The Serenity Stone Murder

by Marianne Jones

  “The pitches are too close. Try a bit more water in that second jar.”

  Louise tapped them again.

  “Now they’re too far apart. Pour a bit back. We need them to be a tone apart.”

  “Sheila Summers says she saw the police talking to a woman in the parking lot this morning.”

  “Maybe his wife or his sister, or his girlfriend, even.”

  “Eina!” protested Louise.

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly a huge secret. For that matter, some people are of the opinion there were more than one of those.”

  “Eina, you’re a veritable fountain of information,” Margaret said, shaking her head in amusement.

  “I hear things,” Eina said evenly, shrugging. “Try that one again, Louise. Yes, that sounds good. Keep going with the water, Margaret.”

  “I didn’t know he had a sister,” Lana said.

  “Yes. Connie Whalen. She owns a local coffee shop, The Global Village. The rumour is that she’s planning to move to that fancy new Harbourview Inn. Pretty upscale place for her kind of ambience, but then, you never know. People can enjoy their luxuries and feel virtuous at the same time.”

  “That’s an unusual name for a coffee shop,” Louise remarked.

  “It’s actually a great idea. She deals exclusively with fair-trade coffees from around the world, hence the name. Her coffees are more expensive, you’d expect that, but they’re wonderful, and she goes for an international theme: wicker-and-rush furniture with woven mats, posters of Third World—excuse me, developing nations—on the walls, napkins made of recycled unbleached paper. That kind of thing. I hear she’s starting to carry some jewellery and crafts from the same countries—you know, from those projects to help women achieve self-sufficiency.”

  “It’s a great place,” Lana said. “The Five Mile Club meets there every Friday morning after their walk.”

  “The Five Mile Club?” Louise asked.

  “A group of women from our church. We’ve mapped out a five-mile course to walk along the waterfront.”

  “That’s a pretty ambitious walk. I keep telling myself I should be walking more. But I was thinking along the lines of five blocks, not five miles.” Louise looked impressed.

  “You’d be surprised,” said Eina. “It’s not so bad once you get into it, especially when you have company. It’s a growing group. Even some of the older gals have joined us. Our organist, for example. She’s in her mid-sixties, but she’s in surprisingly good shape. Besides power-walking she also lifts weights at the gym. Most of us haven’t gotten that far yet, but we enjoy the walking and talking. Plus, we have the added incentive that we reward ourselves afterward with coffee and scones at The Global Village. It always has the coolest music: Femi Kuti, The Buena Vista Social Club . . .”

  Margaret and Louise nodded, trying to look as though they knew what kind of music Eina was talking about.

  “I’ll take you there if you’re going to be around after the weekend,” Eina suggested. “There won’t be many more opportunities. She’s getting ready to relocate into that new space at the Harbourview. There,” she took the spoon from Louise and tapped the eight jars in sequence. “What do you think? Sound like a scale?”

  “Close enough, although with all the racket in the room it’s hard to tell,” Margaret said, referring to the cacophony of clinking glass coming from all the other groups.

  “No, I think we’ve got it. Lana, you haven’t had a chance to do anything yet. Why don’t you play a tune?”

  “What tune?” Lana picked up the spoon readily enough, but then paused.

  “Something without accidentals.”

  “Without what?”

  “Sharps or flats. We didn’t make any sharps or flats. Let’s see, what does that give us?”

  “The Old Grey Mare?” Margaret suggested.

  “Something simple. How about Mary Had a Little Lamb?” suggested Louise.

  “No, I think we can do better than that. What about Ode to Joy?”

  “I don’t know that one.”

  “Sure you do. Just think of the hymn . . . Joyful, joyful we adore thee.”

  With the three others humming encouragingly, Lana began to tap out the melody. They made good progress until the line, “rive the dark of doubt away.”

  “It doesn’t go that low,” Lana protested. “We need some more jars.”

  “No, we’ll cheat. We’ll just duplicate the low note in the higher octave. Go up instead of down. It’ll work,” Eina said.

  Lana tapped obediently, and the three applauded and sang the last two lines together. “Giver of immortal gladness/ Fill us with the light of day.”

  “Now, as an alternative to the hand-bell choir we can have a mason jar choir,” Margaret said wryly.

  “Oh hush,” said Louise. “It was an interesting activity.”

  “That’s true. I haven’t done anything like that since—oh, since Grade Six.”

  “Okay, ladies, time’s up. How are we doing?” Dr. Ellen’s voice rose above the sounds of clinking glass like an emcee at a wedding reception.

  “This is where she tells us about the connection between music and spirituality,” muttered Margaret.

  “Music is one of the sacred paths to our inner spirit,” Dr. Ellen said. “Some say it is the most direct path, bypassing the intellect, and going straight for the heart. That’s why music is often called the universal language. It’s also why music is used as part of the ritual adopted by every religious and spiritual philosophy to connect with the Divine Presence.”

  As she continued, Margaret rolled her eyes. “Somewhere along the way, many of us shut down that part of ourselves. Perhaps some of you in this room can remember being laughed at for singing off-key. Or maybe someone here was pressured into music competitions by overly zealous music teachers.”

  “Excuse me,” muttered Eina under her breath.

  “Music is not about competing, it’s about life,” said Dr. Ellen, waving her arms for emphasis. “We need to reconnect with the spirit of life that is within us. I’m going to lead you in an exercise now that will help release the music you harbour inside. Even if you’ve never thought of yourself as musical, even if you’ve been told you couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, I want you to try. Forget all those hurtful messages and enter into this exercise with us. We’re each going to stand now and find a space where we have a little room.”

  “That’s right, find a space that’s all your own,” she encouraged as the participants shuffled away from the tables to a more open part of the room.

  “That space is your own room. You’re all alone in your private room. Close your eyes and stand comfortably. That’s excellent. Drop your heads forward and relax. Relax your jaws. Breathe gently in and out, listening to your breath. Unlock your knees and rock gently from side to side.”

  Margaret, determined not to repeat the previous evening’s experience, had been following instructions up until that point, when her knees defiantly locked. Her eyes flew open. Dr. Ellen’s voice continued.

  “We’re going to start by chanting some affirmations. Chanting is the most basic form of singing, and you don’t have to worry about being in tune. Let’s try repeating together: I set myself free. I set myself free. I set myself free.”

  Self-consciously, some of the group began the chant. Dr. Ellen interrupted.

  “Say it with conviction! You are goddesses. Give yourselves permission to be free—free to create and speak out.”

  The chant picked up in strength and volume. Margaret began to edge toward the door.

  “Margaret? Is something wrong?” Dr. Ellen asked.

  “No, I—need a smoke,” Margaret stammered and hurried up the stairs.

  Outside was a glorious August mid-morning—far too beautiful to be wasted indoors, Margaret decided. She’d had enough of this retreat and more than enough of Dr. Ellen. She had the beginnings of a caffeine-deprivation headache and was dying for that Tim Horton’s run Eina had promised yesterday.<
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  She strolled along the path through the garden, finally stopping to sit on the bench she had shared with Louise and Eina the day before. A squirrel, perched high in a neighbour’s tree, protested her presence loudly. Restless, Margaret got up again, and continued around the circular path, bending occasionally to sniff the roses or rub a leaf of woolly lambs ear between her fingers. A glint of metal under the lambs ear caught her eye. She picked the object up and studied it for a moment. It was a tiny piece of fine copper wire, twisted into a spiral. She held it up to the light to admire its shape, not sure what it was, then absently dropped it in the pocket of her cardigan.

  Straightening up, she surveyed the garden, thinking of how it would make a beautiful subject for a painting. That brought her thoughts over to Tom Derosier and she wondered if her time wouldn’t be better spent hunting him down than chanting and tapping mason jars.

  At that moment the back door of the church opened and Louise came storming out, puffed up like an indignant partridge.

  “You too?” Margaret asked in surprise.

  “It’s break time. Honestly, Margaret, what is the matter with you? A smoke break? Who do you think you were fooling with that?”

  “What’s the matter with me? Nothing! That’s why I’m not in there chanting and dancing around toadstools like some druid. The question is, what’s the matter with her?”

  “Dr. Bradshaw-Cooke is a very educated woman. She has a doctorate degree . . .”

  “That she probably got off the Internet!”

  Louise looked about ready to burst.

  “Margaret, I’m sorry to say this, but I’ve run out of patience.”

  “That makes two of us. You stay if you like. I’m moving into a room at the Harbourview and I’m going to salvage what’s left of this week.”

  “Fine with me.” Louise tried to sound as sincere as possible. In reality, she was red-faced and close to tears as she turned and marched back inside without another word.

  Well. That was that. Margaret hesitated a moment, then steeling herself, she headed to the door. Just as she reached it, it flew open, almost hitting her as Eina rushed out.

  “Margaret? Is Louise okay? She just headed for the ladies’ room, looking upset.”

  “We had a difference of opinion. She’ll be alright. But I’m glad you’re here. Could I trouble you for a ride?”

  Eina didn’t ask any questions on the drive over to Bubbles, although she kept glancing over in Margaret’s direction. Margaret knew Eina was dying to know what the argument had been about, but she said nothing. When they got to Bubbles, Eina insisted on coming up to the room with Margaret “to help with the luggage,” although Margaret had only one suitcase. It was obvious Eina was curious to get a peek inside the room.

  “Wow. Did you really sleep here?” she said, looking around greedily for something that would make a good story later.

  “If you can call it sleep. Between the tap dripping and Vince snoring and the noise from the bar I probably got three hours’ worth. I am looking forward to Jacuzzi heaven right now, let me tell you!”

  Eina left the room reluctantly. Vince was curled up in the hollow of the sagging mattress, wagging his tail and snuffling as they left.

  The Jacuzzi in Margaret’s room at the Harbourview didn’t feel quite as luxurious as she had hoped. As the water bubbled quietly around her, she kept wondering what Louise was doing. She wondered if she should give her friend a call and make peace.

  “No way,” she muttered, sliding deeper into the fragrant bubbles. She’d had enough of Louise’s hare-brained schemes. Some time apart would do them both good. Maybe, with any luck, Louise would come to her senses. In the meantime, Margaret could have fun doing what she wanted.

  First on her list would be a long, lovely nap in the king-sized bed. Then she would do a little shopping before dinner. She needed a few art supplies, and wanted to find something special for Nicole’s birthday. Then, if time permitted, she’d visit the art gallery to see if they could put her in touch with Tom Derosier.

  Warmed and relaxed by her soak in the tub, Margaret slept most of the afternoon away. When she opened her eyes at last, the bedside clock radio blinked 3:45 in red. The stores would close around five and the art gallery probably earlier. If she were quick, she could still squeeze in a few minutes to look for a birthday gift.

  Twenty minutes later, feeling refreshed by her nap, she was dressed, combed and tidied, and walking briskly downtown. The breeze off Lake Superior felt and smelled delicious. A half-dozen white sailboats skimmed the waves in the harbour.

  She passed a women’s clothing store, a kitchen boutique, and a high-end tableware shop. Nicole had specific tastes, and Margaret knew better than to try to figure them out. She kept walking until she came to a jeweller’s shop on the corner. Nicole loved jewellery, and Margaret figured she couldn’t go wrong with a simple bracelet or gold chain.

  The man behind the counter was occupied with a customer, so Margaret was able to take her time looking at the display. She wasn’t trying to snoop, but when she heard the clerk say, “That one is ninety-five hundred,” in a casual, well-modulated voice, she couldn’t help sneaking a peek at the attractive blonde woman in the impeccably fitted white pantsuit, designer handbag slung over her arm.

  “Fine. I’ll wear it out,” was the woman’s response. She took the emerald ring from the clerk’s hand and slipped it onto her French-manicured finger.

  Margaret’s interest was really piqued now. The woman was buying a $10,000 ring as if she were picking out a pastry in a bakery shop. Unsmiling, the woman finished the transaction and left the shop abruptly, ignoring the clerk’s pleasantries.

  Suddenly, the dainty silver bracelet Margaret had been contemplating for Nicole didn’t seem so interesting. Backing out of the store, mumbling, “No thanks, just looking,” to the clerk, who appeared eager for another big sale, she stepped outside just in time to see the woman climb into a yellow Miata convertible and drive away.

  The clock above the old bank building read 4:50. There wasn’t much point shopping any more today. There would be plenty of time tomorrow.

  What is Louise doing right now? Dr. Ellen probably had them all quacking like ducks at this moment. Margaret revelled in her freedom, but felt a twinge of loneliness at the same time. As she arrived outside her hotel she decided to order up room service instead of going out for dinner—just in case anyone tried to reach her.

  When she got to her room, the message light on the phone was stubbornly unlit. Telling herself she wasn’t disappointed, she called room service and ordered up a six-ounce sirloin, medium rare, with a Caesar salad and a carafe of red wine. While she waited for her food to arrive, she propped herself up on the giant-sized pillows and turned on the television, but was disappointed to find nothing more interesting to watch than The Shopping Channel, Days of Our Lives, Passions, Oprah, Dr. Phil, or a golf tournament. She clicked it off and turned to the complimentary newspaper. Doug Whalen’s murder featured prominently as the headline. Glancing through the article, Margaret followed to the continuation on page two, where she spotted a photograph that made her sit upright. The picture featured two women in the casino parking lot, one stone-faced, the other in tears, with a crowd in the background. Underneath the picture the caption read, “The victim’s wife and sister react to the news.”

  The victim’s wife was the customer she had seen in the jeweller’s shop. What on earth was she doing buying jewellery the day of her husband’s murder? Well, some people had peculiar ways of reacting to shock and grief. Still, the woman in the store hadn’t seemed unduly upset. Margaret remembered Eina’s remark about a girlfriend. Maybe there was no love lost between Doug Whalen and his wife.

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Her supper arrived on a trolley with a bud vase holding a sweetheart rose. Margaret was impressed. It was a shame Louise couldn’t be enjoying this with her. If only Louise hadn’t been so stubborn about Vince. Her loss. Still . . .

>   As soon as the young man had departed, tip in hand, Margaret poured herself a glass of wine, and toasted herself in the mirror.

  “To the good life,” she said.

  She dove into her excellent dinner with gusto. The steak was melt-in-her-mouth tender. As she savoured each mouthful, she thought about the coming day.

  “I need a plan,” she said aloud.

  First thing in the morning, she wanted to try out the hotel pool. Later, she’d take a cab to the art gallery and start her hunt for Tom in earnest. After that, she could resume her aborted search for a birthday gift. After dinner, the symphony and Mozart. Sounded like a perfect day.

  That’s what she kept telling herself.

  Chapter Four

  At 7:00 a.m. the sound of city buses wheezing and the machine-gun repetitions of jackhammers outside her window finally drove Margaret to give up any pretence of sleeping. She tossed the tastefully striped coverlet aside and rolled to her feet with a disgusted grunt.

  After padding over to the tiny coffee machine, equipped with complimentary packets of both real and decaf coffee, she took the carafe to the bathroom to fill it. As the water ran, she squinted at herself in the mirror.

  “You look like a truck ran over you,” she told her reflection.

  Her reflection gave her a dirty look.

  “I should never have had that nap yesterday,” she muttered as she waited for the coffee machine to hurry up and finish brewing. Tossing and turning all night in a king-sized bed in a quiet room was more comfortable than being kept awake by Vince’s snoring and the throbbing boom of the speakers at Bubbles, but she felt just as exhausted. And a lot lonelier. She was beginning to miss the sound of Vince’s snuffling.

  She pulled aside enough of the drape to see the city workers in hard hats and coveralls working on a water main below. The streets were wrapped in an early-morning mist, but the horizon shimmered with the promise of a beautiful day.

  She snuggled back under the covers with her coffee and devotional book.

  “Therefore, if you are standing before the altar with your gift and you remember that your brother has anything against you, leave your gift at the altar. Go and be reconciled to your brother first and then come and present your gift.”