“Nell, come hear this,” Mr. Martin called to his wife.
“…police say he was shot twice through the chest. Dead is Owen Richardson, 49. No further details have emerged in the local bar owner’s death and police are continuing their investigation. On to other news, the Hiram Walker Distillery has decided to...”
Mr. Martin turned to his wife. “Terrible!”
“Did you know that man, Dad?” Paul asked, since Mr. Martin socialized a lot with his constituents in Windsor and knew many of them by name.
“Oh, hello Paul, Abby. I didn’t hear you come in. No, I didn’t know him. It’s just disconcerting to hear, that’s all.”
Paul nodded. “We’re just going to go upstairs and make sure that Tom didn’t leave us a note. I didn’t really look very well this morning.”
They climbed up the stairs to the loft, Tom’s empty cot greeting them when they got there. Paul pulled open the covers again. “This is exactly the way it was when I woke up,” he said.
Abby started sifting through scraps of paper and other miscellaneous objects on the nightstand, hoping to see a message from Tom. She put the useless items in a pile on Paul’s bed. Before long, the nightstand was
entirely clean and there was a mound of junk on the twin bed.
“Nothing at all,” she said.
She plopped down on the ground and hugged her knees to her chest. Paul continued to search somewhat pointlessly. Kneeling on the ground, he pulled open the drawers on the nightstand, only finding a collection of old comic books. He turned around to face Abby and instead, caught sight of a worn leather strap sticking out from under Tom’s cot. Paul clasped the strap and pulled, feeling the material go taught from the weight it was dragging. Tom’s rucksack emerged.
“Abby! All of Tom’s stuff is still here.”
Abby scrambled over and opened the drawstring
on the bag, pulling out Tom’s belongings, while Paul rushed to the windowsill. He picked up the fabric pouch of sacred tobacco that Tom had been given by his grandfather, rubbing the material between his fingers. Tom wouldn’t intentionally leave something so special behind. Paul then moved to their shared closet and found all of Tom’s clothes exactly the way they had been before his disappearance.
“Nothing in this room looks like Tom thought about going back to the reserve,” Paul said, pushing clothes, hangers clinking as he did so.
Abby appeared at his side. “Exactly. I think we should go tell your dad about what we’ve found.”
Paul nodded, picked up the rucksack and swung it over his shoulder. He also grabbed the pouch of sacred tobacco, wanting to return it to Tom as soon as he saw him. They hurried to Mr. Martin’s study and Paul pushed open the door.
“Dad, Tom didn’t take anything with him.” Mr. Martin stuck his pen in his inkwell, looking at the rucksack.
“That is strange, I have to admit. He might have left in a hurry, though.”
“And there isn’t a note either,” Abby added.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Martin. Let’s give him a day or so to see if he returns. Tom’s a pretty independent 15-year-old. He may have just wanted a little time. If he’s not back by then, I’ll make some more inquiries.” Mr. Martin pushed his glasses with his thumb and
returned to his work.
Paul whirled around and headed for the front door, Abby beside him. They made their way to sit underneath the birch tree.
Just then a dark, four door sedan turned onto their street, gently spraying gravel. Paul caught a glimpse of the man sitting at the wheel. He had grey hair and an intense gaze. He looked familiar.
The car slowed to a crawl in front of the Martin corner property while the man examined their cottage. He cut the engine.
“Who’s that?” Abby asked.
“I’m not sure,” Paul said, wondering who would be visiting them at Colchester. His parents hadn’t said anything about someone coming by.
The door opened, revealing a man in a grey fedora and a sports jacket.
Inspector Ward.
Chapter 14
Something to Hide
“Hi Paul,” Inspector Ward said, walking towards the wall of hedges. Paul thought he looked grim. “Is your father here? I’d like to speak with him.”
“He’s inside in his study.” Paul looked at Abby and wondered what the Inspector wished to discuss with his father.
The inspector tipped his fedora to Paul and Abby before knocking on the front door.
“Is there anywhere we could maybe hear what they’re saying?” she asked.
Paul grinned. “I think I can manage that. Let’s sit outside his study window—he’s always got that thing open.”
Paul and Abby ran across the lawn in the direction of the tennis court. At the middle window, Paul stopped, signaling to Abby to do the same. They crouched down underneath the window, leaning against the wall.
“You’ve done this before,” Abby whispered.
“Maybe a few times.”
It was entirely silent in the study, so Paul assumed that the Inspector was still talking with his dad at the door. As they waited, Paul noticed that Mary Anne was playing over near the shed with her friend, Vincie. His stomach dropped as he realized that she might give away their hiding place. Mary Anne looked up and, seeing Paul and Abby huddled under the window, pointed them out to Vincie.
“Abby, look over there,” Paul whispered. “If they make any noise, Dad will hear us.”
Mary Anne and Vincie disappeared around the other side of the shed. When they came back, they were both carrying piles of small stones.
“They wouldn’t,” Abby said.
Mary Anne looked over at her brother and then promptly threw a stone in his direction, causing it to
ricochet off of the side of the house. Abby and Paul
instinctively ducked to avoid any other rocks, as well as Mr. Martin’s gaze, if he were to look out of his window. Mary Anne and Vincie stayed near the shed, likely trying to decide whether they should battle onwards or retreat.
Then, Abby and Paul heard the study door open. “Please, have a seat.” A chair scraped along the floor and a few seconds later, the sound was repeated. Paul imagined his dad stacking his papers and piling them away from him.
Vincie swung his arm behind his back and released a stone. Paul’s stomach flipped. It would be horrible to be caught eavesdropping, especially by Inspector Ward. The stone, not thrown with enough force, bounced along the grass, stopping at Abby’s foot.
“Can I offer you a cold drink, Inspector?”
“No, thank you.”
Mary Anne and Vincie seemed to consult each other before they ran off towards the tennis court. Paul and Abby, relieved, focused on hearing what was going on inside Mr. Martin’s study.
“I’m sorry to have dropped in without notice,” said the inspector. “I was in the area and I just wondered whether you had the time to answer a few questions.”
“Oh, no problem at all.”
Paul smiled to himself, knowing that his dad loved to talk about anything concerning his riding.
“Now Mr. Martin, have you had any contact with the Windsor police recently?”
Paul imagined Inspector Ward taking out a notebook and jotting down his father’s answers.
“Not for personal reasons. In the past, I’ve communicated with members of the force as MP for the riding.”
“And have they been helpful?”
“As I recall it, yes… nothing really stands out from those experiences.”
“Now, how about Windsor as a whole? Have you noticed any changes recently?”
A chair creaked and Paul pictured his dad leaning back in his chair, as he thought about his answer.
“Winds
or is as vibrant as ever in many ways. The new immigrants have really helped to expand the job market here. I know there are pockets of crime in the city – but every place has those.”
The inspector paused. “It appears as if criminals are being minimally fined time and again for the same
offences, but the issues aren’t being dealt with. You’ve heard about the recent murder, I’m sure? Owen Richardson?”
“Yes,” Mr. Martin said. “Only briefly on the radio, though. They didn’t seem to have much information.”
“Well, I know a little more than the reporters do.” Abby nudged Paul’s shoulder, excitement glowing in her green eyes. “Richardson was one of those repeat
offenders I’m talking about.”
“Was he? What type of crime?”
“Richardson owned a bar – as you probably know – but not one of the mainstream ones. In fact, he was running a blind pig, called Dirty Kate’s.”
Paul and Abby looked at each other, smothering laughter. Paul pictured a pink pig, holding a cane in his hoof, hanging out with the Three Blind Mice. “A blind pig? You mean an illegal bar?”
“Yes, he was selling alcohol illegally at cheap prices to his clients. Richardson was repeatedly being fined for single offences – single discoveries of alcohol sales – but yet, his business was allowed to continue to operate at full tilt. And then, there were other charges as well.”
“Of course. When blind pigs are involved, other criminal activities come along with them,” said Mr. Martin.
“Now, considering what I’ve just told you, Mr. Martin, I don’t believe that this murder was a fluke, but was rather the outcome of some sort of an agreement gone wrong. Perhaps Richardson didn’t keep up his
end of an understanding. Or perhaps an alliance with someone proved to be faulty. You never know what will happen at a blind pig.”
“That definitely changes the nature of the murder,” Mr. Martin said.
“I do think that finding this murderer will be one of the keys. These crimes are often connected and I feel that this very one could reveal an entire web of fraud.”
This time, Paul nudged Abby’s knee, mouthing ‘a web of fraud’ with an exclamation mark hanging in his open mouth.
“Is there any evidence that will help in finding the murderer?”
“There weren’t any witnesses, so no one could give a physical description of the murderer. A ripped scrap of denim was found at the scene of the crime, though. Likely some sort of a struggle took place before Mr. Richardson was shot and during that time, a piece of denim was torn off the murderer.”
“Not much to go on,” Mr. Martin commented. He paused. “This is all just like Prohibition, right In-spector?”
“Alcohol being sold illegally. Speakeasies or blind pigs, take your pick. You’re right, Mr. Martin, it is just like the old days. I was an officer in Windsor during Prohibition – it wasn’t easy.”
There was a moment of silence and Paul wondered if the inspector was reflecting about something personal.
“I can imagine,” said Mr. Martin. “It must have been incredible.”
“People would set out in any boat they could find. They’d load them up with Canadian whisky and beer, going with permits saying they were headed for Cuba. Of course, really they were just making easy money in the States.”
“It was a dishonest time for some, that’s for sure.”
“I should be going,” said Inspector Ward. “I’ve kept you from your work. Thank you for your time.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help. Best of luck in cleaning up the few bad apples in the police force. It’s a great city and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Sure that nothing else of significance would be said, Paul and Abby moved away from the window, crouching so as not to be seen. They stretched out in the grass in front of the house, a good distance away from Mr. Martin’s office.
“Wow,” Abby said. “The inspector’s having a tough time. He thinks that the dead man’s bar business is connected with other crimes. Now that he’s dead, it seems like a lost trail.”
“So the inspector could have learned some stuff from the bar owner, had he stayed alive,” said Paul.
Abby nodded as Inspector Ward opened the door and walked down the steps, waving to them. He got in his sleek car and drove off.
“I didn’t know blind pigs could still exist in Windsor,” said Paul. “Prohibition was during the 1920s and 30s – this is 1950 now. It should be ancient history.”
Abby nodded. “Paul, I’ve been thinking about something. Tom said that he was going to go and work at Mr. Brunner’s last night, right?”
“Right. But Mr. Brunner claimed this isn’t true, that they never work at night.” Paul sat up straighter. “Wait. Remember when we were playing baseball and the ball went onto Mr. Brunner’s property? I heard him tell Jerry about making sure that the deliveries were done at night. He didn’t want the neighbours to notice – so what was that all about?”
“Then Mr. Brunner is hiding something. Has to be.”
“And then there’s the small amount of fishing.” Paul thought back to his conversation with Tom when he had been given the day off.
“Not to mention the expensive Cadillac – how could he ever afford that?”
“And remember when we saw the police car in front of his house? Something’s going on,” said Abby.
Paul chewed on his lip. “We have to find out if that note really exists. The one that Tom supposedly left for Mr. Brunner. We have to find it.”
“You mean on Mr. Brunner’s property? What about what your dad said? That would be putting ourselves in a place where we don’t exactly belong.”
“I know. We’ll have to be really careful. But Tom’s gone and none of this is making sense.” Paul stood up and looked into the windows of his house. “Maybe if we go right now, they’ll be out fishing We might be completely alone to search.”
Abby considered things for a second or two. “All right, let’s do it.”
Making their way to the Brunner property, Paul and Abby stopped at the edge of the wooded area. They leaned back against a large elm tree and stayed out of sightlines.
“All right,” Paul said. “Let’s see if anyone’s here.” He peered around the side of the tree and surveyed Mr. Brunner’s property. The fishing boat wasn’t in the water. The dock itself was empty and quiet. There was no one on the lawn.
“No one’s here,” he said. “This is our chance.”
Chapter 15
The Stain of Blood
Paul ran, half crouching, hoping to blend with the underbrush. He looked down at his wide-striped blue casual shirt, wishing that he had thought to wear a solid colour. Abby followed closely behind, shifting her gaze from left to right as she moved. As they approached the bungalow, Paul noticed that the Cadillac wasn’t parked anywhere on the property. This was a good sign.
Paul and Abby crept up to one of the front windows, standing to either side to avoid being seen.
What if Mr. Brunner sees us lurking around his window?
But he wasn’t here. Paul pressed his nose up against the glass. He could see right into the kitchen. A stove, a fridge, a round table. The lights were off and the bungalow seemed entirely still. This was their chance.
“Are we going to try the door?” Abby whispered.
Paul nodded, tiptoeing over to the door. His heart thumping in his chest, Paul reached out and lightly turned the knob. It rotated in a circle hesitantly, until finally completing the circle in his hand. He pushed the door lightly.
“It’s locked!” said Paul.
Abby sighed. “Now what?”
Paul walked around to the north side of the house. He looked at the height of the bungalow cottage’s
window and then sized up an old tree stump log sitting by the house. “Now we go through the window – assuming it’s not locked too.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Abby. “We can’t just climb through someone’s window.”
Paul rolled the stump over and placed his hands on the bottom of the sliding glass and pulled upwards.
Unlocked!
“Well that’s what I’m doing – if you want to stay out here and keep watch, that’s fine with me,” said Paul.
Abby sighed. “Fine, count me in. You first, but be careful.”
Paul slipped into the window which offered plenty of room for his lanky frame. After dropping lightly to the floor he reached up to help Abby make the drop, too.
“See?” he whispered. “We did it!”
They took careful steps into Bud Brunner’s house. They were standing near a small vestibule. A welcome mat was nearby but it certainly did not seem very welcoming to Paul. There weren’t any shoes in the ves-tibule. To one side was an open, simple kitchen. Dirty dishes were stacked up in the sink, while the table was covered in papers. To the right, there was a modest sitting area with a sunken couch and a coffee table. Straight ahead, a hallway led to a couple of open doors. They stood there waiting. Paul imagined Bud Brunner charging out of one of the back rooms and his stomach did a flip.
“Let’s split up,” whispered Abby. “I’ll take the study, you take the kitchen. Those are the most likely places to put a note.”
“Good plan,” Paul agreed. “Let’s be quick. We have to get out of here as fast as we can.”
Abby set off down the hallway, pausing to look through the first door. Paul made his way into the kitchen. He stood over the round table, looking at the huge mountain of paper.
It’s as tall as Mount Logan for pete’s sake.
The table was pressed right up against the wall, where the window that Paul had looked through earlier was. He began thumbing through unopened envelopes and pieces of scrap paper, trying to leave them in the same order that he found them. He didn’t want to topple the paper mountain.
Showdown at Border Town Page 9