“You wouldn’t happen to know of anyone I might ask?” Margaret prompted, taking another hopeful stab at trying to get more details.
“Well, there’s a general store near the lake that supplies campers with groceries and bait, that kind of thing. They might be able to help you.”
“Thanks. I’ll try that.” Margaret brightened, her hope rekindled.
Of course, the only glitch in her plan now was that she lacked a vehicle. Under normal circumstances, Louise would be more than happy to help her out but, at the moment, Margaret wasn’t overly eager to ask her for a favour. Well, obviously they were going to have to make up at some point before the week ended. Taking the bus back to Jackpine would be carrying their tiff too far. But Margaret wasn’t quite ready to eat humble pie just yet. Maybe she could rent a car to drive out to Walmer Lake.
She felt a slight twinge of guilt over making up the story about being a reporter. On the other hand, her deception had made her feel a wee bit like a TV detective. Going over to the dark side, just a bit, was beginning to be fun.
“It’s a slippery slope, Margaret,” she could imagine her mother saying. “First the little white lies, then bigger lies to cover them up, and where will it all end? Honesty is the best policy after all.” Maybe so, but it’s a darn dull policy, Margaret thought, one that totally lacks the heart-thudding excitement of pretence.
As she dressed for the concert that night, Margaret looked around her elegant room, taking in the breath-taking view of the harbour at night. Turning out the light, she could see moonlight rippling and glancing off the dark water. The dark shape of a freighter moved just outside the breakwater. Everything was perfect, but nothing felt right. She wanted to be enjoying this with Louise. But there was no way she was going back to Bubbles, not even for Louise.
The young cab driver who drove her to the concert hall was more taciturn than her earlier cabbie. He asked no questions and had no commentary about the recent murder.
Arriving at the auditorium, Margaret joined the rest of the elegantly dressed crowd that was rapidly filling the foyer. Making her way down the path toward her seat, her attention was seized by one well-dressed person in particular. Two rows ahead of her and five seats to her left sat the woman whom she had seen in the jeweller’s store the day before—Doug Whalen’s wife! Sitting beside the new widow was a middle-aged man dressed in an expensive-looking suit.
Margaret sat up, rigid with interest. More and more curious: jewellery shopping, concerts and now the widow was out on an apparent date. Her husband’s body wasn’t even cold yet, as the saying went. The words of the cab driver from the afternoon came back to her. Mrs. Whalen wasn’t even bothering to put up the pretence of being a grieving widow.
The symphony was playing at its usual high standard, but for once Margaret found it hard to concentrate on the music. Her eyes continued to stray to the couple sitting two rows ahead. Who was Mrs. Whalen’s companion? And why was she so apparently unmoved by her husband’s tragic death, and so indifferent to public opinion, that she could attend the symphony the night after his murder? It was a spectacular display of sang froid.
Margaret’s head was buzzing by the time she headed back to the Harbourview. Her last conscious thought as her head hit the pillow was, I can’t wait to tell Louise about this.
Chapter Five
St. Stephen’s small chapel was filled Sunday morning. Margaret came in five minutes before the service was scheduled to start at 10:00 a.m. and glanced around, hoping to spot Eina. She finally spotted her, sitting near the front beside Louise.
Well. That was awkward. Margaret found a seat near the back and settled in. From that perspective she could see without being seen. She took in the oak pews, the kneelers with the well-worn blue velvet cushions, the stained-glass windows depicting various scenes: Jesus on the shore instructing the fishermen in their boat to lower their net one more time, Jesus blessing the children, Jesus holding a lamb in His arms, and Jesus praying in the garden.
The church was quite full for a summer morning, especially for a church that, according to Eina, was nearing its last gasp. The pews were crowded with people dressed in shorts and Tshirts, looking as though they were ready to bolt for their cottages as soon as the last hymn ended.
At the opening bars of “Jesu, Joy of Men’s Desiring,” two servers entered, preceding a tall, imposing minister she assumed was Father Brian. From what Eina had told them, Margaret had visualized Father Brian as a round, soft teddy-bearish sort of man, not this person with a statesman-like bearing striding to the front of the church.
After the choir entered and took their places, Father Brian said “Good morning” in a strong, authoritative voice. Funny, thought Margaret, remembering what Eina had said about the tensions in the congregation, if someone who looked like that told me in a voice like his to quit squabbling and get along, I think I’d do it. Still, she knew enough about personalities and power struggles in churches as well as families and workplaces to be aware it wasn’t as simple as that.
As she fumbled through her prayer book, trying to follow along, she kept a close eye on Eina and Louise, who seemed unaware of her presence. Margaret was itching to tell them about the events of the past two days.
As the choir finished the Alleluia and sat down, a woman in a white robe mounted the steps to the lectern to read the Gospel. She adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat before beginning: “The Gospel reading today is from Matthew 18, verse 15 and Matthew 5, verses 23 and 24: ‘If your brother sins against you, go and show him his fault, just between the two of you . . . If you enter your place of worship and, about to make an offering, you suddenly remember a grudge a friend has against you, abandon your offering, leave immediately, go to this friend and make things right. Then, and only then, come back and work things out with God.’”
Margaret sat with board-straight posture, staring at the cross hand-carved from oak on the wall behind the choir loft. She wasn’t appreciating God’s sense of humour at the moment, or the nagging guilt she was trying to shush.
Father Brian had replaced the woman at the lectern, gripping it with his large hands. “Jesus is generally acknowledged as a great moral teacher, even by people who don’t have a clue about his teachings. They just assume that whatever he said, it must have been good. There are others who quote or misquote some of his sayings out of context to suit their convenience; like ‘judge not,’ and ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone,’ when they’re doing something they know is wrong. The truth is that most of Jesus’s teachings are no more popular today than they were in His day, for the simple reason that they make us uncomfortable. Most people will agree that He preached about love, but real love is not the most comfortable thing to put into practice. It involves making sacrifices, and killing off our egos, and forgiving when we’d rather not. Who really wants to do that? Not me, that’s for sure.”
He paused, and a few people chuckled. Margaret looked at his face with renewed interest, admiring his frankness. He lowered his head for a moment as if thinking, then raised it again and resumed speaking.
“Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, none of us gets off the hook. Loving the lovable, loving when it’s easy and convenient, is no proof of spirituality. The real litmus test is when we are willing to humble ourselves and work toward reconciliation no matter what.”
Okay, okay, You win, Margaret groaned inwardly. I know when I’m licked. She waited for the crowd to thin a bit before rising. As people began to make their way downstairs for coffee and cookies, Eina and Louise started down the aisle.
All right, let’s get this over with, Margaret thought, I don’t do apologies very well, or very often.
She didn’t have to worry. The moment Louise spotted Margaret, her face lit up, and she hurried down the aisle to envelop her in a tight hug.
“Oh, I’m so happy to see you! I’m sorry about our quarrel. It was all my fault. I messed up things with the hotel, and then I made such a fuss about that
workshop. Please forgive me.”
Margaret, who had been ready to offer a stiff, grudging apology, was humbled by Louise’s generosity.
“Talk about breaking the ice,” she said, encased in Louise’s embrace. “I was on my way to make up with you. I wouldn’t have done such a good job of it, though.”
Eina stood and waited tactfully, a few feet away, until she was sure that things were sorted out between the two friends.
“I knew you two couldn’t stay mad for long,” she said, shaking her head. “If you’re finished with all that huggy-kissy stuff, do you want to come downstairs for coffee? We can see if Father Brian’s sermon had any effect on the congregation.”
Judging by appearances, it hadn’t. The “coffee-and-fellowship” crowd downstairs had already divided into two groups, each of which occupied one side of the room. Margaret and Louise noticed a wiry older man seated, balancing a teacup and cookie on his knee, engaged in an animated conversation with Father Brian. Hovering near them both, smiling and proffering a plate of dainties, was a sixty-something lady that they recognized as the church organist.
“That’s Thomas talking to Father Brian,” Eina whispered.
“He really does look like quite the firebrand,” Margaret said, with admiration. She was impressed that someone that age could still have so much energy and passion to pour into what he cared about. He was obviously very fit, too—the result of years of garden work.
“Oh, he is. He’s a loyal friend, but you sure wouldn’t want to end up in his bad books. And there, with the goodies, that’s Mary Carlisle. She’s had a thing for Thomas ever since she came to Thunder Bay. The fact that he’s not interested in the slightest has never discouraged her.”
“Eina!” whispered Louise disapprovingly.
“Well, it’s true. If she didn’t want people commenting on it, she shouldn’t make it so obvious.”
Margaret had to admit to herself that Mary was hovering rather closely around the two men, rather than circulating around the room with the tray. She looked like someone trying to insert herself into a private conversation while oblivious to the fact that she was being ignored. Father Brian would glance in her direction occasionally, but Thomas’s body language was unyielding.
By the opposite wall, a huddled group of people were also engaged in lively chatter. At the centre of the huddle stood a short woman with curly red hair and a shrill, chainsaw-like voice that sent Margaret’s spine into little spasms.
“No, Stewart, this won’t change anything,” her voice cut through the buzz of conversation like a blade going through a Douglas fir. “The casino will be just as anxious as they were before to make this deal. They need the property. And we need the money. This development won’t have any effect on that.”
It was impossible for anyone in the room not to hear her remarks. Apparently, it was impossible for Thomas to ignore, as well. He straightened, stood, set his cup on his chair, then strode across the room. The crowd around the red-haired woman parted for him as he approached, and people stopped talking mid-sentence in anticipation of what was coming next. He stopped in front of her and spoke.
“This development, as you put it so delicately, is a man’s tragic death, Tina. We should have the decency to wait until he’s buried before we start with our business-as-usual talk.”
Tina was not abashed. “Why, Thomas, I didn’t know you were such a fan of the deceased. I’m sure I remember you calling him and his ilk a brood of vipers during a recent board meeting. That was you, wasn’t it?”
For such a fit-looking man, Thomas turned a dangerous shade of purple. “Don’t be licking your chops over my garden yet, Tina.” He turned and stormed out of the room, his feet echoing up the stairs. The sound of the heavy oak door to the outside closing behind him was loud in the silence that followed his departure.
Tina shrugged and turned back to her group.
“He showed more restraint than usual,” Eina murmured to Margaret and Louise. “You two were spared the usual fireworks display.”
“Should we be relieved or disappointed?” Margaret asked.
“Relieved,” Louise said emphatically. She didn’t always appreciate Margaret’s irony. “We don’t need to get involved in family squabbles.” Family squabbles was how Louise described church problems and politics. She was fidgeting as if she had something else on her mind that she was dying to discuss. “Let’s go to lunch. I’ve got so much to tell you.”
“I’ll have to pass this time,” said Eina, apologetically. “After being tied up with the conference over the past few days, I should spend some quality time with Roger. If I don’t, he may discover he can actually live without me. We want to nip that sort of thing in the bud.” She paused, considering. “You two are going to be around for a few days yet, right”
“Yes, we’re not on a schedule. We want to take in the ambience of city life. Winters in Jackpine are way too long.”
“Poor babies,” Eina said without sympathy. “You’ll be in touch, then?”
“Absolutely. I’d like to check out that coffee shop you told us about. It sounds fascinating.”
“It’s a date. Catch you later.”
“I’ve been dying to talk to you,” Louise sighed to Margaret, spearing her fork into her chicken Caesar salad at Dmitri’s restaurant. They had arrived just before the lunch-hour crowd and had managed to score a table without the usual fifteen-minute wait. “You won’t believe what I found out.”
“Found out?”
“About this business.” Seeing Margaret’s blank face, Louise leaned over the table with wide eyes and hissed in a stage whisper, “The murder!”
“Really?” Margaret was stunned. Louise did have a way of surprising her.
“Uh-huh.” Louise wore a smug expression.
“You mean, from the goddess conference?”
“You watch your mouth. No, smarty pants, from sources a little more informed than that.”
“Like who?”
“I was going to tell you. But now, after that smart remark, I don’t know if I will.”
“Oh, come on. Okay, I take it back. Don’t torture me. C’mon, spill. Please!” Margaret looked so un-Margaret-like as she begged that Louise laughed.
“I didn’t know you were so interested.”
“Neither did I. That is, I wasn’t at first. But more things keep coming up. It’s like trying to ignore a jigsaw puzzle in front of you. Eventually you can’t stand it and you start searching for pieces.”
“Oh.” Louise looked confused. “Well, anyway, it was Candice who told me—”
“Candice who?”
“Candice is one of the waitresses at Bubbles.”
“You lost me. Why were you and a waitress at Bubbles chatting about the murder?”
“Well, you have to talk about something.”
“No, you don’t. And how did you get to be on a first-name basis with her?”
“It was Vince, actually. She was outside, on her break, when I was walking him. She took a shine to him. She even offered to look after him for me while I’m at the conference.”
“Really?” Margaret was always impressed with Louise’s knack for making friends everywhere she went.
“Oh, she’s a very nice person, Margaret. Vince could tell, too. He’s a good judge of character. They got along like a house on fire.”
“Uh huh. If by character you mean food.”
“That’s two.” Louise gave Margaret her schoolteacher stare for the sarcastic remark. “Do you want to hear the rest of this story or not?”
“Yes! I hate it when you hold all the cards,” Margaret moaned.
“I know,” Louise said complacently. “Anyway, naturally, Candice and I got to talking about the murder. I mean, who isn’t talking about it? And that’s when I found out that the casino manager, was having an affair with one of the blackjack dealers.”
“Yes, well, if you can believe Eina, it’s not exactly a big secret that he’s had more than one girlfriend.�
�� Margaret was unimpressed.
“Maybe, but Candice claims that this particular girlfriend was pressuring him to divorce his wife and marry her, but he was putting her off. Then, just last week, they had a huge fight. She gave him an ultimatum, and then he dumped her.” Margaret sat back in her chair and folded her arms, a triumphant look on her face.
“And just how would Candice know all this?”
“Because they’re best friends, that’s how! She used to be a dancer at Bubbles, which was how she and Charlisse—the girlfriend—got to know each other. Then, when the casino opened, Charlisse got a job dealing there. But she and Candice stayed friends, and Charlisse confided in her all the time.”
“And now Candice is sharing all this information with you, a perfect stranger.”
“I’m not a stranger. I told you, we got to be very friendly, especially since she was spending so much time with Vince.”
“Well, anyway,” Margaret grunted, bending over to retrieve the napkin that had slid from her lap to the floor, “that proves nothing. I imagine that Casanova Whalen had dumped plenty of women in the past.”
“Well, not all of them are like Charlisse. According to Candice, Charlisse isn’t the type to get mad; she gets even.”
“Charlisse is lucky to have a loyal friend like Candice,” Margaret remarked ironically.
“Oh, Candice doesn’t think Charlisse was the murderer,” Louise said quickly.
Margaret stared across the table at her. “She doesn’t?”
“Of course not. Charlisse is her friend.”
“What was all that build up, then? I thought you said you had something to tell me about the murder.”
“I do, if you’d let me get to it. Candice says that the assistant manager at the casino also hated Mr. Whalen, with good reason.”
“It sounds as though everyone who hated him had good reason,” Margaret commented.
“According to Candice, Charlisse told her the assistant manager had been doing most of his boss’s work for him while Mr. Whalen was running around tending to his own private business concerns. She said the assistant manager, Peter Greaves, had been in line for the manager’s position when they were first hiring for the casino. He had practically been promised the job, when suddenly they announced Doug Whalen as the new casino manager. Whalen apparently wasn’t nearly as qualified as Greaves, so people figure he must have had better connections. Anyway, they gave Greaves the assistant manager’s job as a sort of consolation prize, I guess, and he didn’t take it too well.”
The Serenity Stone Murder Page 6