by Alison Bruce
Deadly Season
A Carmedy & Garrett Mini-Mystery
Alison Bruce
DEADLY SEASON
A Carmedy & Garrett Mini-Mystery
Published by Imajin Books at Smashwords
Copyright © 2015 by Alison Bruce. All Rights Reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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http://www.alisonbruce.ca
FIRST EDITION eBook
November 20, 2015
Published by Imajin Qwickies™, an imprint of Imajin Books™
http://www.ImajinQwickies.com
ISBN: 978-1-77223-152-6
Cover designed by Ryan Doan—http://www.ryandoan.com
1
December 16
Violent death was never pleasant. The cold hadn’t diminished the smell of blood, piss and stool—or if it had, I didn’t want to think about it.
A dart, the kind animal control officers use in their rifles, was sticking into the ribs. Instead of delivering a tranquillizer, its payload was poison. The feathery stabilizer at the end was red and green. Very seasonal.
“Do we know what the poison is, Chief?”
“Looks like cyanide. Samples were taken from the last victim. I’ll let you know when the latest batch have been processed and compared.”
Igor Thorsen, Chief of Detectives and my godfather, bent down and offered me his hand. I let him pull me out of the crouch I had been sustaining for several minutes while I examined the body. I didn’t need the help, but it was a warm gesture on a cold night.
“I could use your help on this, Kathleen. People are getting nervous but I can hardly free up a detective for a serial cat-killer. I can authorize support services for a week and the East Hills Neighbourhood Group will pay your fees.”
I stripped off my gloves and ran my fingers through my hair, pushing back the auburn strands that had blown into my face. Time for a cut. Or maybe not. I didn’t have to keep up the uniform code for keeping hair short or worn up.
I looked up at the Chief. Way up. And I’m not short. Or particularly tall.
I nodded.
My name is Kate Garrett. Up until recently, I had been a rookie detective in the violent crimes unit. The chief was my boss. Exactly one month ago my father, the Joe Garrett of Garrett Investigations, was killed in a pedestrian-vehicle incident. Now I was the Garrett of Carmedy and Garrett Investigations.
Last month I was a homicide detective. Now I was a pet P.I.?
2
December 18
“Deck the halls with boughs of holly…”
“I thought we agreed no holiday songs in the office.”
“We agreed no holiday music in the office,” I said, hanging fresh holly over the last window. “I didn’t think that included me singing.”
“Well it does,” said Carmedy, scowling.
I gave him my best look of wounded sorrow.
He sighed.
I added my brave waif smile for effect. I took as many drama electives as I could fit in when doing my undergraduate degree in psychology and criminology. It’s amazing how useful they proved to be in my professional life.
The cherry on top was a trembling lower lip a la Little Orphan Annie.
“Oh give it up,” he said, laughing. “I don’t believe that quiver for an instant.”
But I got you to laugh, I thought. These days, that’s victory enough.
By the terms of my father’s will, Carmedy and I became equal partners in his investigation agency. I took a leave of absence from the City Police Services to figure out what to do about that.
Carmedy thought I was crazy. Give up a secure job with benefits in this economy? But when had the economy not been an issue? I knew Dad didn’t expect me to inherit so soon. Well, I didn’t expect to lose my father so soon. Life happens.
He thought I was even crazier to take the cat-killer case. And he was pissed off I didn’t consult him. Fair enough, but how did he expect me to say no to the Chief?
But that was yesterday’s news. I was determined to reduce the tension between us. For ten years we had been avoiding each other because of a misunderstanding my darling father created. I had miles to go in the grieving department, but was tired of being sad all the time, and walking on eggshells around Carmedy was getting old.
“How are the reports going?”
“They’re going.” I glanced around the room and checked my handiwork. Not up to Thorsen standards but not too shabby either. “I’m making coffee. Want some?”
He looked at the half empty bottle of flat cola on his desk.
“I’ll make you a café au lait.”
“Yes, please.”
I nodded, a bit distracted. Something was missing.
“I could help you finish the reports. I’m almost done with the client statements.”
No way, budinski! It’s taken me days to make sense of and to streamline his raw notes. I didn’t say this though. I just shook my head.
“Then how about if I take your place on the patrol tonight?”
I laughed. “Miss prowling around in the cold and damp? No way! Besides, you’re the one who told me if I took a job without consulting you first, I’d have to do it myself.”
I heard the sigh and turned around in time to see the eye roll.
“I get it,” I said, hands up in surrender. “You have to work with Valerio on the Eldridge case. I want it tied up as tightly as possible too.” Damn straight. That was my father’s last case before he died.
He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him get a word out.
“There are year-end statements and month-end invoices on your plate as well. And, no doubt, you have plans for Christmas. Have I missed anything?”
He shook his head and managed a smile. I turned back to the office kitchenette. A few minutes later, I presented Carmedy with his café au lait.
“Don’t worry, Carmedy, I’ll get the reports done…in time for you to see I did it right. Now that I’ve cleared my head and have fresh coffee, I’m good to go. But first…”
I remembered what I forgot. There was one last paper bag to empty. I picked it up and climbed on top of my desk.
“What the hell?”
I pulled out a bunch of fresh mistletoe, wired into a ball and tied with a red ribbon. I stepped over my work to hang the ball between our desks. I had to reach to secure the suction hook. I felt, rather than saw Carmedy move in, ready to catch me if I lost my balance. When the job was done, I reached to use his shoulder to steady me when I jumped down. He did me one better and lifted me off the desk. We both looked
up, but the mistletoe was out of range.
I think I was relieved. Carmedy looked disapproving, either because we didn’t get to kiss or I put him in the position that we might. I went for the latter.
“Before you tell me it’s unprofessional to have mistletoe in the office, the plant was originally hung to bring peace.”
He went back to his desk muttering, “I knew that.”
“Thought you might need reminding.”
3
The one thing that police work and private investigation have in common is reports. There were legal statements and client reports, and my new least favourite—the summaries we had to log with Police Services to keep our license to work with them.
Carmedy and Garrett Investigations was more than the incorporation of a couple of P.I.’s. We were consulting detectives too...just like my childhood hero, Sherlock Holmes. Not very like Sherlock Holmes though—especially now. Also, Chief Thorsen was no Inspector Lestrade. He was smarter and a lot harder to impress. He had been one of my father’s rookies. I’d known him all my life. That was one of the things that made my decision about whether or not to leave Police Services so hard. Fortunately he gave me an exit that allowed me to return. He let me combine compassionate leave with a training sabbatical. Sooner or later, though, I’d have to make a choice.
Because Thorsen trusted my father, his former partner and mentor, Garrett Investigations had preferential status. In theory, Carmedy & Garrett Investigations maintained that preferential status but I had to wonder, would Joe Garrett have taken a cat-killer case?
At four, Carmedy sat on the edge of my desk.
Carmedy was built along square lines, broad shouldered, deep chested, muscles designed for strength, not speed—the complete opposite of my father. I used to think my father only hired him for muscle. I know better now, but when he wants to be, like now, Carmedy can be an immovable object.
I don’t have my father’s height or Carmedy’s breadth, but I’m not easily intimidated or distracted. I kept going until I’d finished the section I was working on. If he really wanted my attention, he could use my name. But that was another source of tension between us.
I was used to being referred to by my last name by my colleagues. Coming from a military background, Carmedy was used to the same. But for him, my father was Garrett. So, I called him Carmedy and he avoided using my name whenever possible. This time he used a shoulder tap to get my attention.
“Are you going home or upstairs before the stakeout?”
“Upstairs. I brought everything I’d need.”
“Then you should go rest.” He sounded like my mother. “If I tell you to go upstairs, will you take a quick nap, or will you go back to packing up your father’s stuff?”
I shrugged. I almost rolled my eyes. I hate it when Carmedy reminds me of my mother. I love her dearly, but I only need one of her in my life.
“Well?”
“I’ll have a shower,” I said, giving in. “If I nap I might not want to get up again.”
“Then go,” he said, pointing to the inside door. “I’ll call you in two hours if you haven’t returned.”
I nodded. This was an order I didn’t mind following. Desk work was exhausting.
Flipping Carmedy a salute, I bypassed the inside steps and used the main entrance accessed from the fourth floor foyer—the location of my father’s personal mailbox. Not much came by post anymore, but the odd sympathy card showed up from older relatives.
“Ms. Garrett!”
Great!
I slapped a smile on my face before turning to greet my new tenant.
When I inherited half my father’s business, I also inherited a third interest in the building. Effectively, that meant I had control over the fourth floor where the office was and the attic where my father’s flat was. When the financial advisor from the third floor asked if the space across from the office was available for his son’s new business, I figured it would be a good way of generating additional income.
Carmedy wasn’t happy about it, but at least he had the grace to say he wished I had consulted him, not that I should have done so. Now I wondered if he knew something I didn’t. Mother again.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Koehne.” I took his outstretched hand.
“Always a pleasure to see you,” he said, cupping my hand in both of his. “I was wondering if you had a chance to consider my offer.”
I pulled away.
“I already considered it, Mr. Koehne. I said no.”
“Ms. Garrett…Kate…may I call you Kate?”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
That put a small road bump in his pitch, but didn’t slow him long enough for me to make my escape.
“The thing is, Outreach Dating has plenty of men on its lists, men who are looking for Ms. Right—or at least Ms. Right for now—but we don’t have many women. I’ll throw in a hair and face make-over before your interview. Not that you aren’t lovely as is, but the fashion is for up-dos and swing-era-retro is in, so if you have an appropriate outfit … Wouldn’t you like a date for New Year’s Eve? All we have to do is book a time…”
“Time is one thing I don’t have. I’m also short on money. Specifically, I’m short the money you owe for last month’s rent.”
It was better than a boot in the rear for getting rid of the pest. He exited, with a hearty “Happy Holidays” before I had a chance to extract another promise he wouldn’t keep.
Inside the apartment, I tried to avoid looking into the open living area. The bedroom was safe, cleared of emotional booby-traps.
My stepfather David helped me go through Dad’s clothes, the bulk going to the Graveyard and Stinktown shanties where I knew they’d be distributed fairly. I only kept a few items—a Shetland cable-knit sweater Grandma Garrett made, Dad’s academy issue sweats and tees and his second best black trench coat. His best coat was buried with him.
The few personal items left out included a silver-backed brush set that had belonged to my great-grandfather and a few framed photos that were nostalgic but not sad. There were other things, packed away by David, for me to look at later. I didn’t ask. He didn’t tell.
The living area was a whole other ball game. Keep, store, give and recycle bins were set up for sorting through the contents of the combination living room, dining room and kitchen. Everything had to be packed away so a contractor could come to replace the mouldy plaster ceiling.
“You couldn’t have fixed it last spring, when the damp started,” I said, looking heavenwards. “No. You had to leave it to me to deal with. I love you, Dad, but you’re a bum.”
Sighing, I made a beeline to the fridge where a collection of leftovers waited. Three-day old Punjabi, two-day old Greek and yesterday’s pizza remains. Making up a mixed plate of finger foods, I grabbed a beer with the plan of packing a book box or two while I ate. Books were easy. Just pack them up for storage. Yes, there were a lot of them. My darling father loved electronic gadgets but he preferred to read hard copy books.
“Downloading information on a screen is convenient,” he’d say. “Reading a book is a holiday. Rereading a good book is like visiting an old friend.”
I guess he infected me with that outlook because I wouldn’t dream of selling, or heaven forbid, recycling his library. Getting rid of his books would be like shooting his dog…or poisoning his cat.
“Why poison a cat in such an elaborate way?” I shook my head. “Doesn’t make sense. Does it have to?”
I dug through the bin I just packed and pulled out one of the books I remember him giving me to read when I was writing a paper on serial killers and mass murderers for high school sociology. It wasn’t the most recent work even then, but Dad thought it was important enough to keep on his reference shelves. Tucking The Anatomy of Motive under my arm and grabbing my dinner, I left the packing to go eat and read in the bedroom.
A bugle tattoo woke me with a start. I’d have to change the ring tone on the landline before it gave me a heart at
tack. Apparently I fell asleep reading after my shower. I switched on and squinted blearily at Carmedy’s face on the viewer. He gave a little cough, and I noticed that my towel had slipped down.
4
In the detective’s locker room, we all used the same space, regardless of gender or sexual orientation. There were a couple of cubicles for the extremely shy or religiously constrained, but otherwise the locker room was like an open concept dorm without the beds although, the couch was comfortable to sleep on. We were supposed to be like family. We looked out for each other, poked fun, offered a shoulder or a kick as needed but never behaved in a way that would be uncomfortable…at least, not on the job.
Evidently, my breasts made Carmedy uncomfortable, so I turned off the screen. That’s when I noticed the time.
“Shit!”
“Do you want me to call Mrs. Parnell? I could push back your meeting half an hour.”
I shook my head, forgetting he couldn’t see now. “No need.”
This wasn’t the first time I had to go from zero to a hundred percent in a few minutes. I’d been doing it since high school. Fifteen minutes later, Carmedy sent me off with a bag of sandwiches, fruit and the keys to the company car. That put him way ahead of my mother. She’d never let me take her car.
East Hills was built around land reclaimed from the city dump. The landfill was turned into a park with trails winding over man-made hills, through formal and natural gardens and past two playgrounds. A wide avenue surrounded the park from which streets extended like bent spokes.
I knew the area well. My mother and David moved there a few years back, about the time the park was being developed. Like most of the newer neighbourhoods, it contains mixed housing. Clumps of single family homes are broken up by groups of low-rise apartments. By provincial law there has to be thirty-percent tree cover in new development, but municipal regulations require clear lines of sight in public areas. So, every house has a tree, but trees and hedges have to be spaced. The resulting effect is more like an architectural model than an organic neighbourhood.