by A. M. Potter
“That’s a long way, especially at night.” She’d measured the distance: almost fifteen kilometers.
“I know, but doable. Larmer’s very fit. He could wear a head lamp. He may have stashed the lamp and a pair of hiking shoes nearby beforehand, but I doubt it. That would leave trace evidence. Earlier today I sent the ninjas to take a look. They didn’t find anything. I suspect he brought his gear along for the swim in some kind of waterproof sack.”
“Possible.”
“Yesterday I determined there’s no Larmer art at Tyler’s condo. I want to verify that there’s none at the Mallory Beach cottage. I have the warrant. Ready for a drive?”
“What about updating Lowrie on the Murphys?”
“Oh, right. See you in ten. Or less.”
Or less. She shook her head inwardly. Always his schedule. Boss or not, it rankled.
***
Naslund knocked on Carrie MacLean’s screen door. “Hello! Anybody home?”
“Yes?” Carrie called.
“It’s Eva. Sergeant Naslund.”
“Just a minute, Eva.”
Carrie opened the door to find Moore standing next to her. “Oh,” Carrie said.
“You remember Inspector Moore?”
She nodded curtly. Her eyes looked hollow. However, her face and body looked fuller. She wore pajama bottoms and a very tight top.
“We have a search warrant,” Naslund said, “for the whole cottage.”
“Why?”
Moore stepped forward. “Because, Miss MacLean, we need to conduct a search.”
“Another search?”
“Correct.” He showed her the warrant. “We request that you leave the cottage and wait outside. We’ll inform you if we need any assistance.”
“Assistance?”
“Yes. To access a closed area, for example.”
“There are no closed areas.”
“Good,” he said. “Miss MacLean, you are excused.”
“Hmmp.” She spun on a heel and marched back into the cottage.
He opened his mouth then stepped forward.
Naslund tapped his arm. Wait, she motioned.
A minute later, Carrie returned to the door carrying a book and a tall glass of sparkling water with a slice of lemon.
“Water would be nice,” Moore said.
“Try the tap.” She strode off.
Naslund watched her go, chin up, back rigid. She tossed her hair as she dropped into a deck chair.
“You can hunt for the assault weapons,” Moore said. “I’ll take care of the art.”
“Okay.” In Naslund’s eyes, Larmer’s paintings were all heavy lines and empty spaces. To say Moore had a better handle on them was an understatement.
***
Moore called off the search at noon. They hadn’t found any hidden weapons or Larmer paintings. Naslund followed Moore to Carrie’s deckchair.
“We’re finished, Miss MacLean,” the inspector said. “You’re clean.”
She raised her chin. “Of course I am.”
The inspector tried to lighten the mood. “Didn’t find any water in your basement.”
“I don’t have a basement.” She eyed him. Don’t try to humor me.
“Figuratively speaking, Miss MacLean.”
Moore shook his head as they drove away from the cottage. “She’s a piece of work. Okay, she might be beautiful, but other than that?” He shook his head again. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Open the windows and boot it.”
Naslund obliged.
A few minutes later he called out, “Good! Thanks.”
She closed the windows and turned the air-con back on.
“That cleared the cobwebs,” he said. “Well,” he continued, “no Larmer art. It looks like he still owes Tyler two hundred sixty G. Could be another motive for murder.”
Chapter 23
Naslund drove slowly along Mallory Beach Road, past the Tyler cottage. A clutch of gray-white clouds clogged the western horizon. She felt the humidity building. She’d done a background check on Darrell Gundy. He was an eighty-seven-year-old widower with a clean sheet.
She turned off the road at Number 744, a one-story Pan-Abode. A white-haired man opened the front door. She immediately recognized him. She’d seen Gundy at the Legion calling bingo games. His back was ramrod straight and his body lean. Even in mid-summer, he wore a long-sleeved shirt.
“C’mon in,” Gundy said. “I know you. You’re the detective, right?” He spoke rapidly, his cadence influenced by decades of calling bingo.
She nodded.
Inside, Gundy directed her to the living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the bay. “Have a seat.” He pointed to a worn leather sofa. “How ’bout a tea, Detective?”
“Fine idea. Thanks.”
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Just a little milk.”
The tea came in a chipped mug. Gundy sat in a straight-backed chair near the window. “My son Roy called last night,” he said after sipping his tea. “He’s my only child, an agricultural analyst in Chicago. He doesn’t get home much. Anyway, I mentioned seeing a large sailboat in the bay on Monday morning. Early. Roy’s been following the Tyler case on the internet, the web, he calls it. He thinks that sailboat could be important. He said I should call the police.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“I don’t like the police much.”
She understood the sentiment. There were cops she didn’t like, usually cops who were bent, which was one reason why she’d left Metro and joined the OPP.
“I’ll admit it, I was once a bit of a hell-raiser.” His face broke into a mischievous grin. “Nothing serious, mind you. But my son said to forget all that and call you.”
“Good.”
“I’m not sure anyone will believe me.” Gundy smiled apologetically. “I think my distance vision is fine, but Doc MacG just gave me a new prescription for reading. Anyhow, let’s go out to the deck.”
“Sure.”
The deck extended to the water’s edge. A moist breeze came off the bay.
“That’s a fine view,” she said. She could easily see across to White Cloud Island.
“Isn’t it?” Gundy enthused. “Look at that flagpole, the one up from the island wharf. Do you see the one I mean?”
She gazed across to the wharf. “Yes.”
“I’m not sure, what color is it?”
“Brown.” She looked again. “Well, more light brown than brown.”
“That’s what I see. And now you say light brown. So did the neighbor.”
She took another look and verified the color.
“Well,” Gundy said, “I guess the eyes are okay.”
“I’d say so.”
After settling into a deck chair, he took up the thread. “As I mentioned, Roy thinks that sailboat could be important. Let me tell you what I saw. I’m a methodical man these days. I recorded the time.”
“Good.” She took out her duty phone. “I’m going to record you, okay?” Although she didn’t need permission to record an interview, she often asked as a courtesy.
Gundy nodded. “It was Monday, July eighth, exactly eight minutes after the hour. Six-oh-eight a.m. A cutter-rigged sailboat was near the top end of White Cloud, heading north. You don’t usually see boats that early on a Monday. So I took up my Bushnells.” He pointed to a pair of binoculars hanging near the deck door. “When I got outside, I saw that the cutter was an old girl, a forty-footer, I’d say, with a dirty white hull and an orange cove stripe. She was tacking against the headwind.”
“From the north, was it?” Naslund asked.
“Northwest.”
She nodded. Correct for July eighth.
Gundy stared at the bay as if visualizing the sight. “There were three people on board.”
“Are you sure?” His number sounded right. The kayakers saw two or three people.
“Yes. And I recognized two of them, a pair of y
oung rascals from Colpoys. Always in trouble. The Murphy brothers, Jake and Willie.”
The Murphys? “Not to be picky, Mr. Gundy, but I better ask you again. Are you absolutely sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” Gundy eyed her.
Naslund felt naked under his stare.
“I’ve seen them many times,” he stated.
“Who was the other person?”
“I didn’t recognize him. He was a white man, medium height, heavyset.”
“Can you describe him a little more?”
“Well, he had gray hair, shorter than mine. He had a farmer’s tan. He was wearing a blue singlet, and his arms where white above the elbows. His shoulders were white too.”
“All right. Did he have any other distinguishing features?”
“Sorry, none that I can recall.”
“Okay. Would you say he was friendly with the Murphy brothers?”
“I’d say so. Put it this way, he was smiling. Laughing too.”
“Did you hear him?” she asked.
“No. But I saw his mouth.”
“One more question: Did you see any other boats?”
“No.”
“Nothing to the south?” By 0608 Thom’s skiff was likely out of sight, blocked by White Cloud. However, the kayakers could have been in view.
“I only looked north, to follow the cutter.”
“For how long?” she asked.
“Two or three minutes. Then I went inside for breakfast.”
“Okay. Do you have anything else to report?”
“No, Detective.”
“Thank you very much.”
***
Driving away from Gundy’s place, Naslund considered the coastline from Mallory Beach to Hope Bay. Although there were no full-service marinas along that stretch, there were wharfs and anchorages. She turned off Bruce Nine just past Adamsville and followed a series of narrow roads to the inlet at the top of Cape Croker. Nothing, as she’d expected. No boats or mooring buoys. The inlet was too exposed to be a good anchorage.
If the cutter was berthed anywhere local, she reckoned Sydney Bay was the spot. It was the only place with a decent-sized wharf. As she drove toward it, her heart began beating faster.
The closer she came to the wharf, the more agitated she got. Rein it in, she told herself. Looking westward, she saw that the gray-white clouds of an hour ago had become dark and ominous. There was a thunder storm on the way. She turned onto Sydney Bay Road. The sky darkened as she drove. The trees leaned eastward, bent by a strengthening wind. The road seemed to go on forever, as narrow roads in the Bruce often did.
She saw it before she saw the wharf--the distinctive sign of a cutter: two forestays. The boat’s mast easily topped the cedars surrounding the wharf. Its height indicated a vessel well over thirty feet long. She drove up to the wharf and stopped five meters from the cutter. Bingo. Dirty white hull, orange cove stripe. The mystery sailboat.
The hairs on her forearms tingled. She opened her window. The air was damp. She felt strangely anxious but told herself it was just the impending squall. From what she could tell, the cutter wasn’t occupied. The hatches were shut, as was the companionway door. She exited her car. Within two steps, the wind plastered her clothes against her body. She leaned forward, fighting a gust, slipping on the gravel underfoot. As she got closer, the cutter loomed larger. An air of surliness surrounded it.
She approached the bow. A cat balefully inspected her from the front deck and then scurried off. Nothing stirred inside the boat. She allowed herself to relax a bit. Pulling out her duty phone, she snapped a photo of the cutter’s registration number. She’d search the boat reg database for the owner.
Pacing slowly, she examined the dockside hull from bow to stern looking for dove-gray paint marks.
Nothing.
She walked to the mid-ship boarding gate, opened the guardrail, and stepped aboard. The boat instantly rolled, swaying as if it had been hit by a wave. If anyone was onboard, that would bring them out. She stopped and waited, preparing her story: Pardon my curiosity. Used to sail a cutter.
No movement inside.
She walked to the bow as fast as she could, gripping the waterside guardrail. Although her left ankle was good, with the boat roll, the deck was treacherous. Holding the guardrail tightly with two hands, she leaned over the side and worked her way along the deck to the stern.
Again, no dove-gray marks. And definitely no sign of a recent wash.
As she disembarked, she solidified her findings. The cutter had no paint scuffs. From what she’d seen, it hadn’t made contact with Thom’s skiff. Which meant the Albin was still in play.
Back inside her car, she fished her personal phone out of the glove compartment and called J.J.
“Sarge here. Got a few minutes?”
“I can tell you have a bee in your bonnet. Get it out.”
“Do you know who owns the old cutter at Sydney Bay wharf? The one with the orange cove stripe.”
“Jake Murphy. Why?”
“Darrell Gundy saw a cutter go by his place--Seven-Forty-Four Mallory Beach--early on July eighth, heading north. I’m pretty sure it was Jake’s cutter.”
“Old Gundy?” J.J. said. “He’s been around since God was a boy.”
“Maybe, but I tell you, he has hawk’s eyes.”
“Okay. So why do you think it was Jake’s?”
“Gundy saw Jake and Willie aboard. And he described the cutter as an old girl with a dirty white hull and an orange cove stripe.”
“That’s Jake’s boat.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted to verify.”
“Jake and Willie,” J.J. muttered, as if to himself. “So, they were out that day. I should have known.”
“We don’t have--”
J.J. cut her off. “Bastards! They’re like a north wind. They go through you instead of around you. I don’t trust them, I tell you!”
“Relax, J.J. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Our team checked their alibis. They were working. We’re checking the alibis again. And Gundy saw another man with them. A white man, about fifty.”
“Jake and Willie plus one. I don’t care who he was. Any way you cut it, we have Jake and Willie Murphy. I don’t like it!”
“Hold it.” Naslund tried to project patience. “Let’s review what we know. Your son saw an Albin heading for Thom’s skiff, not a cutter. And Marty found dove-gray paint on the club’s Albin. In case you’re wondering, there are no dove-gray marks on the Murphys’ cutter. I just took a good look at her. Another thing: she hasn’t been washed in months, maybe years.”
“I’m not surprised,” J.J. said. “But I’m not convinced either. It doesn’t mean she didn’t raft with Thom’s skiff. A good boatman uses fenders. He doesn’t leave any paint marks when he rafts.”
“Even in high seas?”
“Not if he’s good.”
“Is Jake Murphy that good? He’s piloting a wonky old tub.”
“I’ve seen him dock it cleanly in a storm.”
“Okay.” Despite J.J.’s explanation, objections swarmed in her mind. The Murphys’ cutter wouldn’t provide a stable platform to work from. It was the definition of wonky. And what about the two Albin hijackers? What were they doing out on the bay? One of them was carrying a kitbag full of tools, which could easily have included a Phillips screwdriver and a ballpeen hammer.
“Listen, Sarge, I’m not saying you drop the Albin line of inquiry. But can you look into this one too?”
She stilled her mind. J.J. had a point. The hijackers hadn’t left a trail. As to the screwdriver and hammer attack, either Jake or Willie could have done it. Both were strong enough. Apparently both hated Thom. “Okay,” she said, “I’m with you. I’ve got another question for you, on a different matter.”
“Sure.”
“Jenny Murphy said you turned Thom away from her. Is that right?”
“Pretty much. And I have no qualms about it. They didn’t make a good pair. I wa
s looking out for him.”
“Couldn’t he look out for himself?”
“Sure, he could, but not very well. Thom was an innocent in that regard. He got himself in some real binds. I was a wingman of sorts.”
“Anti-wingman, I’d say.”
“True.”
***
Back at the OPP station, Naslund began writing up her report on Gundy’s interview and the Murphys’ cutter at Sydney Bay. Her personal phone crooned when she was halfway through. “Eva here.”
“Hello Sarge,” J.J. said. “Can you talk?”
“Call me in five.”
She was outside when her phone pealed again. There was no one around.
“Safe?” J.J. asked.
“Yep.”
“I have a thought. What if someone was hired to kill Thom? Someone like the Murphys.”
“Or the two hijackers,” she said.
“I know what you’re thinking. Why would the Murphys need someone to hire them? They hated Thom.”
“Right.”
“Okay, they’ve wanted revenge for years, but here’s the thing. It’s possible someone turned up the heat by offering them a fresh incentive--like cash.”
“Possibly,” she said. “But who?”
“I don’t know.” J.J. sighed. “Gotta run. Working on a diesel.”
“Thanks for the info.”
“I’ll call you later. I’m going to chase down Jake and Willie after work.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise.”
“Just for a chat.”
“A chat?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, but don’t do anything. Leave any action to us.”
“I’m a big boy, Sarge.”
Naslund held her tongue. She couldn’t arrest the man to keep him safe.
Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was almost six. Hal had invited her to dinner at seven. She returned to her report and then sat back, considering the idea of a cash incentive. If someone hired Thom’s murderers, who was it? Likely someone who wasn’t strong enough to attack Thom themselves. Carrie MacLean? Someone else? Maybe Gordon Tyler? DC Lowrie had re-evaluated Gordon’s alibi. It hinged on his sister Gillian’s corroboration, and the DC felt sure she would lie for him.