the so-called locker search was a crock.
“The principal told me it was a suicide,” I said.
“Any and all dead bodies come to us,” Jeffers said. “You should know that, Samuel. Didn’t they teach you anything on that show?” He winked.
Ever since our meeting, more than a year before, Jeffers had taken to calling me by the name of my TV personality and often assumed because I had played a detective on television, I knew all the ins and outs of the business.
“They taught us locker searches usually have dogs,” I countered.
“Touché.”
“Besides, we never had any suicides on the show,” I said, furthering my defence.
“In seven years?”
I shrugged.
“Shoddy,” Jeffers scoffed.
“I didn’t write it!”
“Anyway,” he said, “the bigger question is, what are you doing here?”
I gave Jeffers the Coles Notes version of what was to have been my collaboration with the victim.
“You knew him?” he asked.
“We’d only talked on the phone.”
“And?”
“Seemed nice enough. Said he and the students were excited to meet me. Told me he had a lot of great stuff planned … I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
Jeffers opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Harvey, who announced he could take the group inside now.
“Have fun,” I said, and turned to go.
“Walk with me,” Jeffers said, falling in step behind two paramedics pushing a gurney.
“What? I can’t!”
“Sure you can. You were supposed to be here anyway. What else have you got to do?”
I rolled my eyes. One of the shows I was rehearsing was a musical—the first musical of my professional career and only the second in my lifetime. I was scared to death. Any spare minute I had was spent reviewing choreography, going through vocal exercises assigned by the singing coach, and doing anything and everything to keep from looking a complete idiot in time for the first audience.
“You don’t know the half. And besides, Inspector Morris—”
Jeffers cut me off with a snicker.
I had first made the acquaintance of Inspector Roger Morris a little over a year ago after an unsanctioned investigation Jeffers and I had been running had become too big for us and we were forced to confess our actions to the man in charge. While Jeffers had been allowed to continue with the case, my involvement had been permitted only after being granted a special dispensation. A dispensation Morris had been very clear to point out was a one-time thing.
In the end, Jeffers had been suspended for five months while waiting out a divisional review of his actions and I had almost died in our efforts to uncover the truth. In spite of the fact that we had successfully closed the case, I doubted Morris would look favourably on another such pairing.
“Let me worry about Morris,” Jeffers said.
“Jeffers, I—”
“Come on,” he said, smiling, “It’ll be fun! It’ll be just like old times.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Al Macie’s body was hanging from one of the pipes that made up the lighting grid i
n a small, studio theatre. A tall stool lay on its side under his feet. I had never seen a hanging victim before and was surprised by how peaceful Mr. Macie looked. If it hadn’t been for the smallest protrusion of a swollen purple tongue, I would not have been surprised to see his hands come up to release the grip the electrical cord had around his neck and proudly begin a lesson in special effects.
He had a nice face, and I thought how well it matched his voice. His dark goatee lent an air of mystery to his otherwise gentle features. There was a warmth about him. Even in death.
The uniforms immediately began securing the room while the coroner’s team began their set up. One of the officers took out a camera and wasted no time photographing the scene. By the time Jeffers had properly donned his plastic gloves and booties, the officer had finished taking preliminaries of the body and had ordered a ladder brought in so he could turn his attention to the makeshift noose.
I refused Jeffers’ offer of plastic gloves and chose to remain firmly in the doorway of the room. I didn’t know what Jedi mind trick he was planning to use on Morris to explain my presence at the scene, so I wanted to stay as far away from the action as possible. Gerald Harvey stood next to me systematically dabbing his forehead, checking his watch, and looking nervously up and down the empty hallway.
“Detective Jeffers said you’ve worked with the police before?” Harvey asked. “Was it Victim Services or something?”
“Something like that, yes,” I said, understanding why the principal didn’t seem to question my being there.
I’d worked with Jeffers closely enough to know I was not there because of my charming disposition and sense of humour. Jeffers hoped I’d be able to learn something about the victim by talking to Harvey. People don’t like talking to the police if they can help it. They tend to divulge more than they realize when they believe the conversation isn’t an official one.
“Mr. Harvey, did Al Macie ever—”
My question was interrupted by the voice of the coroner. “I need everyone to stop moving right now!” she said. “Detective Jeffers, if you’ll join me?”
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