Coming Unclued

by Judith Jackson

  “I can imagine,” I said. I leaned forward and spoke in a confiding tone. “The primary reason we’re here Winnie is that we have reason to believe that your son may have had blood on his slipper when he attended his father’s funeral. Now while of course there may be a perfectly logical reason for that, naturally enough it’s something we need to clear up.”

  At the mention of blood on Bryson’s slipper, Winnie looked stricken. She knew something, that was clear. “It’s my fault. I told him no matter how he feels about his father it’s only decent that he go to the funeral. He wore his slippers?”

  I nodded in affirmation. “Mules. Beige mules with blood on the toe.”

  “Or ketchup,” said Julie. “We have no proof its blood, or whose blood it is if it is blood.”

  Winnie just shook her head sadly.

  “So please tell us again Winnie,” I said. “Where was your son late last Saturday night?”

  Winnie put out her cigarette and finished off her tea with one loud gulp. “He’s a sweet boy, he really is,” she said. “But he has his issues. He gets upset easily and he’s never been good at dealing with stress. And my Lord, he’s got such resentment against his father. I keep telling him he’s got to let it go.”

  I nodded my head, doing my best to look professional, yet sympathetic. Now we were getting somewhere. I knew it had to be something like this.

  “I’m going to call him up here,” said Winnie. “I can’t believe he’d wear those bloody slippers to a funeral.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Did she mean bloody as in blood-stained or was she using bloody as an epithet? Winnie got up and went down the hall toward the kitchen. I could hear her open a door and yell down the stairs. “Bryson! Can you come up here? There’s some people who needs to talk to you.”

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Julie. “What if we get him to confess?”

  “We’ll take him in,” I said.

  “On the subway? He might suspect something when we start digging around for tokens.”

  “Fine. How about we’ll spring for a cab?”

  “The FBI calling a cab to take in a murder suspect? Just like in the movies.”

  “We’re not FBI — remember? It’s not our fault if Winnie jumped to that conclusion.”

  Winnie came back into the living room carrying a plate of mincemeat tarts. “He’s in the laundry room,” she said. “Putting some pants on. It’s hot down in the basement so he’s usually just in his boxers. Here have one,” she said, gesturing to the plate.

  Putting some pants on. Small mercies. I reached over and took a mincemeat tart. They were delicious. Perhaps the best I’d ever eaten. Winnie nodded at the look of pure bliss on my face. “I’ll wrap you up some to take home,” she said. I munched happily, secure in the knowledge that we’d found Mr. Potter’s killer and that I would soon be vindicated. Also, I would be going home with a plate of delicious mincemeat tarts.

  As I reveled in the tasty tart there was a slapping sound as Bryson came down the hall. He really was a sizeable fellow; even bigger close up. And he was wearing the same slippers he’d worn to the funeral.

  “Bryson,” said Winnie. “This is Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Wesson. They’re with the FBI and they’d like to talk to you about your father’s murder.”

  Bryson looked at us with undisguised contempt. “FBI? We don’t have FBI in Canada.”

  Smartass. We do now. “We are special investigators who sometimes help out the police with their more complex murders,” I told him in a firm voice. “Cross border cooperation. Happens all the time. Now, Mr. Potter, we’d be interested in knowing your whereabouts in the early morning of December 18th.”

  “Can I see your identification?” Bryson asked. “You don’t look like FBI.”

  How many real FBI agents had he ever seen? I pulled my badge out of my pocket and flashed it at him. “We don’t have time for your shenanigans Mr. Potter. Where were you on the date in question?” Shenanigans. There’s a word right out of the FBI interrogation manual.

  He gestured at Julie. “Where’s your badge?”

  Julie quickly flashed him her badge. “Just answer the question. We have a lot of people to see today. You’re just one fish in a big pond.”

  Good one. Good analogy. Though granted, Bryson would be a very big fish regardless of the size of the pond.

  “I was home,” he said. “It was a Saturday night. I was watching some stuff on Netflix.”

  Winnie patted the couch beside her. “Sit down here honey. They saw the blood on your slipper. Why on earth would you wear your slippers to your father’s funeral?”

  “I’m retaining water,” said Bryson. “Couldn’t fit into my shoes.”

  Winnie nodded her head like this was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Granted, Bryson did appear to be retaining a considerable amount of water.

  “As part of our investigation, we will have to take your slipper down to the station,” said Julie. “Do a DNA match.”

  “They just need to rule out it’s your father’s blood,” said Winnie in a consoling tone of voice, patting Bryson on the leg.

  “Naaa,” said Bryson. “It’s not that creep’s blood. You think I’m stupid or something? You think if I killed him I’d be walking around with his blood on my slipper?”

  “Criminals don’t always make the best decisions,” I told him in an authoritative voice. “Like my partner said, we’ll need to do a DNA test on that slipper.” What was I saying? He was supposed to confess. How was I supposed to do a DNA test?

  “Take it off honey,” said Winnie. “Show the ladies.” She looked at us quickly. “The officers.”

  That was more like it. Bryson hesitated, then slowly removed his slipper. Ewww. The mincemeat tart I’d so enjoyed almost came back up. Bryson’s toenails were chewed down to the nub. His toes looked like rancid hamburger, some raw and bloody and others scabbed over. I’d never seen anything like it.

  “He chews his toenails,” said Winnie. “It’s been a problem his whole life. His big toe in particular gets real messy sometimes.”

  I glanced over at Julie who was looking a little green.

  “You’d never know it to look at him,” said Winnie, “but Bryson’s very bendy. Sits down there on his couch chewing away.” She shook her head sadly. “I keep telling him he’s never going to find a woman if he doesn’t quit it, but it’s a tough one.” She picked up the pack of cigarettes. “We all have our vices.”

  “So you’re saying that the blood is from toenail chewing?” Julie asked slowly.

  “Well look at those feet,” said Winnie. “Of course it’s his blood. My sakes, his father was stabbed to death. You think Bryson would stab his own father?”

  “Sure I would,” said Bryson. “But I didn’t.”

  We had to regroup here. I wished he’d put his slippers back on so I could think clearly. “Are you familiar with the contents of Mr. Potter’s will?” I asked in a more conciliatory voice. “He was quite a wealthy man.”

  “Well I’m not in it,” said Bryson. “He told me a long time ago that if I wanted any money from him I had to lose a hundred pounds and get a job. Screw him!”

  “He couldn’t let up about Bryson’s weight,” said Winnie. “Couldn’t get past it.”

  “That thing he’s married to is getting everything,” said Bryson.

  Julie stood up. “Thank you very much for your time Mrs. Potter — Winnie — and Bryson. We appreciate your candor. I believe we have everything we need here.”

  Winnie hopped off the couch. “Just let me make you up a nice plate of tarts. How about a few shortbread too?”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That would be lovely. Maybe just the tarts though.” Once my stomach recovered from the sight of Bryson’s toes they would be lovely.

  “No, no, that’s fine,” said Julie. “We appreciate it, but we’re not allowed to accept gifts.”

  “I think we could bend the rules Ms. Wesson,” I said, glaring at Julie. “It is Christm
as.”

  “Yes, it’s Christmas,” said Winnie. “You wait right there. I won’t be a minute.”

  So we stood in the living room, staring at the Christmas tree like we’d never seen one before, both of us trying to avoid looking at Bryson. He had his left foot in his hand, gently running his finger over the instep, his scabby toes pointed right at us. “There’s polish you can get,” I told him. “It tastes really bitter so you don’t want to bite. You might want to try it.”

  “Tried it,” said Bryson. “After a while it tastes okay. You know, the paper said that he got stabbed by some old slag that worked for him. I’d of thought it’d be Sophie. She hated him.”

  I shook off the old slag comment, given the source. Sophie hated Mr. Potter? Interesting.

  Winnie returned bearing two paper plates of tarts, covered in saran wrap. “Why do you say Sophie hated him, Bryson?” I asked. “Do you have any concrete evidence to back up that conjecture?” I sounded so professional, I was quite impressed with myself.

  “Oh don’t listen to him,” said Winnie. “He’s always had a thing about that woman. She’s a little snooty, didn’t like Bryson coming around.” She turned to Bryson. “We don’t know that she hated your father. She’s not a warm person. That’s just the way she is. But they were together quite a while so there was something there. She must have seen something in him we couldn’t see.”

  “His bank account,” said Bryson.

  “Well thank you very much for your time,” said Julie. “And for the tarts.”

  “Not every day the FBI drops by,” said Winnie. “Wait till I tell the girls.”

  “We’d prefer you keep it confidential. As we emphasized, we are investigators, merely doing some investigating,” I said. “If you could just stay mum until we clarify the myriad elements to this complex police procedural.” I was overdoing it; Julie was actually wincing but fortunately Winnie was too good hearted to notice my blathering.

  “I don’t see a car. Where’d you park?” she asked as she opened the door for us.

  “Oh we took the subway,” I said. “No car budget,” I hastened to add. “Terrible. So many cutbacks.”

  “Terrible,” agreed Winnie. “At your age. Let me call you a cab. I’ll pay for it. I won almost 200 dollars at the Casino the other night.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Julie, “but we’re not allowed to accept cab rides. Thank you so much for your time.”

  Julie was such a stickler for rules. “Yes, thank you,” I said. “Good luck.” Good luck. Why did I say that? Good luck with Bryson I guess. He must be the quite the burden to bear.

  We stood at the top of the stairs, taking in our surroundings. The sun was almost down and the weather had turned very brisk. The Christmas lights were starting to come on and it all looked quite homey and festive. “Pretty isn’t it?” said Winnie. “Only one house on the street didn’t put up lights this year.” She leaned closer to us. “They’re from Iran.” She pronounced it I – Ran. “One of them’s a doctor.”

  “Tally ho,” said Julie, forgetting her professional demeanor for a moment, as she marched briskly down the steps.

  “Well,” I said, my shoulders slumping in defeat as we headed down the walk, “she believed us, but we’re back where we started. I was so sure we had him.” I thought about it for a moment as we walked along. “Are we sure it’s not Bryson? He’s got quite a chip on his shoulder.”

  “Are you kidding? That man doesn’t have the gumption to do anything as proactive as killing his father.”

  We headed toward the subway, carrying our mincemeat tarts, and alternately admiring or disparaging the Christmas displays. I looked over at Julie and was overwhelmed with affection for her as she scrunched up her face at a house that had been extremely prolific with the icicle lights. “I really appreciate your support Julie,” I said.

  “You appreciate my support? What are you, running for office?”

  “Don’t be snarky. I’m trying to be heartfelt.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well thank you for your appreciation.”

  So much for that. We were neither of us big on overt displays of emotion. “Really,” I said. “I know that you’re taking a big risk for me.” I gave a little sniff. “I’ll never forget it.” We walked along a little longer. “I’ll never forget it because I’ll be sitting alone in a jail cell with nothing else to think about for twenty years.”

  “You’ll probably have a roommate,” said Julie. “Are you crying or is your nose running?”

  “Oh I don’t know. Both. I was so sure we had this figured out and now we’re back to square one. Except the David thing. Hilda might really have known something. I’m going to work on that.”

  “And we know that Sophie may have been interested in Harry for his money.”

  “Oh please. Big surprise. Why else would she be with him? I need to talk to Angie. And Douglas.” The thought of another interrogation exhausted me.

  “Oh shit,” said Julie. “Quick. Put your head down.”

  A police car pulled up behind us, its lights flashing. My hands began shaking so much the mincemeat tarts were dancing around on the paper plate. The officer on the driver side rolled down his window and yelled “Stop right there!”

  Did he mean ‘Stop or I’ll shoot’ or was he just strongly suggesting that we stop? I didn’t wait to find out. Without thinking, acting purely on instinct, I ran down the driveway of the closest house. I could hear Julie calling my name and the police officer yelling for me to stop but I had lost all control of my faculties. I tossed the tarts and just ran. The driveway led to a small fenced backyard with a wooden gate. I ran through the yard toward the fence, as fast as I’ve ever run, yanked open the gate, slammed it behind me and found myself in an alleyway that backed on to all the houses on the street. An empty alleyway, with no place to hide. I ran down the alley looking madly for an escape hatch, a magic tunnel that would whisk me to safety. And then I saw it. A woman who had been sitting in her red Toyota, warming it up, got out of the car and headed through back to her house. She left the car running. She must have forgotten something. I sprinted toward the Toyota and jumped in. A car thief. Me, the woman who till now had not even a traffic ticket on her record. I squealed down the alley, praying the police hadn’t set up a roadblock. At the end of the alley I turned onto a narrow residential street and tried to think where the nearest main drag was. I had to get out of this neighborhood. With trembling hands, I drove down a narrow street and pulled up to a four-way stop. A four-way stop with a police car on my right and one directly facing me. I came to a complete stop and put on my right signal light. I was shaking so badly I was afraid I was going to lose control of the car, or if not the car, my bladder. The police cars paid no attention to me. I made the turn and was out on Ellesmere along with all the other rush hour traffic. Taking a long, slow breath, I checked my mirrors for police lights and tried to calm down and explore my options. There weren’t a lot. I had no money, because I couldn’t use the bank machine and I had stupidly forgotten to borrow some cash from Julie. The police would be watching the homes of anyone close to me, and I was driving a stolen car that must have been reported by now. I had to ditch the car, but where? Was it safe to go back to Diane’s? There was a grocery store about six blocks from Julie’s street. If I tucked it in there it would probably be morning before anyone noticed.

  The Loblaws parking lot was predictably busy with shoppers grabbing a few groceries before going home for dinner. I pulled in beside a beat up delivery van and turned off the ignition. But where to go? And where were the mincemeat tarts? Damn it, I’d dropped them. I leaned back against the headrest and shut my eyes for a few minutes, trying to focus on my next move, but my mind was a blank. And my feet were freezing. Actually, to be precise, my foot was freezing. I looked down. I was missing my left boot. It must have come off during my escape and I’d been so fired up with adrenaline I never noticed. Now, as the car was getting colder, it was very noticeable. I had to g
et out of this car and far away. What were the chances anybody would notice a woman in a scraggly grey wig and ratty fur coat, limping and wearing only one boot in the dead of winter? I braced myself to open the door when I noticed a red leather purse sitting on the passenger’s seat. The woman must have left it there when she ran into the house. I grabbed it. In for a dime in for a dollar. Carpe diem.

  CHAPTER 21

  I trudged along the sidewalk, cutting down to a side street as soon as I could. A few people gave me a bemused stare, but one of the many advantages of living in a large city is that it takes an incredible amount of odd behavior to send up any alarm bells. A one-booted woman with a crooked wig limping down the street in a ragged fur coat just didn’t make the cut.

  I was hungry. Part of a muffin, a shortbread cookie and a mincemeat tart were not enough to keep body and soul together, though on the upside, being a fugitive must be doing wonders for my weight. But I needed a real meal, some hot food that would make me feel normal and human again. There was an excellent Thai restaurant a couple of blocks from Julie’s street. Could I risk it? I could. I had to.

  The restaurant was empty except for the woman who ran the dining room and her daughter, who was sitting at a table doing homework. I ordered some Pad Thai and took a seat in a corner, away from the windows. Money. I needed money. I opened the purse and looked through the wallet. Amelia Fortier was the car’s owner and she had forty-two dollars in her wallet. I wrote down Amelia’s address from her driver’s license so I could return the money once this was all over. When I paid for my food I handed the woman the purse. “I found this on my chair,” I said. “Someone must have left it here.”