Prisoners of Hope

by Barbara Fradkin

  Amanda’s mind was already racing ahead to possibilities. Picturing Ronny and Janine having a secret affair, Janine tiring of her wholesome husband and no longer needing him now that she had her father’s money. She remembered Benson’s reaction to Ronny that first day. Was there something there? “Did she continue her wild ways even after her marriage?”

  George’s eyes flickered, as if he’d just seen the implication behind her question. “I never paid much attention. But she moved on from Ronny years ago. He was nothing but a flash in the pan for her, a local plaything. She’d have her pick of better meat in the city.”

  Amanda didn’t say anything. It didn’t matter what Janine felt for Ronny. It was his feelings that mattered, and if he had continued to harbour a secret yearning for her, Amanda could easily see Janine exploiting it. Her brief encounter with the woman had been enough to tell her that. Making the unsophisticated country boy commit crimes for her would be sport.

  “Besides, he hasn’t gone off with Janine,” George added with more conviction in his tone. “The police think he’s run off with Danielle. Where’s he going to go? What’s he going to do? Run off to the Philippines? The boy’s never been out of Ontario.”

  George hung around awhile, helping them to unload the kayaks and put the motorboat in the water before he ran out of excuses to stay. Amanda sensed he was at loose ends, unable to focus on the routines of his day while his missing son occupied his thoughts.

  As Chris and Amanda watched his truck wend its way toward the road, she linked her arm through his and laid her head on his shoulder. “I have a bad feeling about all this.”

  “You and me both. But the most obvious answer is usually the right one. Danielle killed her employer and somehow co-opted Ronny into helping her escape.”

  Amanda tilted her head to study him. “That doesn’t sound simple. That sounds very devious. She didn’t strike me as devious, just scared.”

  He slipped his arm around her. “Amanda, just look how she’s made you feel. Like she’s vulnerable and needing protection. And you met her for all of half an hour. Imagine what she could do to a gullible young man.”

  The inconsistencies of the past few days nagged at her. Ronny’s avoidance of Saint Clair Island, his unexplained phone call that first night, and his insistence on paddling out to the Mink Islands and checking on his friend’s cottage. His shocking desertion of her, which seemed out of character with the nice, responsible — albeit playful — man she’d thought he was.

  But most damning of all, his continued silence about his whereabouts, even to his father.

  She sighed as she headed back inside. In the kitchen, she cracked a couple of eggs into a skillet. “I admit the whole thing looks suspicious. But I heard the cook’s opinions, and I met Janine. There was a lot going on in that household, a lot of anger and resentment. I wonder if the police have been able to determine what he died of.”

  “The body would have been transported to the Forensic Pathology Unit in Toronto, and the post-mortem will probably be done today or tomorrow. But if there’s no clear cause of death —”

  “Apparently nothing obvious like a bullet hole or bashed-in skull,” Amanda replied. The aroma of butter and fried eggs filled the kitchen. “There was a party with a lot of drinking. I saw booze bottles and glasses all over the place. A simple thing to slip something into his drink.”

  “Or to get the drinks mixed up.” He fed four slices of bread into the toaster. “Everything will have been bagged and sent for analysis, including possible DNA, to see who drank what.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That will take weeks.”

  “And if it was poison, it may be untraceable, so …” He cocked his head. “Do you know if anyone in the household would have access to poisons? Pharmacist, physician, nurse?”

  She laughed. “I didn’t get that far in my eavesdropping. But it’s a good bet a nanny and a local outfitter’s son wouldn’t be high on the list.”

  “The cops will figure that out, honey.”

  The word slipped out so naturally that she wondered if he even realized it. Then he busied himself with the toast, red creeping up his cheeks. “We’re not that dumb, you know.”

  “Far from it. But that forensic evidence won’t come back for weeks, and meanwhile the police will be focussing their efforts on Ronny and Danielle, because they’ve taken off.” She turned into his arms. “After breakfast, do you fancy a motorboat ride up the coast?”

  “Where to?”

  “Oh, maybe Pointe au Baril. Or the Chippewa Club. If Ronny and Danielle met before, that would be the place.”

  “What about scouting for your kayaking trip?”

  “That too. We can have a picnic lunch on one of the islands on our way back.”

  Two hours later, the sun was high and sparkling off the bay as they set out. Amanda let Chris drive the boat so she could sit up front to navigate the channel and keep a sharp lookout for underwater hazards. Kaylee balanced on the bow, snapping at the waves that splashed up.

  As they passed the waterfront mansions along the way, most of them still shuttered, Chris’s eyes grew wide. He pointed to a dilapidated, two-storey boathouse sagging into the water. “The mother-in-law suite?”

  As they neared Saint Clair Island, Amanda waved him closer. He cut the engine and they drifted forward. In contrast to yesterday, the place looked abandoned. Crime scene tape still fluttered in the brisk breeze, but all the official boats were gone, as well as Candace’s white cruiser.

  Chris was staring up at the house that sprawled in decks and patios and wings over much of the slope. “The older daughter got all this?” he murmured. “That would make one pissed-off younger daughter.”

  “Yeah, and I think she had ways of extracting revenge. Like getting them to babysit while she went for adult R&R. But I can’t see her bumping off her brother-in-law. That wouldn’t get her any closer to the family money chest, and from what I saw of them together, she thought he was one of the good guys.”

  “How good?”

  She replayed the brief dramatic interplay between Benson and Candace. Had there been any intimate undertones? Only the faintest hint, maybe not even there at all. “No, not that good. More like he was sympathetic to her. So she had no reason to profit from his death and perhaps a lot to lose.”

  He laughed and leaned forward to ruffle her hair. “You got me playing ‘what if’ too, Sherlock!”

  “I can’t say I blame the family for leaving,” Amanda said. “It must have been awful to be stuck here, looking at the spot where he died. Do you want to go ashore, just to check?”

  “Check what?”

  She shrugged. “Just to get a sense of where he died.”

  His smile faded. “No. It’s private property.”

  “There’s no one here.”

  He nodded toward the house. “There will be surveillance cameras.”

  She snorted in dismissal.

  “Amanda, I’m a cop.”

  She studied his set features in silence. “I think I lost an earring here yesterday. I’ll just check …”

  His lips twitched in spite of himself. “You? An earring?”

  “Hey! I’ve been known to dress up on occasion. In fact, I own a whole box of earrings from all over the world. All with sentimental value.”

  Still he didn’t move. They had drifted up to the dock, and Kaylee unexpectedly leaped out. Amanda made a half-hearted attempt to grab the leash but in the end had to clamber ashore. She stood on the dock a moment, expecting to be challenged by a police guard, but heard nothing beyond the sibilant whisper of waves.

  “Amanda …” came Chris’s warning voice.

  She held out the leash. “You stay here with her. I won’t be a minute.”

  Before he could react, she spun around and scrambled up toward the house. As she’d expected, it was locked up tight. She worked her way around the perimeter, trying every door without success. She peered around the window and doorframes and examined the patio d
oor, not surprised to find everything barred from the inside. The place was like Fort Knox. There was likely some valuable art and electronics inside, and with cottages in the area sitting empty most of the year, security would be state-of-the-art. She glanced up at the eaves and spotted a video alarm system. She ducked down in dismay then realized she was probably already on Candid Camera.

  Cautiously, she pressed her face to a nearby window. Inside was a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, comfortable easy chairs, and a massive antique desk. The scene of the crime! All the empty bottles, glasses, party trays, and other detritus from the party had been removed, but the desk chair lay upturned, and a pool of something slimy stained the floor. Although it was too dark to be sure, it looked too viscous to be alcohol. Her pulse quickened. Blood? Had he been stabbed or hit after all?

  She tried the window, and to her surprise the sash lifted. She lifted it farther and slipped one leg in, imagining Chris’s outraged protest. Just a peek, she promised him silently. If Benson was poisoned, that pretty much guaranteed premeditation, but if this was blood …

  She clambered over the sill, steeling herself for the shriek of an alarm, but instead was immediately assailed by the stench. Death and decay mingled with other bodily smells. She pressed her hand to her nose and breathed shallowly as she tiptoed into the room.

  She recoiled at the sight. The room was crammed with memorabilia, like a ghoulish, overcrowded museum. Stuffed fish and animal heads were mounted on the walls between the books, not just the usual deer and moose heads, but bears, leopards, antelopes, and other animals she recognized from Africa. Wooden carvings and stone sculptures from around the world cluttered every surface, and even the furniture was heavy, ornately carved art. A trophy hunter’s room from a bygone era. Was this Janine’s father’s work or some earlier Saint Clair ancestor’s?

  She tore her eyes away from the lion’s head that was mounted behind the desk and focussed instead on the pool of fluid on the floor. It was dry and crusty at the edges, and she could see scrapes where the forensic team had removed samples, but it still had an oily sheen at the centre. The colour was a putrid yellowy orange, not the deep red of blood. She bent closer and risked a sniff.

  Vomit.

  Making a face, she backed away and began a quick patrol of the room, trying to avoid the many tragic eyes gazing down at her. The desk was empty, the contents likely taken by the forensic team for further analysis.

  Nearby was another stain, clear and shiny against the rich oak floor. It too was scraped. Wrinkling her nose, she bent over it and caught a whiff of urine. She studied the two stains. It looked as if the poor man had fallen here, vomiting and voiding his bladder before he died. She felt a twinge of sorrow as she thought of his last moments. He had been such a happy, vibrant man. There were no blood smears or drops. Whatever killed him, he had probably ingested it.

  Fingerprint powder was still evident on many of the surfaces, doorknobs, and windowsills. Who had touched what? She raised her head to search the room for a safe or a locked drawer. Danielle’s papers had been locked up in the library, and they’d disappeared along with the nanny. Amanda was just going to check the desk drawers when she heard a short, sharp bark in the distance. She rushed to the window to peer down at the dock. Kaylee was on alert, staring at something through the trees. When Amanda dived out the window onto the patio, a flash of lime green at the shore caught her eye through the trees. She squinted. A kayak.

  A figure was scrambling toward it. At the water’s edge, it grabbed the kayak and turned to glance back up at the house. Amanda gasped as she ducked out of sight. She had managed only a brief glimpse of the figure but enough to make out the familiar cropped leather jacket.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Chris remained tight-lipped as she clambered back into the boat.

  “Do you want to know what I found, or would you rather not?”

  He said nothing for a moment as he steered the boat back out into the channel. Then he sighed as if in resignation. “Not what you did, but I guess …” He shrugged. As she filled him in on her discoveries, his head tilted with interest in spite of himself.

  “Poor bastard,” he said when she described the urine and vomit. “There are a lot of lethal drugs out there these days, and it doesn’t take much. They sound like a partying crowd.”

  “But why the huge police response? And why all that forensic analysis? Do the police know something?”

  “That’s standard operating procedure. Just crossing all their t’s and dotting their i’s. Especially since there’s big money involved, and with that, big press coverage.” He paused. “And big lawyers.”

  She fell silent, pondering the implications. Who would inherit? Who stood to benefit when so much money was at stake? Benson didn’t own the island but presumably had his own assets. As they motored farther up the channel, they passed a couple of For Sale signs on the island mansions.

  “I wonder what these would set you back,” she said, attempting to lighten the mood. She pointed to a ramshackle old cottage tucked on a granite chunk of rock so small that there was barely room for its deck. “Oh look, there’s one we can afford.”

  His wide crinkly-eyed grin spread across his face. “That might be under a million.”

  As they rounded the point, a sprawling old inn came into view on the island ahead. It had the sweeping covered veranda and ornate turrets typical of Victorian grandeur, but a jumble of more modern outbuildings was spread out on either side. Docks, boardwalks, and beaches rambled along the water’s edge. A trio of workers was painting the outdoor trim.

  “Wait!” Amanda said. “Maybe that’s the Chippewa Club. George said Ronny ran activities there for kids and teens, and he might have met Danielle there. Let’s check it out.”

  “Isn’t it a private club?” Chris asked dubiously.

  Amanda shot him an exasperated look. “It’s not open for the season yet, but these workers probably know him.”

  Chris guided the boat into the dock, and Amanda jumped out with Kaylee. One of the workers glanced their way before returning to her work. Now that they were closer, Amanda could see the workers were not local men from the area but middle-aged women dressed in mismatched, paint-smudged clothes.

  Amanda approached, pretending to be enchanted by the historic old building. “Do you need any more help?” she asked casually.

  One of the women paused, a paintbrush in one hand and a paint can in the other. She had a plain but kindly face and looked to be in her late forties, a good age to know some of the past secrets of the club. She frowned quizzically, as if trying to place Amanda.

  “We’re new here,” Amanda said. “Actually just thinking of buying that little island down the way. The realtor told us about this gorgeous place! It looks as if it’s seen a lot of history.”

  “It has. Including being allowed to almost fall down.”

  “And the community bought it?”

  The woman nodded, her wariness fading as pride took its place. Amanda extended her hand. “I’m Amanda, and this is Chris.”

  “Venetia Lawless.” The woman laughed ruefully at the paint on her hand before returning the handshake. Kaylee joined in the greetings, distracting them all before Amanda got her firmly back on leash. The trim paint was blue; not a good colour on an orange dog.

  Amanda returned to the task at hand. “And all the property owners around here can use it?”

  “We have a paid membership roster, and everyone chips in on maintenance. Don’t be deceived by the quiet. During the summer, this place is hopping. We have beach parties, regattas, picnics, and if you have children, there are wonderful children’s programs.”

  “Yes, we ran into Ronny Gifford a few days ago. Seems like a friendly, capable guy. He said he ran activities here.”

  A flicker of disapproval crossed Venetia’s face. “Yes, Ronny is a … popular fellow.”

  Amanda laughed. “Uh-oh. That sounds ominous. He is a flirt, I’ll give you that. I imagine he leav
es a few hearts broken in his wake.”

  The other two women had stopped their work to listen. Amanda heard a ripple of laughter. “Very astute of you,” said Venetia. “Just between you and me, I suspect he won’t be hired back this summer. Too many …”

  She broke off as if thinking better of it, but one of the other women was less circumspect. “Hormones,” she said. She had flaming red hair that would be visible halfway across the bay. The streak of blue paint wasn’t a good look on it either.

  Amanda glanced at Chris, who was playing the strong, silent type at her side. “Didn’t we hear that he ran off with that nanny who killed Ben Humphries?”

  It was a bold move, and Venetia’s eyes widened in surprise. “Nothing stays secret in the country, I guess. And people make up what they don’t know.” She cast a warning glance at the woman beside her, who had looked about to pitch in again.

  “Oh?” Amanda said. “It’s not true?”

  Venetia shook her head. “No. Yes.”

  “Make up your mind, Venetia,” said the redhead. “Yes, they ran off together.”

  “I mean, I don’t think that poor girl killed Ben.” Venetia hesitated as if reluctant to speak ill. “There are a lot of people in that family I’d put ahead of her. If Ronny did run off with her, it was probably because he knew she wouldn’t get a fair shake.”

  “So they were friends from before?”

  Belatedly, Venetia put her paintbrush back into the can and leaned against the side of the building. The others followed suit, clustering around Amanda.

  “I don’t know about friends,” Venetia ventured before the redhead jumped in.

  “Oh yeah, he met her last year. She’d bring the holy terrors — pardon me, the twins — over to play on the beach. They were a handful, and she was run ragged.” The woman laughed. “Ronny was his usual charming self to a pretty young thing in distress.”