The Serenity Stone Murder

by Marianne Jones

  “Well, I can take a look at it.” As he guided the canoe onto the beach, the retriever leaped out and ran toward her, wagging his tail in contradiction of his brief show of bravado. She paused to rub the fur behind his ears and gave him a quick scratch under his chin before she extended her hand to his owner.

  “My name’s Margaret, by the way. Margaret Brodie, and I apologize for the intrusion,” she said.

  He shook her offered hand and nodded. “My name’s Tom.”

  “Nice to meet you, Tom.” Margaret quickly decided that it might be better if she simply pretended to be ignorant of his identity. After her encounter with Mrs. Whalen’s lawyer, she didn’t want to gain a reputation as a stalker.

  “Well, Margaret, let’s drive up to your car and take a look. How far away is it?”

  “Just before the turnoff to your road. We don’t really need to drive there.”

  “Well, it might need a boost. I’ve got jumper cables and a toolbox in my truck.”

  Even with Margaret’s limited knowledge of vehicles, she doubted that the battery needed boosting, but she wasn’t about to argue with him. She hurried to keep up as he strode to his truck, and she couldn’t help glancing surreptitiously at his profile. He was taller in person than he had appeared on the TVO program, and just as ruggedly attractive, with his salt-and-pepper hair and beard. Margaret wondered absently why so many men looked good with greying hair while so few women did.

  She shook her head. This was not the time to contemplate the injustices of the universe. They had reached his truck.

  “You don’t mind sharing space with Sandy, I hope?”

  “Not at all.” The seat was dusty, with fine bits of retriever hair scattered about, but after travelling with Vince, Margaret wasn’t fussy. After a short, bumpy ride, the truck pulled up in front of Louise’s little Mazda. As soon as Tom got out, Sandy scrambled joyfully down after him, looking ready for the next adventure.

  “Got the keys?” Tom asked. He took them from her open hand and squeezed into the Mazda, sliding the seat back to fit his larger frame. He tried to start the engine, but the engine didn’t respond, not even a cough. After several more tries, he popped open the hood and stepped out. “I’m going to check the engine,” he said.

  “Are you mechanically inclined?” Margaret asked.

  “Not really.”

  She and Sandy watched him studying the engine, frowning as he looked it over. After a few minutes, he walked back to his truck, lifting a toolbox from the back. Taking a wrench from the toolbox, he used it to remove one of the spark plugs from the Mazda.

  “Looks wet,” he said with a small shrug. He retrieved a rag from the back of his truck and wiped down the spark plug before returning it to the car’s engine. “Let’s try it now,” he said. He opened the driver’s door to the Mazda again and turned the key, with the same result as before. “Let’s check the other plugs,” he said.

  “I’m really sorry about all this,” Margaret began, but he stopped her with a dismissive wave.

  “Not a problem,” he said. “I can check the easy stuff. But, if it’s something more complicated, you’ll have to find somebody who knows engines better than I do.” He repeated the process with the rest of the spark plugs, then tried the ignition again. Nothing. “Maybe the battery’s dead,” he suggested. “Let’s try giving her a boost.”

  Margaret sat in the car as he connected the batteries with booster cables, then started his truck.

  “Try it now,” he called.

  She tried, but there was no response from the Mazda. She shook her head at him sadly. Tom turned off his engine and got out.

  “That’s all I know how to do,” he said, “but I think you might have some water in your gas tank.”

  “Oh,” she said. Apparently that was a bad thing. “So what do I do about it?”

  “Do you have a cell phone?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Well, that could be a problem. You might need a mechanic.” Seeing the dismay on her face, he continued, “I’m expecting a friend to drop by sometime later today. He’s a retired OPP officer. He could probably give you a lift back to town. That is, if you want to wait here, and you’re not in a huge hurry.”

  “Really?” she asked, hardly able to believe her luck. “No, I’m not in a hurry. Are you sure you don’t mind? I feel like a terrible nuisance.”

  “Not at all,” he waved away her apologies. “I’m finished work for the day and about ready for a break.”

  Margaret was beginning to feel distinctly grateful to the little Mazda for breaking down, even though she didn’t look forward to Louise’s reaction. She couldn’t have planned a better way to meet Tom and she pondered how to casually work around to her real purpose for being there.

  The three of them drove back to his camp in the truck. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said. “Would you care for something to drink on the dock?”

  “Sounds perfect,” she said.

  “A beer?”

  “I’m not really a beer drinker,” she said. “I could never get used to the taste.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem. I have an excellent selection of wine. You have your choice of house white or house red.”

  “White would be fantastic.”

  As he walked back to the camp to get the drinks, Sandy elected to stay with his new friend. Margaret scratched his ears, admiring the lake as she tried to imagine how she would tell this story to her friends at the art club in Jackpine.

  The sauna, like the camp itself, was constructed of cedar logs. Pine Muskoka chairs were neatly placed on the dock, with a matching coffee table between them. A white lifebuoy hung on the front of the sauna. Everything was tidy and picture-perfect.

  Funny how men, who could be so untidy around the house, are almost always fanatically neat and careful about their outdoor equipment, she mused. Her beloved Neil, who wouldn’t pick up a sock to save his life, had always insisted that the garage had to be kept in pristine condition with everything in its appointed place.

  She watched dragonflies dance over the lake, with delicate, translucent wings, hovering like little helicopters, alert for mosquitoes and blackflies. The mid-afternoon breeze ruffled the lake’s surface, making it sparkle in the sun. In the distance, a motorboat skimmed across the water, running parallel to the opposite shore, towing a skier behind.

  “What a perfect day,” she said.

  “Apart from the fact that your car broke down,” Tom said, arriving with a bottle of wine, corkscrew and glass in one hand, and a bottle of Rickard’s White in the other.

  “Well, this is a pretty civilized way to be entertained while waiting for the cavalry to arrive,” she responded.

  “You came along at just the right moment.” He opened the bottle of wine, pouring her a glass before twisting open his own beer and settling comfortably into the other Muskoka chair. “I just finished a stretch of work and was ready for a break, so I’m feeling sociable. That’s something I’m not often accused of being.”

  “In that case, I feel very privileged.”

  “Do you have a camp around here?” he asked. “You don’t look familiar. Although I can’t say I’ve met all my neighbours.”

  She hesitated, not wanting to scare him off with the truth. But she knew it would come out eventually, so she took a deep breath and spoke. “I have a confession.”

  Tom looked at her with interest.

  “I actually came out here looking for you,” she said, hastening to add, “not that I planned for my car to break down. It’s not even my car. It belongs to a friend. I’m not even from Thunder Bay.”

  “This sounds fascinating.” Tom’s look was cautiously curious.

  “Not really. Just complicated.” She told him the whole story: of coming to town with Louise, being turned away at the Harbourview, and having to spend the night at Bubbles. Then she went on to describe the conference, and how she had distinguished herself there. Fortunately, Tom seemed to find her narration en
tertaining, and roared with laughter at all the right moments. Feeling relieved that he was amused, rather than irritated, that she had intruded on his cherished privacy, she spun the story out, and went on to describe the higher points of life in Jackpine. He appeared especially delighted about Jackpine’s heated debate over choosing a mascot.

  “I’ve always wanted to visit Jackpine,” he said. “I’ve driven through it many times. The scenery there is spectacular. It’s on my list of places to paint.”

  “Really?” she blurted, almost spilling her wine in excitement. “Would you consider coming sooner rather than later?” Quickly, she described her idea for a winter workshop.

  He picked up the bottle of wine and refilled her glass. “It’s not out of the question. Maybe I could use it as a short stop to scout out the area. Let me think it over. But if I did come visit, is there a motel in the area that would let me bring Sandy?”

  “How would you feel about being billeted? I’m sure that someone from the art club would be happy to put you and Sandy up.”

  “Well, it’s worth considering.”

  “Thank you!” She barely managed to restrain her excitement. Of course, he hadn’t promised anything, but he hadn’t said no either.

  “You’re welcome. I don’t normally agree to public speaking, but I might be willing to make an exception, especially after all the trouble you’ve been through getting here. Besides, you’re a great storyteller, which could make a trip to Jackpine during the winter doldrums something to look forward to.”

  “Well, if you come, you won’t be disappointed.”

  Sandy, who had been curled up, snoozing at Margaret’s feet, suddenly lifted his head and let out a loud, baying alarm, startling them both. The dog jumped up and bounded off in the direction of the road.

  “There’s Jimmy, right on time.” Tom stood up and turned to walk toward the camp.

  “Who?”

  “My friend from the OPP. He has a camp nearby. He often shows up here in the late afternoon and stays for supper.”

  “I see you sent out the welcoming committee,” a booming baritone called out. A large, heavy-set man in jeans, boots, and a red, plaid bush shirt strode out from behind the camp, then stopped as he saw Margaret. “Oh, I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “Come on down, Jimmy, and meet Margaret. She’s a new friend.”

  “Very new,” Margaret said, shaking the man’s hand. “As of this afternoon. We just met an hour ago.”

  “Glad to meet you, Margaret,” Jimmy said. “Is that your car on the road with its hood up?”

  “Yes. Well, my friend’s actually, which makes it even worse that it would break down on me.”

  “I think there might be water in the gas line,” said Tom.

  “Not good,” Jimmy said.

  “Of course, we’re open to a second opinion.”

  “I assume you already took a look at it?” Jimmy said.

  “For all the good it did.”

  “I doubt I’d be of any more help,” said Jimmy. “I leave all that stuff to the guys at the shop. Where did you last fill up the gas tank?” he asked Margaret.

  “At the Camper’s Store,” she said.

  “Hmm.”

  “What do you mean, ‘hmm’?” she asked nervously.

  “Well, it’s just that most people buy their gas in town.”

  “And?” She looked at him in confusion.

  “Well, it may be nothing, but sometimes if the gas sits around for a long time, it can be bad for the engine. Or, if any ground water seeps into the tanks at the service station and gets into your car to mix with the gas, it can cause your car to act up.”

  “Oh crap.” She sat for a moment, feeling a fluttering of panic about Louise’s car. “Well, if that’s what it is, what can I do about it?”

  Jimmy accepted the beer that Tom offered him, then turned back to Margaret. “Not an awful lot. I’m sorry to say you’ll probably have to get the car towed back to a garage in town where they can flush out the gas tank.”

  “You’re kidding me.” She wondered what it would cost to tow the Mazda that far, and how angry Louise would be at her for messing up her car.

  “I wish I was. But I can offer you a ride back to town with me.”

  “Thank you. I’d really appreciate that.”

  “But not before supper,” Tom said. “I have some pickerel in my fridge that’s too much for me to eat all by myself.”

  “Twist my arm.” Jimmy said, scratching Sandy behind the ears. Sandy flopped his chin on Jimmy’s knee and rolled his eyes up at him adoringly.

  “Can I do anything to help?” Margaret asked, thrilled at the prospect of having dinner with her idol. Her artistic idol, she told herself. The fact that he was attractive, and unattached, was irrelevant. My interest is purely professional, she reminded herself.

  “Can you make bannock?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I can.”

  “Impressive. In that case, you and I will tend to the culinary end of things, and Jimmy will be relegated to setting the table and washing the dishes.”

  “I can’t think of a better arrangement,” she responded.

  Jimmy harrumphed good-naturedly.

  “As long as I’m imposing on you this much,” Margaret said hesitantly, “I just have to ask . . .”

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “It’s just that I won’t be in town for your show . . .”

  “You want to see what I’ve been working on?”

  “If that’s okay.”

  “I suppose that could be arranged. You realize, of course, that if you reveal anything you see here I shall be forced to shoot you.” His mocking tone and raised eyebrows were charming.

  “Naturally. That goes without saying.” Margaret matched his serious tone.

  Jimmy grunted. “Well, if you two art lovers don’t mind, Sandy and I will take the boat out for a spin while you do your thing.”

  Tom grinned at him. “Philistine. Just make sure you’re back in time for supper.”

  “Would I ever be late for a meal?” The burly man whistled to Sandy, who bounded toward the dock, bobbing and dancing in eagerness, as though this were the first boat ride of his life.

  While Jimmy and Sandy sped off across the lake, Tom led Margaret up a pebbly path to the weathered grey shed that served as his studio. He held the door for her as she stepped inside, and she was immediately overwhelmed by the feeling that she was entering a well-lit shrine. Large windows let in enough natural light to satisfy any artist. The smell of oil paint permeated the one-room building. It was a reassuringly familiar smell to Margaret, just as the stacks of canvases propped against the walls and the paint-smeared rags reminded her of her basement studio back home in Jackpine. What really caught her attention and made her catch her breath were the paintings. There was a life-sized depiction of a loon on a patch of dark reflective water pierced by reeds. Beside it, she saw a painting of a heron standing on one leg in a marsh, waiting with his long patience for a fish to move. Propped on an easel was a partially-finished grey fox with a hare dangling from its mouth. There were paintings of various sizes and subjects, each one done with the photographic detail that was Tom’s trademark.

  She moved from canvas to canvas with greedy eyes, trying to memorize and absorb every nuance. She tried to think of some appropriately knowledgeable comment to make, but could only come up with, “Wow.”

  “Do they live up to your expectations?” Tom asked as he watched her progression. He looked pleased, as though her reaction had already been answer enough.

  “And then some. It’s amazing. I think it’s even better than your last show, if that’s possible.”

  “Glad you like them.”

  “How could I not? Thank you for letting me see this. It’s a privilege.”

  “It’s always good to have an appreciative audience. But Jimmy will probably be back soon, making noises about supper. If you’re all done here, maybe we should start cooki
ng.”

  The rest of the evening unfolded delightfully. While Tom made a salad and coated the pickerel fillets lightly in flour, waiting until the last minute to sauté them in butter, Margaret brought the Havarti cheese and coffee bread in from the car for dessert. Next, she rolled out and fried some bannock to go with the pickerel. Jimmy, back from his boat ride, set the old, scarred, wooden table with some charmingly mismatched dishes, and proceeded to entertain them with stories from his policing career. He was a good storyteller, and he had everyone howling with laughter as he mimicked the various characters he had encountered in the pursuit of his duties. Margaret especially liked the story of one man who had cultivated a reputation for dealing in hot merchandise, just so that he could resell items he had actually purchased quite legally at inflated prices.

  “Is that okay? I mean, could he do that and get away with it?” Margaret asked, dabbing at the tears of laughter streaming down her face.

  “It’s a scam, but a perfectly legal one. As long as his customers thought they were getting a great deal on stolen goods, they were willing to pay him top dollar. It’s free enterprise at its best.”

  “But what about when they found out they’d been scammed? Wasn’t he in trouble with them?”

  “Maybe they never found out. Or if they did, they’d probably keep quiet so they wouldn’t become the laughing stock of the neighbourhood. Nobody likes to advertise the fact that they’ve been suckered. Besides, he never actually claimed that the stuff was stolen. He’d just show up at the bar with it under his coat and ask if anyone was interested. They drew their own conclusion, which he never bothered to contradict.”

  Jimmy kept them laughing throughout dinner and late into the evening. Margaret’s worry about the car and Louise’s reaction faded away. Whatever she might have to face later was worth the fun she was having now, not to mention the knowledge that she had made a friend of Tom Derosier.

  Finally Jimmy glanced at the small clock on the kitchen wall and said, “Well, boys and girls, I hate to break up this party, but I’ve got to be heading back to town. Do you want a lift back with me, Margaret?”