by Valerie Tate
* * *
After a long morning of chasing down false Marmalade sightings, Chris had come to the same conclusion. It was too small a town for someone not to have seen something of him by now. Someone must have taken him. But who?
Driving down a side street, he saw a familiar figure raking a lawn. Wilf Mitchell, the gardener, smiled and waved as he drove by. Wilf certainly got around.
And then the lightning struck! Wilf! How could he have missed it? Wilf knew the cat. He had access. And, this was the clincher, he’d witnessed the signing of the will so he would have known the provisions it contained. He must have been blind not to see it before.
There was no time to lose. He drove around the corner, parked and slunk back to watch Wilf from behind a row of cedars.
As he watched the older man bagging the pile of leaves, what had seemed a certainty a few minutes earlier now seemed ridiculous. Sure, he had knowledge and access, but Chris couldn’t get around one thorny fact: if Wilf had taken the cat, why hadn’t they had any demand for money?
Feeling foolish, Chris turned to leave, but seeing Wilf gathering up his tools, he decided to wait until he’d left to avoid being seen.
Wilf put his tools into the back of a rather dilapidated truck, got in and drove off towards the main street. As he drove by, Chris noticed on the passenger seat a very large bag of something he was only too familiar with – a national brand of cat food.
Without further thought, he ran to his car, jumped in and pulled out onto the road a few cars behind the, thankfully, distinctive old truck. He had never had occasion to tail anyone before and he discovered it was surprisingly difficult to stay close enough to keep his quarry in sight without drawing attention to himself.
It must have been his shopping day, because the old man made a series of stops along King Street: the bakery, the supermarket, even the new micro-brewery that had just opened. If he hadn’t been so busy tailing Wilf, Chris would have stopped in there himself. He’d been meaning to try it out.
Finally, however, he seemed to be done. Turning off the main street towards the lake he headed for the beach road that meandered along the shoreline. It was a drive Chris normally loved, winding slowly through trees, past cottages and campgrounds, always with the spectacular view of the white sand beach and the white-capped water of the lake. But on that day, the narrow winding road made keeping the truck in sight difficult. There were numerous roads leading off of it that Wilf could turn onto, and with no other traffic for camouflage, Chris couldn’t risk getting too close.
Coming out of a bend in the road, he was just in time to see the truck turn into a driveway on the lakeside. Chris continued past, getting enough of a look at the small cottage to make sure he would recognize it again, and then pulled off into a parking area a few cottages down. Thinking fast, he pulled off his shoes and socks, and rolled up his pant legs. There was a public walkway down to the beach. Hopefully he would look like a man going for an impromptu stroll along the water.
The sandy path led through stands of nearly barren birches and Lombardy poplars that gradually gave way to tall, waving dunes of native grasses that had been recently reintroduced along the shore to prevent further erosion of the beach sand that had been the result of a previous municipal government’s decision to remove the original dunes to ‘clean up the beach’.
The sand stretched for miles in both directions. In summer it hosted sun-worshippers of all ages as well as picnickers, Frisbee and volleyball players, surfers and those who just loved to frolic in the cold, clear water as it rolled onto the shore in great, crashing waves. Some were lucky enough to own one of the many cottages that were nestled among the trees. It appeared that Wilf was one of the lucky ones.
Strolling casually along the water’s edge, Chris stopped to skim a stone. He wished he was there just for the pleasure of it – the smell of the beach, part sea, part land; the pounding rush of the waves on the sand; the raucous cries of the gulls on their never-ending quest for food; the sight of clouds like mountain ranges in the distance, sketched with charcoal against a dove-gray sky; the crisp air slapping his cheeks and nipping his toes; the feel of the wet sand under his naked feet – all of these sensations enveloped him. Then he spotted the cottage Wilf had gone into.
Made of fieldstone and gray clapboard, with a shake shingle roof, it was something out of a child’s fairy tale. Like all of those along the shore, the front of the cottage faced the water with the driveway and the back of the house along the road. Trumpet vines grew up a trellis at the side of the front porch which was encompassed by a white spindle railing and held wicker chairs and a swing. Sunny yellow storm shutters framed the large bay window.
It didn’t look like a kidnapper’s lair but appearances could be deceptive.
He continued to skim stones as he moved slowly up the beach towards the cottage. There was no one in sight and so, as he approached the cottage, he headed for the long grasses of the dunes and then, pretending to roll his pants a little higher, he slipped into the grass and lay on his stomach facing the wooden screen door. He really didn’t know what he hoped to see or do from there, but he didn’t have a better idea.
Lying in the sand on a hot summer’s day is glorious. Lying on the sand on the shores of Lake Huron in mid-November is not. The sand was damp and smelled of fish and other things he preferred not to identify. He was sure there were probably sand fleas and other creepy crawlies as well. Fortunately, before he was completely chilled and covered in bites, the screen door opened and Wilf came out. He was wearing a track suit and runners and, leaving the porch, set off up the beach at a brisk walk.
Chris would never have a better opportunity. Slithering on his stomach through the sand and tall grass, he reached the porch steps. He checked to make sure there was no one in sight, and took the steps two at a time and sprinted across the tongue and groove floor of the porch to the door. But there his luck ran out. It was locked. Even if he was willing to illegally enter the cottage, and he wasn’t sure that he was, that decision had been made for him. Frustrated, he was about to leave when he heard a noise from inside. He thought it sounded like a meow. Peering in the window he saw cats, lots of them, sprawled on various pieces of furniture around the room. Was one of them Marmalade? He couldn’t tell but he was damned if he was going to leave without finding out.
He was considering his options when he saw Wilf making his way back up the beach. With no other way out and no way to explain his presence on the porch, he leaped over the railing and ran out the back way to the beach road. Walking back towards his car, he thought frantically. He needed a plan to get into that house.
And then a thought struck him that stopped him in his tracks. Wilf had no idea that he suspected him of anything. Mentally slapping himself on the forehead, he realized that he had let the whole ‘detective’ thing cloud the situation. He could just casually run into him on the beach and take it from there.
There wasn’t much time if he was to meet Wilf before he was back in his cottage, so for the second time he sprinted to the public walkway and down through the trees and dunes to the beach. Stopping briefly to take a deep calming breath, he walked casually out onto the sand once more.
Wilf was just climbing the steps to his porch when he spotted Chris walking along the water’s edge.
“Mr. Mallory! What are you doing here?” he asked in a tone of pleasant surprise.
“Hi, Wilf. I just felt like taking a walk on the beach. It won’t be long before it’s too cold. Is this your place? It’s terrific.”
“Thanks. I’ve lived here for more than forty years. My wife and I bought it when we were first married. Would you like to come in? I just bought some beer from that new brewery in town. We could open a couple of bottles and try it out.”
On the drive home, with frozen feet, what he was sure were flea bites on his ankles, and sand in incredibly uncomfortable places, Chris tried to remember a time when he had felt more foolish. He couldn’t think of one. Wilf wasn’
t a catnapper. He was a cat rescuer. He’d been lonely after the death of his wife and had started to take in strays for company. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, the old man needing companionship and a reason to get up in the morning, and the cats needing security and someone who cared about them.
Thankful that no one would ever have to know about his brilliant piece of detective work, Chris decided to drop by Tim Horton’s on his way home. A bowl of hot chili, a donut and coffee might help erase the embarrassment of having thought that kindly old man was capable of such a dastardly plot.
He parked in the lot and started for the door, but as his hand reached for the handle, what he saw inside made his heart stop. Alicia was sitting inside with the Investigator from the APS. What was his name? Jameson? While he watched, she laughed at something the guy said, touched his arm and flipped her hair. She was flirting with him!
Chris turned and numbly walked back to his car. He drove home in a fog, not even remembering how he’d gotten there, and walked slowly upstairs to his apartment. Once inside, he sat slumped in a chair, sick at heart, forgetting to take off his coat.
How could he have been so wrong? He’d thought she loved him as much as he loved her. True, he hadn’t said anything when he’d had the chance, but it just wasn’t the right time. He couldn’t ask her to tie herself to a man with no prospects. After all, she was a beautiful, intelligent woman. She deserved more.
It was hours before he could drag himself to bed and almost morning before he finally fell into a troubled sleep.
The phone woke him at nine o’clock. Groggily, he picked it up and mumbled something unintelligible.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!” Alicia’s cheerful voice came over the phone. “Can you come over, ASAP? I’ve something to tell you and I don’t want to do it over the phone.”
His stomach contracted painfully but he said he’d be there after he’d showered.
“Can you stop at Tim Horton’s? I’d love some coffee and a cinnamon bun.”
He’d wanted to ask her if last night’s hadn’t been enough for her, but all he said was, “Sure. See you in an hour.”
An hour later, he stood at the door with a tray of coffees and a bag of cinnamon buns. Pressing the buzzer with his elbow, he waited until Alicia swung it wide and made a grab for the buns. They went into the library where James and Alice were waiting.
“All right, Alicia, now that he’s here can you please tell us what you have been so mysterious about?” Alice’s voice contained a little of the vinegar Chris remembered from their first meeting. It showed how the strain was getting to everyone.
Washing a cinnamon bun down with her coffee, Alicia curled up on the sofa with a self-satisfied smirk on her face. She looked a little surprised, though, when Chris, instead of sitting beside her, went to stand by the fire.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I’ve found out something really important, something that could help us. Yesterday, I was trying to figure out who would have a reason to take Marmalade.” Chris really hoped she wasn’t going to say Wilf. “And the obvious answer,” she continued, “is the people who have something to gain if this lawsuit goes against us.” She looked expectantly at each of them but no one offered a suggestion. Exasperated, she said, “The Animal Protection Society, of course. They are the ones who benefit if we can’t find Marmalade.”
The suggestion launched with excited anticipation landed like a lead balloon. Her father looked at her skeptically. “That’s a bit far-fetched, honey. Might just as well suspect Wilf Mitchell. Everyone knows he collects cats.” Everyone laughed except Chris who pretended to be deep in thought while he surreptitiously scratched his sand-flea bites, and Alicia who was affronted that nobody was taking her seriously.
Ignoring the joke, she continued, “That’s what I thought too, but I decided to do a little investigating. I called that cute Investigator. You, know, Hugh Jameson, the one who came here to question us. Anyway, I arranged to meet him for coffee at Tim Horton’s last night. I told him I was so upset by what was happening and I said that I didn’t want him to think badly of me.” Her face wore a self-satisfied smirk at the memory of her heart-melting performance. “He was really very sweet. He said he knew I wouldn’t have been involved in anything underhand. I got him talking about his job and the APS. He really loves his job but he hates his boss, the Regional Director, Bill Abbot. He says that Abbot doesn’t care about the animals. He’s just using the APS as a stepping-stone to political life. He says Abbot is thrilled with this whole situation. He loves the publicity and the large financial gain for the Society is a big feather in his cap.” Alicia sat back, smiling expectantly but the others looked a little blank. “Don’t you get it? He could have Marmalade hidden away somewhere.”
Chris, James and Alice glanced surreptitiously at each other. It was possible that someone with that much ambition, someone ruthless enough, could have planned something like this. It was possible, but was it likely?
Chris turned to look at Alicia. Her eyes were shining with excitement. “What do you think we should do?”
It was her turn to be surprised. Didn’t he get it? “I think we would conduct our own investigation. Snoop around a little. See what we can find out.” She couldn’t understand why they weren’t as excited as she was. “I can keep pumping Hugh for inside information.” The despair in Chris’ heart that had lifted slightly when she’d explained why she had met with Jameson, returned in full measure. “We can watch Abbot. See where he goes. If he does have Marmalade, he would have to go and feed him sometime.”
It was a long-shot, but since no-one had a better, or for that matter any other suggestion, they decided it was worth a try.
James looked thoughtful. “Abbot hasn’t lived here very long. I don’t know anything about him. I can ask around a bit and see what I can find out.”
Alice nodded. “I know someone who volunteers out at the Society headquarters. I think I’ll give her a call and invite her over for coffee, see what I can find out about what it’s like there. That is if she’s still talking to me,” she added ruefully.
“I’ll check him out on the computer. Do a credit check, property holdings, that sort of thing.” Privately, Chris thought it was all a waste of time - something he knew a lot about - but he certainly didn’t have a better lead, and remembering the Wilf fiasco, he had no right to ridicule any idea, no matter how far-fetched it might seem.
Alicia, on the other hand, was pumped. “This is great! I just know we’ll come up with something.”
Chapter 39
For the next couple of days, they each pursued their own investigations. Chris felt sick every time he thought about Alicia meeting with Hugh Jameson but tried to push it to the back of his mind. She’d called him a couple of times, her number coming up in Call Display, but he hadn’t answered. Her messages sounded increasingly concerned but he didn’t care. He couldn’t face talking to her yet, not before he was sure he could put on a good performance. That was what it was going to take to appear normal with her, to pretend that nothing had happened and that his world hadn’t just crumbled at his feet.
Strangely though, as messed up as his personal life had become, the research he was doing into Bill Abbot’s financial affairs was turning up some surprising things, and when they finally all met once again in the Dunbar’s library, he had to admit that perhaps there was something to Alicia’s crazy theories.
James went first. “There isn’t too much I can tell you that’s of any help to us. Abbot came here about seven years ago. He’s married. His wife’s name is Jennifer. They have a large house at the edge of town. It’s not their first house in town. They used to live in a much smaller one when they first arrived. They built this one two years ago. He’s a lawyer by profession. He had a practice in Waterloo before he was made the Regional Director and moved here. They must have another source of income besides his salary, because they both drive expensive cars and take at least one long vacation abroad each year
.”
Chris was feeling quite excited at this information, but wanted to postpone his report, and instead asked Alice to go next.
“My friend Susan volunteers at the APS once a week. She helps out with the animals, brushes and grooms them, and just gives them some love and attention. She says the shelter is in bad shape. They are short of everything. The budget is cut to the bone and they may even have to cut staff. There is even talk of closing the barns where they keep the rescued horses, and if that happens, they don’t know what will become of them.”
Alicia cut in, “That’s what Hugh has been telling me. He says that they are being told that government funding keeps getting cut, and that donations are down and there just isn’t enough money. Staff have even taken voluntary pay cuts to try to help out.”
Chris had heard enough. “Well that’s all very interesting in the light of what I’ve found. In the last five years, Abbot has bought not only the land that his house is on, but also two other parcels of land in this area, a beachfront cottage and a few acres of prime development land outside of Walkerton. Not bad for a man whose salary is $95,000 a year.”
There was a momentary stunned silence and they all began talking at once.
“How is that possible?”
“Does his wife work?”
“Did they inherit money?”
“I think he’s a crook.” Alicia said aloud what everyone else was thinking.
“But how do we prove it?” James asked.
However it was Alice who asked the really important question. “And even if we can prove it, how does it help us?”
It was a deflating thought, but again it was Alicia who had the answer. “I think that any man who could steal from helpless animals, and the people who are trying to look after them, would be more than capable of stealing a cat and framing us.” Her eyes were steely with determination. “And I for one will do anything necessary to stop him.”
Before anyone else could respond, there was a loud honking from the street. James looked out. “There’s a Porsche convertible in front of the house with some redhead in it, honking.”