A Killer Necklace

by Melodie Campbell

  Becki tried to draw both women into conversation. “How did you learn of the fire?” she asked.

  Sylvia pointed to herself. “I was driving home from Casinoarama. It was on the news on my car radio.”

  “Were you coming home from a show?” Becki asked. Every now and then she and Karl caught a performance by an old favourite on stage there.

  “Not this time. I was just playin’ the slots.”

  Lottie asked, “What’s a young thing like you doing cooping herself up with those blasted buzzing machines?”

  Becki was glad it was Lottie who put that question out there because there was a judgmental ring to it. However, she wondered the exact same thing herself.

  “Well to answer your question, one of these days I’m going to hit the jackpot of all jackpots and I’ll be out of here,” Sylvia lifted both arms in pre-celebration, “in the blink of an eye!”

  “The odds are always in favour of the house.” Lottie sounded knowledgeable.

  “So they say. But I’m a Players Club member. If I don’t win cash every time, I win points,” Sylvia said.

  “And how are points going to help you?”

  Becki was staying out of this.

  “I can use them to see concerts and in all the casino restaurants.”

  “Exactly. They aren’t stupid down there at Casinoarama. They give you points so you’ll come back and spend more money in their establishment. It’s only real money that you can spend anywhere you like.”

  Becki figured Sylvia was holding back from verbally lashing out at Lottie’s admonishments. The reason for her restraint, she assumed, was the sombre nature of the event that had drawn them together, literally standing in the light of the destruction of the last piece of evidence that a woman had lived in their community.

  In a few moments Becki wandered away on her own. She checked out her fellow citizens gathered where town met lake. She recognized the majority of them. And she was sure they recognized her. Maybe they didn’t really know each other but the town was small so they ran into each other at the pharmacy, at the grocery store, at the post office… There weren’t very many strangers in Black Currant Bay. She herself was one of the last newcomers to settle in.

  That would all change if that guy who was proposing a new development on the waterfront—what was his name? Spellman?—had his way. Was he perhaps watching the evening unwind with a smirk on his face?

  “Oh, there’s Kathleen!” Becki exclaimed on a happy breath. She ran over to her friend. “You’re here too!”

  “Yeah, couldn’t sleep. Can you believe I can hear the commotion from my house, which as you know is five streets over? Plus the eerie orange glow I see every time I look out my bedroom window is disconcerting.”

  “It’s going to be a long night.”

  “What do you think happened?” Kathleen asked.

  There was a glint in her eyes which Becki attributed to nervous excitement. Kathleen was always at the centre of things. She cut a flamboyant figure, always full of enthusiasm and zest for life. She lived large and single after her divorce from Henry. Kathleen was a successful romance novelist.

  “It’s not hard coming up with theories,” Becki admitted.

  “Hit me.”

  “There’s the one about the developer who burns down this unused house because he thinks it will facilitate his building project. There’s the local group of teenagers that sneaks inside the empty house to do drugs and leaves behind a butt smouldering on a rug.” Becki looked up at Kathleen and winked. “Not to mention the possibility it’s Louisa’s murderer who came back to the scene of the crime to eliminate some clue he left behind.”

  “You never did lack for imagination.”

  “Unfortunately that’s not what counts in crime investigation. Karl keeps reminding me of that.”

  “Party pooper.”

  “Well, it’s one thing to think creatively and come up with a whole realm of possibilities. It’s quite another thing to be able pick out which one of them is real. And prove it.”

  “Can I walk you home?” Becki continued. “Think you’re ready?”

  “That would take you the long, long way around,” Kathleen said.

  “But I want your company.”

  She wasn’t sure Kathleen had the right sort of personality to provide soothing comfort but she was one of two great friends Becki had in Black Currant Bay. And since she knew Karl wouldn’t be able to come home until the wee hours of morning, if then…

  Kathleen must have understood Becki’s need because they walked a block up the hill in total silence, trailed by the lake breeze carrying the stench of fire.

  Chapter 15

  Lottie continued to gaze at the smoldering wreckage of Louisa’s former home.

  So many pleasant hours had been spent there, drinking coffee with delicious treats in the beautiful living room. Sipping iced tea in the back garden, with the sounds of birds and insects to keep them company.

  Alone or with others, gossiping or merely enjoying each other’s company, this routine had been a treasured part of Lottie’s life for over twenty years.

  And now Louisa was gone. Even her house was gone.

  It was the smell that made her weak. The incredible acrid odour of burned things. It hung in the evening sky, cloaking the entire town.

  Fire, they say, is cleansing, but there is nothing pure about the residue, Lottie thought.

  Charred wood floors and beams, burned upholstery and clothing—it was all a mess. Now everything was completely soaked with water from the hoses. Even the beautiful flowerbeds had turned to churned mud. Everything was wrecked. It made one sick to contemplate the contents of a whole lifetime on earth being destroyed in mere minutes.

  Still, she watched and waited.

  She needed to be there. As Louisa was her friend, it was her duty to be there until the end. In fact, it was the least she could do, under the circumstances. But everything in her had to fight the fear that threatened to overwhelm her and leave her babbling.

  These regular people like Becki and Sylvia couldn’t see beyond this world—they had no idea what real fear was. Lottie almost pitied them in a way.

  What they couldn’t see is that this world didn’t matter. It was only passing. And yes, you could hurt and become ill in this world—go hungry and be cold—but that was a short passage compared to what awaited on the other side.

  The ghosts were gone now. They had left the burning house. Firemen still climbed all over the wreckage, but Lottie ignored them.

  Soon she would take her trip to Cornwall. There, she would find answers to the questions that had haunted her since childhood.

  It was most important that she go to Cornwall.

  “Move back, ma’am.” A nice young policeman was waving his arm at her. He was fair-haired and broad-shouldered, like she imagined Becki’s husband Karl might have looked thirty years ago.

  Lottie gazed up at him, way up. She smiled like a girl, and one hand played absently with a stray lock of grey hair. Tall men made her feel giddy.

  He moved on. She turned away and started toward home.

  How smart, that she had not waited to retrieve those things from Louisa’s home. Things that should have been hers anyway, as Louisa was gone now. It was only right.

  Something had compelled her, warned her to act fast. Moving around that house that night with the ghosts still there had been the hardest thing she had ever done.

  A chill came over her. Maybe not. Maybe the second hardest. Why is nothing ever as you think it will be?

  As she walked further away, the air became fresher. It was possible to breathe normally again. The nightmare receded.

  Lottie had just passed Pine Street when another horrible thought came to her. Would this fire make a difference to her inheritance? She gasped. What if the house wasn’t insured? Did insurance lapse automatically if you died?

  What if there wasn’t enough money to go to Cornwall?

  It was wonderful to have a
day off work. As Gina sipped coffee in her mother’s meticulously kept uptown house, she marvelled how you can have the best job in the world, and still want a break from it.

  Anna had called last night, suggesting Gina stop by. It was wonderful, having her mom in the same city. Yes, her parents traveled more now that her dad had retired, but still, this long low city bungalow from the 1970s was a retreat she just loved.

  Tony had helped her parents restore it with care. An earlier renovation had removed some of the original charm of the era. Tony had done a careful job respecting the past and correcting what he could to bring the home back to the architect’s vision. The pecan wood floor was original, as was the white angel stone fireplace. The original floor to ceiling windows had been replaced, but the view to the ravine out the back was stunning in all seasons.

  “Good thing Cathy didn’t swear you to secrecy,” her mother said.

  Gina looked up. “I would have told you anyway, Mom.” She didn’t keep things like this from her mother.

  Anna’s smile was a beautiful thing. “But I’m wondering if she didn’t try to make you promise on purpose. Maybe she needed to confess for her soul.”

  Gina considered that. “You might be right. I could almost see relief cross her face, the second she finished telling me.”

  “Imagine keeping something secret like that for so long. I imagine it must have been lonely.”

  Gina started. “Lonely?” Such a strange word for her mom to use.

  Anna shrugged. “She had the romance of her lifetime. One of those one in a million things, at least from her point of view. But she couldn’t tell anyone about it. Not even when it was over, because of fear.”

  “Except Delia. Delia knew.”

  Anna raised an eyebrow. “Really? She didn’t let on, at lunch.”

  “Delia prompted her to tell me. I’m not sure Cathy would have otherwise.”

  “You could be right. She would have been afraid back then. I imagine that fear doesn’t completely go away with time.”

  Gina digested that. Fear of legal entanglements, she could imagine. Her lover had been convicted, after all. The police might have considered Cathy a possible accessory to his financial crimes, and at least questioned her. Then there was the possibility of mob connections.

  Yes, it made sense. Cathy had been wise to stay as mum as possible through the years.

  “A romance of a lifetime with a notorious modern day robber-baron. It does have an operatic quality to it.”

  “Have you told Becki yet?”

  Gina shook her head. “Wanted to bounce it off you first. Thing is, I like Cathy.”

  “So do I.”

  They were silent a minute.

  “So you understand what I’m thinking.”

  “That telling Becki will mean she has to tell Karl? And then the police will probably contact her? I think it’s okay, Gina. She wouldn’t have come over last night to talk to you if she wasn’t prepared to face the music now.”

  Would there be much music to be faced?

  “But surely, since her ex-lover was already convicted, the police won’t need to question her. The trial was over years ago. I bet all the people involved are retired, even.”

  Anna looked up sharply. “I wasn’t thinking of that, Gina. I was thinking how it might have a bearing on what happened re that poor woman’s death.”

  Gina looked down at her coffee cup. Villeroy & Boch, she noted. A vivid winter scene from a famous museum painting had been meticulously reproduced onto it. Even for every day, her mother took pleasure in using beautiful things.

  “Mom, you can’t honestly think Cathy had anything to do with that.”

  Anna rose gracefully from the family room couch. She walked over to the kitchen counter and poured more coffee from the carafe into the china mug. She added a small amount of cream from the porcelain pitcher. No sugar.

  “Of course I don’t. But not because I think Cathy is incapable of it. Most of us are capable of killing strangers if we or our loved ones are threatened. Heck, many people will even kill people they care about.”

  “That’s a sobering thought,” Gina said. But they both knew it to be true. They both carried the scars from that horrible time. The trial was still going on.

  Anna leaned over the ochre granite counter and rested her elbows on it.

  “But no, I don’t think Cathy had anything to do with Becki’s friend’s death. More because I can’t think of a single reason why she would gain from it.”

  Either could Gina. Why kill the estranged wife of the man you had an affair with over twenty years ago? How could that possibly matter now? Especially if the ex-wife didn’t know you had been his mistress.

  Besides, Cathy was divorced now. She appeared to be well off. Better off than Louisa, in any case.

  Still, it was an angle. They needed to explore all leads.

  “Even so, I should tell Becki,” Gina said.

  “Of course you should, darling. It doesn’t pay to keep secrets. Never does. Except if someone asks you how they look, of course.”

  “‘Does this make me look fat?’” Gina grinned. She looked over at her mother, so neatly dressed in Ralph Lauren, from head to toe. “No chance there. You look terrific for fifty.”

  “Gina, I’m nearly sixty.”

  “Just as I said.”

  Anna laughed.

  But Gina was swept back to thoughts of secrets. It doesn’t pay to keep secrets, her mother had said. But what if you had to? What if your job demanded it?

  “Have you heard from Tony?”

  Her head shot up. Why is it mothers almost always knew exactly what you were thinking?

  They were both startled by the cellphone ringing.

  “Take it,” Anna said. “I’ll just use the loo.”

  When she got back a few minutes later, Gina was still on the phone, pacing the floor. Her eyes were wide.

  “Well, that lets Cathy out. She was at my place last night from eight until ten. Just a sec,” she said into the phone. “I have to tell Mom.”

  “You won’t believe this.” She covered the phone’s speaker with her hand. “It’s Becki. Louisa’s house burned down last night. It was completely destroyed along with everything in it.”

  Anna gasped. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Gina shook her head. “But Karl thinks it was arson.”

  Chapter 16

  There was a small memorial for Louisa on Sunday.

  Everyone who was at the shower attended the memorial. Of course Gina could be excused because she was just a visitor to Black Currant Bay and also because her wedding day was less than two weeks away.

  Becki and Karl attended together. In addition to the shower ladies, there was Louisa’s cleaning lady, the two cops who had worked with Karl at the scene of the crime, the ambulance crew. The local pharmacist was there. The local doctor. The small church was crowded with people despite the fact that no one had yet “claimed” Louisa. This was what small towns were like. Even if you didn’t know the deceased well, you came out of respect.

  There’s a popular theory which suggests that clues to a crime can be gathered at a funeral or memorial, signs of guilt detected among the mourners. Karl was in fact keeping his eyes open to all possibilities. So were his officers. But Becki didn’t think much would be uncovered here.

  Everyone was on their best behaviour. Everyone knew they were being watched. If not for signs of guilt, for signs of emotion.

  If it were true that evidence of extreme emotion signalled guilt, Becki was in big trouble herself. She had felt tears of outrage threaten at the entrance to the red brick chapel. The first hymn brought those tears to the brink of her lower eyelids and by the time the reverend was saying a few words about gentle townswoman Louisa they were rolling down her face.

  Douglas Spellman walked into Beautiful Things on Monday hopefully for the last time in his life, his discerning blue eyes seeking out Rebekkah Green, co-proprietor. She ought to be right up front waiting fo
r him because he’d met her half-sister and business partner two Saturdays ago and had set up a meeting for today. He was actually a few power minutes late.

  Although his entry through the front door triggered what sounded like a sleigh bell—thankfully not an unpleasant sound—he was kept waiting in the entrance. He adjusted his tie. Still no one appeared. Apparently he would have to make his way through the store to wherever Rebekkah kept an office. Surely she didn’t expect him to go to the counter where he’d first spoken to her sister Anne. After all he wasn’t just a regular customer.

  He marched up the closest aisle, which also seemed like the most direct route to the back, and as he passed by the spools of fabric lining the wall he brushed them with his fingertips. This served to confirm that the fabrics displayed were of good quality and that there was a decent selection of weights and textures. Meanwhile, his eyes observed once again that Ms. Rebekkah Green of Beautiful Things was discriminating with colour and pattern.

  Yes, he’d invited two Toronto design firms to quote on the Black Currant Bay project and he could have left it at that, assured of professionalism and style, but something told him that getting on the good side of some of the citizens of this town would be an excellent way to grease the wheels.

  Of course there are other ways.

  The large quantity of textiles muffled the store’s acoustics but now he could hear two women in conversation. He rounded a corner and saw them leaning over a pile of area rugs.

  One of the women was easily forgettable as far as he was concerned. He supposed she must be a local housewife looking for some help with her home.

  However the other woman impressed. She stood above average in height for a woman, maybe five feet six, he thought. She had long, lustrous dark hair, pale white skin. Her inherently elegant movements reminded him of the lovely Nigella Lawson or maybe even Catherine Zeta-Jones, but she was closer in age to Nigella.

  She wore reasonable pumps, black leggings, and she nicely filled out a fitted paisley tunic with three quarter sleeves. Classic lines with very little adornment. She understands the understated.