The Serenity Stone Murder

by Marianne Jones

  She snapped the book shut and tossed it into the bedside table drawer.

  “It’s not my fault!” she said. “I couldn’t stay at that silly conference any longer. And if Louise wasn’t so bone headed about Vince, we could be enjoying this room together.”

  She got up again, pulled on sweats and sneakers, and grabbed her bathing suit out of the dresser. Draining her coffee cup, Margaret pocketed her room key and headed out toward the elevator.

  As the elevator doors opened to the second floor, Margaret inhaled the smell of chlorine that announced the proximity of the pool. She followed the arrows to the change room, quickly squeezed into her suit, careful to avoid the mirrors, and walked into the pool room. Beyond the pool, behind a large glass wall, was a room filled with exercise equipment. Several athletic-looking men and one young woman were running on treadmills while listening to their iPods.

  The pool was empty except for one man who was swimming lengths like he meant business. There was still plenty of room for her on the opposite side. Testing the water with one toe, she braced herself and dove in.

  After ten minutes of breast stroke, she and her determined neighbour were joined by a heavy-set woman in a burgundy swimsuit, sporting hair to match. The new arrival began to perform aquatics exercises by the side of the pool while Margaret and the man continued their lengths.

  After half an hour had passed—thirty lengths, by Margaret’s counting—the man climbed out of the pool, and headed for the men’s sauna and change room. Margaret swam a few more lengths alone, then decided it was time for the hot tub. She had just settled in the steamy water when the burgundy-suited lady plopped down in the water beside her. Margaret noticed that the woman’s finger and toenails were the same colour as her bathing suit and hair.

  “This is a great hotel, isn’t it?” she gushed to Margaret. “Have you been to the dining room yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Oh, you’ve got to try it. Their Thai food is to die for.”

  “I’ve never tried it,” Margaret tried to show that she was trying to relax by closing her eyes and resting the back of her head on the edge of the hot tub, but the woman continued, oblivious.

  “Never tried Thai? Oh, it’s incredible. Just don’t order the dishes with three peppers beside them on the menu. They’ll blister the roof of your mouth.”

  “I’ll remember that. Are you here on business?” Margaret asked, deciding that the woman was likely just lonely and she might as well attempt to be sociable.

  “Vacation. We’re from Minnesota. My husband and I came up to try out the new casino. We got more excitement than we expected. Isn’t that something, about the casino manager?”

  Now Margaret didn’t have to pretend to be interested in the conversation. “Yes, it really is.”

  “I heard that he had made a lot of enemies in the business community.”

  “Really? You heard that all the way from Minnesota?”

  “Oh no. But we have friends here in the city. We had drinks with them last night, and they were telling us about some of the dealings that Mr. Whalen had in town. It’s not surprising somebody would want to see the end of him, if you know what I mean.”

  Margaret wrestled with her conscience about promoting idle gossip for a moment and lost. She needed a diversion from thinking about her quarrel with Louise.

  “A lot of people make enemies in business,” she said carefully. “Killing somebody over it seems a bit extreme.”

  That was all the encouragement her companion needed.

  “Not this guy,” she said, leaning forward confidentially. “He made enemies of the wrong people, if you know what I mean.”

  “Obviously he made an enemy of the wrong person somewhere,” Margaret said wryly.

  Her irony was lost on her hot tub companion.

  “There are some groups you just don’t cross,” the other woman said, raising her eyebrows meaningfully at Margaret.

  The door to the change room opened at that moment, and two little girls, about five or six years old, burst through, followed by a frazzled-looking woman saying, “Don’t run, girls. Walk.” They scrambled into the hot pool between Margaret and the burgundy lady, making any further conversation difficult. The burgundy-clad woman looked annoyed, whether at the interruption of juicy gossip or the rowdiness of the children, Margaret couldn’t tell.

  “That’s it for me,” the woman finally said, clambering out. “I’m off to check out the mall. Spend some of our money before my husband loses it all at the craps tables tonight.” She gave a little wave goodbye as she marched off toward the change room. Margaret sat in the swirling water with the two giggling girls and their apologetic mother, lost in thought. Could it possibly be true, what the burgundy lady had implied, that Doug Whalen had an association with organized crime? Or was that just the kind of silly gossip people liked to entertain themselves with, especially in a place where they seldom had such big-city excitement to talk about?

  If it were true, the circle of suspects was growing wide enough to keep the police busy for a long time.

  Shaking off her reverie, Margaret returned to the pool and did a few more lengths before showering off and returning to her room. She couldn’t help checking the phone to see if the message light was on. No such luck. It wasn’t like Louise to be this stubborn. Well, two could play at that game.

  She took her time getting dressed, then went downstairs and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. She told herself she could savour the luxury of not rushing; she wasn’t really trying to stretch activities out to fill the lonely hours without Louise.

  By 10:00 a.m., breakfast had been consumed and her teeth had been brushed, and Margaret couldn’t stall any longer. As she waited in front of the hotel for her cab, she anxiously checked herself out in the mirrored-glass doors. She was so close to finally contacting her hero, and she was excited and nervous. In snug black jeans and her favourite red sweater, she hoped that she looked conservative, but with an artistic flair. What she really hoped was that she didn’t look as though she were trying too hard. She wanted to look like someone Tom Derosier would take seriously, whatever that might look like.

  Part of Margaret wondered why Tom Derosier would ever want to go all the way to Jackpine. What possible interest could he have in a little art club based so far north? But she steeled herself against the negative voices in her head, reminding herself that nothing ventured equalled nothing gained, as she climbed into the cab.

  The North Shore Art Gallery, like most art galleries, was filled with the reverent hush of a cathedral. A vibrant display of aboriginal art, in bright oranges, yellows and blues greeted Margaret as she entered. Still, the near emptiness and subdued lighting of the building reminded Margaret of a tomb every time she came here.

  “Welcome to the gallery,” a young aboriginal woman behind the desk said. “We’re just getting ready for our fall showing, but you’re welcome to check out the gift shop.”

  “Actually, I’m here about the fall show, or I should say, the artist,” Margaret said.

  “Tom Derosier? Yes, he’s one of our most popular artists. His show always draws a lot of visitors.”

  “I know. I’m a big fan. What I was wondering, or hoping was that I might be able to get in touch with him. I’m only in town for a few days, and I’d really like to be able to talk to him while I’m here.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m just a volunteer here. Let me ask the curator.” The girl zipped out from behind the glass counter, disappearing down a hallway. A few minutes later she returned, followed by a young man who didn’t look a day over thirty.

  “Hi. I’m Garth MacLeod. I’m the curator here. You’re interested in meeting with Tom Derosier?” he asked, offering a hand for Margaret to shake.

  “Yes. I’m Margaret Brodie. I didn’t know any other way to track him down. He’s not listed in the phone book.”

  “Yes, Tom does guard his privacy. There will be an opportunity for the public to meet him in Septemb
er when his show opens. The gallery will be hosting a reception—”

  “I’m afraid I’ll miss that event,” Margaret said. “I live in Jackpine, and I’m only in town for this week. I guess I was really hoping for some way to get in touch with him.”

  Garth looked sympathetic. “I wish I could be of some help. The fact is that Tom isn’t even in town at the moment. As far as I know, he’s at his cabin working. He doesn’t have a telephone there, or a cell phone. When he’s working, he’s pretty determined not to be interrupted.”

  “Oh. I see.” Margaret’s shoulders sagged. Of course, coming here had been a long shot.

  “Are you a relative or a business associate?” Garth asked. “Is there some emergency or something urgent Tom should know about?”

  “No, something urgent, but only to me,” Margaret said. “Thank you anyway.” She stepped out into the relentlessly cheerful afternoon sunshine and the negative voice in her head—it had an eerie resemblance to that of her older brother James—returned.

  “Now what, Oh Brilliant One? No Tom, no Louise, no conference. What are you going to do now?” Margaret did the first thing she thought of. Climbing back into her waiting cab, she told the driver, “Take me to the mall.”

  As shopping malls go, this one was nothing special. It boasted no sculptures, no atrium, no exotic boutiques—just the usual serviceable chains for a population that wasn’t into high fashion. But to those from the smaller outlying towns, such as Jackpine, it was Mecca. Jackpine’s “downtown” consisted of a strip of sidewalk that boasted a grocery store, a liquor store, a drugstore, a restaurant with six booths, and a dollar store. Periodic shopping trips to the city gave the store-starved women of Jackpine hope to cling to during the interminable winters. Even a Canadian Tire was an exciting sight. To see the mall’s crowded parking lot, the unfamiliar faces, the food court with seven different choices of fast food, all made their hearts beat a little faster, proof that there was a whole other world beyond the green-and-white road sign announcing Jackpine: Population 1500 at the outskirts of town.

  As she rummaged through the sales racks at Sears, Margaret kept thinking about Tom Derosier. She couldn’t just give up that easily. There had to be a way—a plan B.

  Later, clutching her trophies of on-sale underwear and Estée Lauder makeup in their plastic bags, she continued her way through the mall, checking out the sidewalk sales and kiosks for ideas for Nicole’s birthday present. The back-to-school shoppers were out in force, roaming the wide hallway, crowding their way through Suzy Shier, The Gap, Athlete’s World, and Target, then filling the food court with their purchases and excited noises.

  By 1:00 p.m. Margaret was getting hungry and tired. The chances of finding a place to sit in the crowded food court were slim to none, so she decided to head back to her hotel.

  The cab arrived promptly after her call. “Harbourview Inn, please,” Margaret said, climbing into the back.

  “How do you like it there? I hear it’s pretty fancy,” the driver, a cheerful, weather-beaten man asked, carefully negotiating his way through the mass of cars entering and exiting the parking lot.

  “I’m enjoying it. It’s quite nice.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I hear. There’s going to be quite the complex of stores in the lower level, too. At least, that was what he was planning.”

  “Who?”

  “Whalen. The guy from the casino that got bumped off the other night. Oh, sorry, you’re from out of town. I guess you hadn’t heard.”

  “Yeah, I heard about it. But what does that have to do with the Harbourview complex?” Margaret was getting confused.

  “He practically owned it. Well, a big chunk of it, anyway. He had a large financial interest in the place. Him and some partners who preferred to remain anonymous. Those types always do.”

  Is that all anyone in this city talks about? Thunder Bay was starting to resemble the rumour-mill of Jackpine more and more.

  “He might have ticked off some of his backers. That’s what a lot of people are thinking. But my money’s on the widow. Hey, I don’t blame her; he gave her plenty of reason, believe you me. If I fooled around on my old lady the way he did, I wouldn’t live long enough to brag about it. She’s a great lady, but she’s got a mighty short fuse.” He laughed, and Margaret laughed with him. Suddenly she had an idea.

  “Do you mind taking me to the casino instead? I’ve heard it’s a good place to eat.”

  “You heard right. The food’s good and it’s cheap. They want people to save their money to spend at the tables. You do any gambling?”

  “Uh—no.”

  “Smart lady. I seen a lot of marriages bust up and people lose their houses—everything. It’s worse than the booze.”

  “Well, food’s my only addiction. I’ll stick to lunch.”

  Finally, they arrived at the casino parking lot and Margaret paid the cabbie, including a generous tip for the entertaining conversation. Not sure what to expect inside, she walked through the imposing doors of the casino.

  The interior was a start contrast to the bright August sunshine and quiet, tree-lined streets outside. Margaret felt as if she had plunged into video game hell. She was inundated by blinking neon signs over slot machines, images of cowgirls and palm trees in glowing artificial colours, electronic bleeps and burbles, all trapped together inside a vast windowless warehouse where day, night, and seasons were non-existent. As her dazed brain tried to make sense of the sights and sounds, she stood, confused.

  “Hi there. Welcome to the Harbour Casino,” a professionally friendly young man in the identifying black and white uniform of a casino employee said.

  “Hi. I’m, uh, looking for the restaurant?” Margaret said, feeling as guilty and conspicuous as if she were sneaking into a brothel.

  The young man gestured off to Margaret’s right, down a hallway that was eclipsed by the casino chaos. “Right through there, ma’am.”

  The restaurant was separate, but not closed off, from the rest of the casino, so that the diners couldn’t really relax or forget what was supposed to be the real purpose of their visit. Every table had a clear view of the slot machines and game tables, along with the flashing pink and purple signs that were beginning to give Margaret a migraine.

  If I worked here, I’d end up committing murder, she thought. What was she doing here? What did she hope to learn?

  The waitress, like the young man at the entrance, was charming and efficient. If nothing else, the casino trained its staff well. The chicken sandwich Margaret ordered came minutes later, beautifully presented on focaccia bread with a colourful garden salad. The cab driver had been absolutely right about the quality of the food.

  Now that her stomach was happy again, Margaret was anxious to exit the place as quickly as possible. No amount of good, cheap food could entice her back to experience this chaos again.

  What would Nicole think if she could see me now? First Bubbles, now this.

  Margaret paid for her lunch, gathered her shopping bags, and weaved through the gauntlet of people sitting in front of slot machines. Those who glanced her way had suspicious, unfriendly gazes.

  It was such a relief to escape the depressing, half-light inside for the sweet sunlight and breeze off the lake that she decided to walk down to the waterfront and take a stroll along the path-lined shore. The lake water flashed in the sun with a million pinpoints of light, like a blue, sequined gown. Gulls arced and swooped over the water, shrilling their piercing cries. Sailboats with pristine white sails skimmed, coming about in a gliding dance inside the breakwater. Margaret stood and enjoyed the view, trying to commit it to memory.

  When she felt like she had erased the glaring flashiness of the casino from her eyes, she headed over to a nearby art supply store that dispensed brushes, paints, and canvases to local artists. Margaret usually picked up a few supplies for her own studio whenever she came into town. Even when she didn’t really need anything specific, she loved to come in and enjoy the smell of the
place, running her eyes greedily along the myriad of paint colours, lightly touching the brushes, and browsing to see what new offerings and events were available.

  As she waited in line behind another customer, clutching her tube of cadmium red and a new sketch pad, she noticed a stack of post cards from the art gallery, advertising Tom Derosier’s upcoming show. Why hadn’t she thought to ask about Tom’s whereabouts here before? He undoubtedly bought his supplies here, like everyone else.

  “Will that be everything?” the woman behind the cash register asked her.

  “Yes, thanks. I see there’s a new showing by Tom,” Margaret said, holding a post card up between her fingers to indicate what she meant.

  “That’s right. Are you a fan of his work?”

  “Actually, I was hoping to do an interview with him for the paper,” Margaret said, feeling a guilty thrill of excitement at her fib.

  “Really?” the clerk looked impressed, or at least interested.

  “Yes. I thought it might be a good idea to get some advance publicity to promote the show.” The lie rolled much more easily off her tongue than she would have thought.

  “Oh, what a good idea.”

  “The problem is,” Margaret fibbed, “when I talked to him, I wrote down the directions to his cottage, but I lost the paper. I’ve been going crazy looking for it. I can’t believe I could be so stupid. I’m having more senior moments all the time, and I’m not even a senior yet.”

  “I wish I could help you,” the woman said, looking concerned. “All I know is that his camp is on Walmer Lake.”

  Margaret perked up, recognizing the name. “Walmer? That’s north of the city, isn’t it?”

  “An hour north on Highway 560, but it’s a big lake. You’d get lost going down all those camp roads. Saying his camp is on that lake is like saying he lives in Sudbury. You’d need more specific directions than that to actually find him.”