A Most Unpleasant Wedding

by Judith Alguire

  He stared at the door jamb. “Blood?”

  “Sure is.”

  He frowned. “Seems kind of low down on the wall. We’re thinking she was on a horse.”

  “Maybe she got on the horse afterwards.”

  “Doesn’t make sense — to get knocked on the head, then get on the horse.”

  “Maybe she got on the horse to get away,” Payette said.

  “Maybe.” Brisbois stared at the stain. “Definitely not splatter.”

  “No, it’s smear. There’re also some smudges on the floor.”

  “You got specimens?” It was a rumination, not a question.

  “We checked the whole stable. This is the only place that registered for blood.”

  He looked toward the stalls. “Looks as if somebody cleaned out the stalls. Did you check the manure pile?”

  She cracked a grin. “We’re going to draw straws for that.”

  He thought for a moment. “Sheffield’s at the Pleasant. Who else have we got on the ground?”

  “Maroni. He’s tracking back from the site.”

  “OK.” Brisbois turned to Creighton. “Let’s go see what Maroni turned up.”

  Miss Miller stepped into a small clearing, stopped. “This looks promising.”

  Simpson looked around. “It’s a pleasant combination of sun and shade. But I’m not sure if it’s big enough to accommodate everyone, unless we scatter the guests among the trees. And” — he pointed to a weathered stake — “I’m not sure if it’s entirely on the Pleasant’s property.”

  “I think it’s Crown land,” she said. “But I’m sure the province won’t mind.” She skipped across the clearing, parted the bushes. “There’s another open spot here, Edward.”

  He followed her, peeked over her shoulder. “Yes,” he said, “rather lovely the way the ferns have grown in though the ledges.”

  Albert tugged at his leash, yipped.

  Simpson cupped a hand over Albert’s muzzle. “Quiet, Albert.”

  Albert whimpered, strained toward the ledge.

  “He must have seen a chipmunk,” Simpson said.

  Miss Miller squinted into the foliage. “Look” — she pointed toward the bushes around the ledges — “look at how those branches have been bent over.”

  He looked in the direction she pointed. “You’re right, it doesn’t look natural.”

  She grabbed his hand. “Let’s take a closer look.” She pulled him after her to the ledge, squealed with delight. “Isn’t that clever, Edward? Someone has set up a blind. They’ve tied cord around those branches and anchored them to that tree.” She dropped his hand, started to untie the cord.

  “I don’t know if you should do that, Elizabeth.”

  The branches snapped back to reveal an opening.

  “It looks like some sort of dwelling,” Simpson said.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  “I don’t think we should.”

  “I don’t think it’s occupied. It’s probably an abandoned hunting blind.” She charged ahead against his protests, swept aside a piece of tattered canvas tarpaulin that covered the entrance. “Edward, look.”

  He hesitated.

  “Edward, come on.” Her voice rose with excitement. “Look at this.”

  Brisbois and Creighton picked their way up the entrance route to the place where Evelyn Hopper’s body had been found.

  Maroni waved a clipboard as they approached. “We’ve been trying to get hold of you guys.”

  Brisbois checked his pocket, grimaced. He had inadvertently turned off his cell phone.

  “We’ve got something for you.” The forensics officer turned away, beckoning over his shoulder. “Come on. Keep tight behind me, please.”

  Maroni led them over an outcropping. A snake slithered over Brisbois’ foot.

  Brisbois froze. “Jesus.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Snake.”

  Creighton peered into the underbrush. “I didn’t know you were afraid of snakes.”

  “I’m not afraid of them. I just don’t want them crawling over my feet.”

  “Here.” Maroni stopped, pointed.

  Brisbois squinted. “What have you got?”

  Maroni hunkered down. “This rock. It was two feet from the body.”

  Brisbois shoved his hat back. “You think she hit her head on that?”

  Maroni smiled. “Could be, but we’ve got something else for you.” He stood, pointed. “Look at that.”

  Brisbois focused on the low-hanging branch.

  “That’s hair,” Maroni said. “You know what I think happened?”

  Brisbois indulged him.

  “She catches her hair on that branch. Falls off the horse. Hits her head on that rock.”

  “Why did the horse run off?” Brisbois wondered. “You’d think he’d stay around.”

  “He would have if his name was Trigger.” Maroni saw Brisbois’ face turn into a thundercloud and hastened to add, “Maybe he did for a while. Then he got spooked by a raccoon or something. Horses get weird around little animals.”

  Brisbois took out his notebook, jotted a few notes. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing for now. I’ll get some photos. Pack up the rock.”

  “OK, good work.” Brisbois turned away.

  Creighton followed.

  “It doesn’t add up,” Brisbois said. “There’s a smear of blood on the door jamb. A few spots on the floor. She ends up here, gets clotheslined on that branch, falls off the horse, smacks her head on a rock. The right side of her head barely bleeds, but there’s blood on the right side of the door jamb.”

  Creighton shrugged. “She whacks her head on something in the barn. Her head doesn’t bleed, but maybe her nose does. She reaches up to touch her nose, smears the blood on the door. She’s kind of wobbly and confused. She can’t control the horse. He charges up into the woods. She gets her hair caught, falls off, hits her head on a rock, punches in her skull, breaks her neck. Works for me.”

  Brisbois stopped, spun on him. “So you’re saying it was an accident.”

  Creighton focused his gaze into the canopy. “Could have been.”

  Brisbois jammed his hands into his pockets, stamped off. After a few paces, he stopped. Creighton caught up to him.

  “There was nothing on her,” Brisbois said. “No ID. Nothing.” He started off again.

  Creighton fell into step. “She decides to give the horse some exercise. Why would she have anything with her? It wasn’t as if she was going into town. For all we know, she wasn’t planning to leave the property. Like her daughter said, she sometimes just rode around the paddock.”

  “So where did her stuff go?”

  “Maybe she had a little hidey-hole for that stuff. Maybe one of those fake cabbages or something.”

  Brisbois stopped. “That blood on the door jamb doesn’t make sense.”

  Creighton threw his hands up. “Maybe it wasn’t hers.”

  Brisbois shot him with an index finger. “Right. And?”

  Creighton smiled. “Maybe it was her killer’s.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Brisbois jingled some change in his pocket. “She wasn’t wearing her watch. She wasn’t wearing her rings. I can see her taking the watch off to ride, but not the rings.”

  Creighton tipped his hat over his eyes. “So some guy startles Evelyn Hopper in the stable. He whacks her on the head. Her horse gets startled and charges off into the woods. The guy cuts himself somehow. He leaves blood on the door frame. He follows her, finds her lying on the ground. He robs her.” He shook his head. “No, I can’t really see that. If I were him, if I’d just come into the stable to see what I could grab, I wouldn’t confront her. I’d just get the hell out of there.”

  “Maybe he panicked,” Brisbois said. “He followed her to make sure she wasn’t going to turn him in. He found her there, lying on the ground, dead. He couldn’t pass up the chance to rob her.” He stopped, thought for a moment. “Do you think she ro
de bareback?”

  “No.”

  “Terri said the horse’s tack was missing. Does that mean the bridle and the saddle?”

  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  “So where’s the saddle?”

  Creighton looked at him, dumbfounded.

  “When we saw the horse, all he had on was his bridle.”

  Creighton shrugged. “Lloyd probably took the saddle off when he hosed him down.”

  “Let’s ask him.” Brisbois started off down the hill. “There could be fingerprints.”

  Creighton chuckled. “I wouldn’t count on it. Lloyd probably washed it too.”

  Margaret hurried up to the desk. “Rudley, I’ve just heard the most distressing news. That poor woman they found in the woods was Evelyn Hopper.”

  He stared at her. “Who in hell is Evelyn Hopper?”

  “A neighbour on the upper road. She lived on Mr. McGee’s old property.”

  He thought about that. “Well, that makes sense, Margaret. We didn’t know who he was either until after he died.”

  “That was tragic.”

  He nodded. “A man wearing a tie should never pause to feed a branch into the chipper.”

  “His son said he was fussy about his property. He couldn’t stand to see debris lying about.” She sighed. “The point is, Rudley, we should make a greater effort to get to know our neighbours. We shouldn’t act as if the lakeshore is all there is to the area.”

  “On the contrary, Margaret. I think it’s perfectly fine. We have enough gruesome deaths to deal with without involving the neighbours.”

  “Tut-tut, Rudley, we ought to be grateful we have decent people living on the back roads. We could have motorcycle gangs.”

  “At least they tend to murder their own.”

  Margaret was about to respond when Brisbois and Creighton entered the lobby.

  “Sorry to barge in,” said Brisbois, removing his hat. “We were looking for Lloyd.”

  Rudley leaned over the desk and bellowed, “Lloyd.”

  Lloyd came down the hallway, hammer in hand.

  “That horse you found,” said Brisbois. “Did he have a saddle?”

  “Nope.”

  “Saddle blanket?”

  “Nope.”

  Brisbois exhaled slowly. “OK.”

  “Maybe it fell off,” said Lloyd.

  “Now, that’s rich,” said Rudley. “You’ve got dozens of investigators scouring the woods and you can’t find something as big as a saddle.”

  “Be nice, Rudley.”

  Brisbois’ cell phone rang. “Brisbois.” His brows shot up. “OK.” He turned to Creighton. “Apparently, Mr. Hopper just woke up.”

  Carl Hopper lay in bed, the head of the bed elevated to a thirty-degree angle.

  “Mr. Hopper,” Brisbois began, “I don’t know if you remember us — Detectives Brisbois and Creighton.”

  Carl nodded slightly.

  Brisbois helped himself to the vinyl-covered armchair beside the bed. Creighton leaned against the window frame.

  “Do you know why we’re here, Mr. Hopper?”

  Carl blinked. “You’re here about Evelyn.” He pressed his lips together tightly, then said, “About what happened to Evelyn.”

  Brisbois nodded. “Yes. We need to ask you a few questions.” He paused to make sure he had Carl’s attention. “OK?”

  “OK.”

  Brisbois prepared his notebook. “When did you last see your wife alive, Mr. Hopper?”

  Carl frowned. “She went riding. That night. The night they said it happened.”

  “What time?”

  Carl hesitated. “I don’t know. It was dark.”

  Brisbois waited, but Carl’s gaze has shifted to the window. “OK,” he said finally, “take me through this. You saw your wife last night. Did you have supper together?”

  Carl moistened his lips. “It was dark. She came in and went upstairs. Then she went out.”

  “Where did she go?”

  Carl looked at him as if he found the question absurd. “She went to the stable.”

  Brisbois sighed. “You say she came in, then went out. Where did she come in from?”

  Carl frowned. “I don’t know.” He paused, working at a bit of dry skin on his lower lip with his tongue. “Maybe she was just moving her car.” He paused, looking deflated. “I don’t know.”

  Brisbois sat back, reviewed his notes. “OK, let’s try something else. Tell me about that day. You got up. Where was Mrs. Hopper?”

  Carl’s gaze drifted to Creighton, then back to Brisbois. “She was in her office at home.”

  “Go on.”

  “I had to go into town — Middleton — to the dentist.”

  “What time?”

  “What?”

  “What time did you leave the house?”

  “Around noon.”

  “Was Mrs. Hopper still at the house?”

  Carl frowned. “In her office.”

  “Did she say if she had any appointments? Mention she was meeting somebody?”

  Carl shook his head.

  Brisbois watched him for a moment. “What time did you finish up at the dentist?”

  “Around three.”

  “Then what?”

  “I went to the library.” Carl hesitated, thought for a moment, “Yes, then I went to the hotel for something to eat. Then I walked home.”

  Brisbois looked up, surprised. “Why didn’t you call your wife to pick you up?”

  “I didn’t want to bother her.”

  Brisbois glanced at Creighton. “You know, Mr. Hopper, my wife would have insisted I call her. She would have driven me to the dentist, sat in the waiting room, the whole nine yards.”

  Carl’s eyes showed a glint of life. “She was busy.”

  “So you walked home.”

  “I started walking, then somebody gave me a lift.”

  Brisbois waited, pen poised. “Who was that?”

  “I don’t know. He said he was staying at the West Wind.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “I think maybe around five.”

  “Then what?”

  “I fell asleep in my chair.”

  “Where was Mrs. Hopper at this point?”

  Carl shook his head.

  Brisbois exhaled slowly. “Was she there when you got home?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Brisbois tapped his notebook against his knee, three times slowly. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right. You got home from the dentist. You don’t know if your wife was there.”

  “She might have been in her office.”

  “Wouldn’t she have come down to see how you were if she heard you come in?”

  “Maybe she didn’t hear me.”

  “Was her car there?”

  Carl looked surprised. “I don’t know.”

  “So you fell asleep in your chair. Then sometime after that, Mrs. Hopper came in and went upstairs. Then she came back down and told you she was going riding.”

  Carl stared at him. “Yes.”

  “Did you have any other conversation with her — other than that she was going riding?”

  “No.”

  “What time did Mrs. Hopper return from her ride?”

  Carl shook his head. “I don’t know. I fell asleep on the couch.”

  “What time did you wake up?”

  “Early. It was just before Roslyn got there. Before seven-thirty. She comes then.”

  “When did you realize your wife was missing?”

  “There wasn’t any coffee. I thought maybe she’d gone riding.”

  “You said she went riding the night before.”

  “Sometimes she does.”

  “Was there anything that made you think she might not have come home after you fell asleep on the couch?”

  Hopper shook his head.

  Brisbois flipped back through his notes. “Did anything feel amiss?”

  Carl drew a hand across his mouth. “
Just the coffee.”

  Brisbois sat forward, stared at Hopper. “Mr. Hopper, if my wife came home and found me asleep on the couch, she’d wake me up before she went to bed. You know, she’d worry about me getting a stiff neck, sleeping on the couch with one of those decorative pillows. Wives worry about that sort of thing. If she didn’t wake me up — if she thought I looked particularly exhausted — and if she had to leave the house before I woke up, she’d leave me a note.”

  Carl blinked, looked away. “Evelyn wouldn’t do that.”

  Brisbois sighed. “What I’m trying to say, Mr. Hopper, is that if my wife didn’t wake me or leave me a note, I’d know something was wrong.”

  Carl Hopper started to cry.

  Brisbois sat at a picnic table in the pocket park enclosed by three wings of the hospital, scratching notes. Creighton ambled up, waving a brown paper bag.

  “Two hot dogs all dressed,” said Creighton. “Two jelly donuts — raspberry — and coffee. Double sugar for you.”

  “Thanks.” Brisbois opened the coffee, took a sip. “Think he killed her?”

  Creighton straddled the bench, unwrapped his hot dog. “I don’t think he’d remember if he did. It seems our guy can’t handle anything stronger than an Aspirin.”

  “Some people are like that.” Brisbois examined his hot dog. “You didn’t put hot peppers on this, did you?”

  “Sweet pickle relish.”

  Brisbois checked his notes. “She worked all the time. They didn’t seem to share a social life. She thought he was a wimp. Do you think she had something on the side?”

  Creighton bit into his hot dog, chewed thoughtfully before answering. “Don’t you think she would have given her best friend just a little hint?”

  Brisbois spread a serviette on his lap. “I don’t know. She sounds like a pretty cool customer. Definitely not one of your warm and fuzzies. Maybe if she had something on the side, she treated it like business.”

  “So it doesn’t work out,” Creighton theorized. “She tries to break it off. He’s angry. He comes to her house. They argue. He kills her. Or he calls her. She doesn’t want to see him. They argue. She hangs up on him. He comes over, surprises her as she’s about to set out on one of her reflective rides. He whacks her.”

  “Could be,” Brisbois said. “But you’d think Carl would have heard something going on.”

  Creighton sniffed. “Carl was probably sucking his thumb with a pillow pulled over his head.”