The Serenity Stone Murder

by Marianne Jones

  The

  Serenity

  Stone

  Murder

  Marianne

  Jones

  Split Tree Publishing

  Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada

  Copyright © 2014 Marianne Jones

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Split Tree Publishing Inc.

  Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada

  www.splittreepublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are either products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-928086-17-8

  Kindle Edition

  Cover art by Tracy Barry

  https://www.facebook.com/art.by.tracybarry

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  About the Author

  To Karen and Kirsti, my partners in crime.

  Chapter One

  Vince breathed heavily in Margaret’s ear. She tried to shift away, but the car was too small. He moved closer, eager and hungry. The hair on the back of her neck rose. When he licked her ear, she couldn’t restrain herself any longer.

  “Vincent, would you stop panting in my ear? Your breath is terrible!” she barked.

  “I think he’s hungry,” Louise said. “Reach into my bag. There’s a box of Cracker Jacks in there somewhere.”

  Margaret stared at her friend, who was concentrating on the road, preparing to pass the transport ahead.

  “You’re joking, right? Cracker Jacks?”

  “He doesn’t like dog biscuits. I can’t say I blame him. Have you ever tasted one?”

  “I’m happy to say I haven’t.”

  “They’re completely tasteless. No wonder he won’t touch them.”

  Margaret opened the box of Cracker Jacks and began feeding them to the small blond Lhasa Apso, who snorted them up greedily. She thought of several comments she might make, but limited herself to saying, “I still don’t know why we’re taking a dog along on a women’s retreat. He’s not even the right gender.”

  Louise gunned the motor, and the little blue Mazda sped up the passing lane, past the transport that was labouring to climb the hill.

  “Yes, you do. Eileen Delvecchio got the flu, and it was too late to find another sitter. Besides, she’s the only person he’ll stay with when I’m away.”

  You mean the only person who will stay with him, Margaret thought, saying aloud, “There’s a great kennel outside of Thunder Bay—”

  “I couldn’t leave Vince in a kennel!” Louise burst out, her brown eyes wide with horror at the thought. “What would he think, being left with strangers? And with all those other dogs? He’d never forgive me.”

  That was probably true. Margaret suspected that any animal, as spoiled as Vincent, would hold a grudge forever.

  “Here’s Nipigon,” Louise announced. “Anyone need a fluid adjustment break?”

  “I’m sure Vince does, and I could use a coffee,” Margaret said, flipping down the passenger mirror for a quick inspection. Her short hair, still auburn (with assistance), was reasonably tidy, and the light touch of makeup she had applied that morning was holding up. She tried to fluff her hair with her fingers, the way her hairdresser had demonstrated, but saw no detectable difference.

  Louise was, as always, immaculate, wearing a new plum velour workout suit, her dark hair perfectly coiffed and makeup carefully applied.

  They pulled up to the gas station and climbed stiffly out of the car. Vince promptly decorated the rear tire.

  “Okay, boy, you’ve made your point. Back in you go,” Louise said, hoisting him back inside.

  Margaret paused to stretch her back and admire the view. It had been a wet summer, and the trees covering the rock cuts along the highway were lush and green, reminding Margaret of thick verdant eyelashes. Her painter’s eye was frequently given to making such odd connections. She loved the transformations that came with seasonal change, from the early spring-green budding leaves in May through to the stark charcoal and white drama of winter.

  She followed her friend into the truck stop, past a postcard display showing, not only the usual photographs of moose and bears, but also cartoon drawings of giant mosquitos bearing the caption, “Ontario’s Provincial Bird.” The two women sat at a table covered with laminated placemats depicting even more images of Lake Superior, the Sleeping Giant, and the Terry Fox Monument.

  “Why don’t you try to sell your photographs, Louise?” Margaret asked. “You’ve got some beautiful, scenic shots of the area.”

  Louise smiled and shook her head.

  “There’s too much competition in that department. There must be a zillion pictures of the North Shore, with all of the gorgeous scenery around here. Besides, I just like doing my own thing.”

  “Can I get you ladies anything?” A young, perky waitress, coffee carafe in hand, appeared.

  “Just coffee for me,” Margaret said.

  Louise requested green tea and, as the waitress left, Louise told Margaret, “Green tea is supposed to help you lose weight. Besides, it’s full of antioxidants. I’m trying to eat healthier.”

  “I take it Vince isn’t,” Margaret said, thinking of the Cracker Jacks.

  “Oh, it’s not fair to deprive Vince of his treats just because I’m on a health kick!”

  Margaret made a sound halfway between a “hmm” and a “hmmph,” but refrained from further comment. There was only so much she could get away with around Louise, and Vincent was a sensitive subject. Margaret often had to remind herself that Louise had never married, nor had children, so she was inclined to regard Vince almost as if he were a human family member.

  The waitress returned with their beverages. Stirring cream into her coffee, Margaret moved the subject away from her friend’s pet.

  “It’s such a relief to get away from Jackpine for a few days with all the arguing the town council is doing.”

  “Isn’t that the truth? This has been the silliest debate since their discussion about changing the little league hockey team’s colours. Although it’s finally given the editor of the Jabber something to print besides those boring columns listing who’s had visitors from out of town and whose vegetable gardens are doing well.”

  The Jackpine Journal, referred to by the locals as the Jackpine Jabber, or The Jabber for short, had been keeping its readers current with the town’s hottest topic of the pas
t two years—which mascot to adopt to represent the town.

  The project was the brainchild of Jackie Vezina, restaurateur and Jackpine’s newest town councillor, who’d hoped that successfully spearheading the mascot campaign would catapult her first into the popular public eye and then into the reeve’s chair at the next election. She had pointed out that almost all the towns in Northwestern Ontario had unique statues prominently displayed along their stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway—Wawa had the Goose, Kenora had Husky the Musky, Beardmore had a Snowman, and Upsala had a giant Mosquito. “Where is Jackpine’s identifying marker?” Jackie had challenged the council. She had then put forth the suggestion that a wolf would be a very suitable mascot for the township’s rugged citizens.

  Mike Tortelli, the current reeve (a role similar to a mayor in larger towns), had initially dismissed the project, saying that it would be a waste of the township’s funds. His longevity in town politics thus far had largely been due to his propensity to use this response to almost every proposal—the only exceptions being those concerning junior hockey. However, when he saw that Jackie’s idea was rapidly gaining support among the locals, he performed a quick about-face, claiming that a beaver would be a much more appropriate representative of the industrious citizens of Jackpine.

  This tactic had rapidly divided the town council into two factions: the wolf proponents, who saw Jackie as a visionary, leading Jackpine forward to its destiny; and the stolid beaver camp, who remained loyal to Mike. The debate had captured the town’s citizen’s imaginations as well, and new ideas were added into the mix on a daily basis.

  “How about a porcupine,” some suggested. Others suggested that a jackpine would better fit with the town’s name. One letter to the editor, signed by several residents who’d had recent run-ins with council, suggested a skunk might be a more accurate representative of the town’s current leadership.

  There was strong support for the jackpine idea, although some thought that a giant cast-iron tree in a countryside containing thousands of acres of the real thing would look ridiculously redundant.

  Gazing out the restaurant window at the tree-lined hills, Margaret had to agree with the latter opinion.

  “It’s certainly been a positive political move for Jackie, anyway,” she commented. “Maybe it would be good to have a female reeve. Bring Jackpine into the twenty-first century.”

  “We’re supposed to be getting away from it all, remember? Let’s forget about Jackpine for a few days.” Louise searched inside her denim-quilted carry-all and fished out the brochure for the upcoming retreat.

  The pamphlet read “The Spiritual Path to Creativity” in bold, fuchsia calligraphy. Opening it, Louise glanced again at the retreat description:

  For women who want to discover the goddess within. An interactive weekend spent exploring the spirit-creative connection: for musicians, poets, visual artists and any woman interested in searching deeper for their creative source of inspiration. Retreat leader Dr. Ellen Bradshaw-Cooke, is a certified Creative Mentor with a PhD in Spiritual Psychology. Through a combination of lectures, music, sharing, and guided play, she will lead workshop participants to connect intimately with their inner voices and each other.

  “It sounds intriguing, doesn’t it?” Louise said.

  “It’s the part about connecting intimately with each other that I wonder about,” said Margaret. “Just how intimate a connection does she have in mind? If we’re instructed to start shedding any clothes, I’m out of there.”

  Louise gave her an I-give-up look and shook her head. She had learned over the years to ignore Margaret’s remarks. She knew that, like Vincent, Margaret would growl a lot, but when it came down to it, both the woman and the dog would sooner miss a meal than be left out of anything.

  Not particularly intrigued by the retreat itself, Margaret had a secret motive for accompanying Louise on this trip. As the newly-elected president of the Jackpine Art Club, she was hoping to surprise the members with a jaw-dropping feat. She planned to track down Tom Derosier, the award-winning wildlife artist, and then beg, bribe, or kidnap him to teach a workshop or course during the upcoming winter. The club had some savings that weren’t already designated. What better use could there be for them than to bring in an artist of Tom’s calibre to provide an instructional workshop? Not to mention the fact that he was Margaret’s personal hero. The success of his work, and his own activism on behalf of ecological causes, had earned him an hour-long documentary on TVO.

  According to the documentary, which Margaret had recorded and watched numerous times, Tom was often in the habit of spending his summers painting at his winterized camp outside Thunder Bay, or taking his paints with him on long canoe trips to remote locations. However, he had an upcoming show at the North Shore Art Gallery in early September, so Margaret was betting he would have already returned from his latest expedition. She couldn’t be positive, since he was something of a recluse and hard to reach. He had a telephone, but no answering machine, and lived alone. Still, she intended to track him down if humanly possible.

  “You need to open yourself up to new experiences.” Louise broke in on Margaret’s thoughts, bringing her back to the topic at hand.

  “I’m here, aren’t I? The really important question is: does this hotel we’re staying at have a pool?”

  “It’s got everything, even Jacuzzis in the rooms.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Margaret brightened up in anticipation. Soaking in a warm Jacuzzi was just what the kink in her shoulders needed. Accompanying her best friend to this silly retreat was really a small price to pay for a stay in the city in a beautiful hotel with all the amenities. Plus, she was planning to do a little shopping and take in a concert at the Thunder Bay Community Auditorium. Their symphony was performing an all-Mozart program on Sunday evening. Louise enjoyed classical music about as much as Margaret liked retreats, but they had both agreed to graciously compromise.

  Their friendship had developed five years ago, when Margaret had moved from St. Catharines to Jackpine with her husband Neil Brodie, a mining geologist. While her husband’s work kept him busy travelling for the Cambrian Mining Company inspecting core samples, Margaret had occupied herself by joining the Jackpine Mixed Media Art Club, finally having a reason to pick up her paint brushes after a twenty-year hiatus. It was at the art club that she met Louise, a self-taught photographer and retired schoolteacher. They had hit it off immediately. After Neil’s untimely death two years ago in a terrible highway traffic accident, Margaret considered moving away from the small town, but she had never quite gotten around to it. The real estate market was different in small towns like Jackpine, and housing was more expensive everywhere else. Margaret had a married daughter living in Phoenix, who kept urging her to move there.

  “You’re still reasonably attractive, Mom, but you’re not getting any younger,” Nicole frequently reminded her. “How are you going to find someone up there in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Gee, thanks, honey. Don’t go giving me a swelled head. I didn’t know I was looking for anybody.”

  She heard the impatience in Nicole’s voice over the telephone wires.

  “Come on, Mom. It made sense to move to the frozen north while Dad was alive. But what’s keeping you there now?”

  “Well, I’m not quite ready to move away from Jackpine.”

  What Nicole didn’t understand was that, from Margaret’s perspective, there were worse things than living in a relatively unspoiled part of the world. In Jackpine she could spend her days sketching and painting around the shoreline of Lake Superior, hiking and sightseeing with friends, and still visit her daughter in Phoenix to escape the most brutally cold part of early January. Neil’s absence continued to be a daily, unspoken, ache, but it was an ache she would continue to feel no matter where she was living.

  “Time to hit the road?” Louise’s voice brought her back to the present. “The sooner we go, the sooner we can get into that Jacuzzi.”

 
An hour later they pulled into the parking lot of the two month-old H arbourview Inn, a luxury high-rise hotel overlooking the marina, with a wide-angle view of a picturesque old lighthouse and stone breakwater that protected the city from the enormous waters of Lake Superior.

  “Isn’t it great?” asked Louise. “This is going to be fun.”

  “I’m impressed,” Margaret admitted. “I can almost feel those hot jets already.”

  They unloaded their luggage, one bag apiece, and Louise scooped Vince up in one arm, using her other hand to tow her suitcase behind her.

  As they walked into the spacious lobby, they tried to hide their delight at the luxurious surroundings, but failed miserably.

  Walking up to the reception desk, Louise purred to the concierge, “We have a reservation under the name Gagnon.”

  The young woman checked her computer.

  “Yes, Ms. Gagnon, we have a reservation for two on the third floor.”

  “That’s a non-smoking floor?”

  “Yes, it is, Ms. Gagnon, but will you be boarding your dog?”

  “My dog? Oh no. Vince and I travel together. But don’t worry, I will keep him leashed, although it’s really not necessary, and I packed his own cushion for him to sleep on.”

  The young clerk looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Ms. Gagnon, the Harbourview doesn’t allow animal companions. However, we’d be happy to call and arrange a good boarding kennel—”

  “No. No, that’s not possible. Vince is very quiet and well-behaved. I take him with me everywhere. He’s really no bother to anyone.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Gagnon, it’s hotel policy.”

  “But we have reservations!” Louise bleated, her round face looking so bewildered that Margaret would have felt sorry for her if she weren’t so furious. Her Jacuzzi was fading like a beautiful dream.

  “For two humans, Louise,” she said. “You didn’t say anything about dogs.”