Murder Below Zero

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  Geegee folded her arms and leaned against the kitchen table. “You got a color picked out for your cupboards? I told you we can get it done…”

  Max waved her words away. “Not that kind of painting. Didn’t you say you studied art when you went to college in Toronto?”

  Geegee frowned. “Max,” she said, her voice lower. “We’re painting cupboards, right? We’re not painting another Mona Lisa. All we need is paint, a couple of brushes, some masking tape and a bottle of pinot grigio.”

  “This isn’t about the cupboards. This is about the body we found on Bridge Road this morning.”

  By noon the entire town had learned that Robert Morton’s body had been found on Bridge Road. Most people knew he was naked. Some had heard that the corpse was frozen as well. Geegee, Max knew, was eager to hear details but did not dare ask. Sorry, Max had said the first time Geegee raised a question about some crime in town. I can’t talk about police matters.

  I understand, Geegee had said. She tried to hide her disappointment with a smile. But we’re still friends, right?

  Now Max was ready to talk to her about the frozen and naked body. “Maybe you can help me,” she said. “With this murder.”

  Geegee almost ran to sit next to Max. She rested a hand on Max’s arm.“Ask me anything,” she said. She sounded as though she were running out of breath. “Was he a painter, this Morton guy? An artist? I think I know the house. Big place on the hill. But he worked at a new-car place, right? Or was she a painter, his wife? She’s a snob, I know that.” When Max said nothing, Geegee sat back and said, more slowly, “So what do you want to know?”

  “Did you visit any art galleries for your painting classes?” Max said.

  Geegee frowned. “Some. This was, you know, nearly twenty years ago. But we went out to a few galleries to look at their stuff, sometimes talk to the owners.”

  “Do you know one called the Elendt Gallery?”

  “It’s not Ee-lent,” Geegee said. “You say it as El-ent. It’s German. The gallery has been around for years.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Small place. No big names. No Group of Seven painters, anything like that. Just good local artists. The couple that owns it, or used to, they knew their stuff. But like I say, that was a lot of years ago. I don’t know if it’s still in business.”

  “It is,” Max said. “I checked. I think I’ll go there tomorrow.”

  “Not,” Geegee said, “to buy some art.”

  “No,” Max said. “To find some answers.”

  “Promise you’ll tell me what you can when you get back.”

  “It ’ ll cost you another piece of shortbread.”

  Geegee almost jumped to her feet. “Take the whole damn pan!” she said.

  SIX

  “I don’t mean to second-guess you,” Margie said, “but aren’t you supposed to share data with the OPP?”

  It was the next morning. The day had dawned just as frigid as all the other days, but more gloomy and overcast.

  “Please don’t lecture me, Margie,” Max said. She buttoned her tunic, reached for the keys to her police car and glanced at the clock. “If all goes well, I should get there before noon. Could be back here by three or before. You or Henry call me about anything I need to know. If anyone asks, I am fulfilling my duties as police chief.”

  “In Toronto?” Margie said as Max walked out the door. “On Bloor Street?” she added as the door closed.

  Max loved driving a marked police car on the highway. She would stay within the 100-kilometers-per-hour speed limit at first and watch other drivers slow their pace to match hers. The OPP gave tickets or a warning only if drivers were going more than 120 kilometers per hour. Still, no one wanted to pass a police car moving at the limit. On the way to Toronto she kept her speed at exactly 100. Then, after leading cars in a law-abiding parade for about 10 kilometers, she increased her speed to 120. When she did, and all the drivers around her sped up to match that, she could almost feel their relief.

  She had left Muskoka on a cold, gray day. But halfway to Toronto the sky opened to a rich blue. The sun shone brightly, and when Max lowered the window and stuck her hand into the air, it felt lovely and warm. Now that’s just not fair, she thought. The big city gets July, and we get winter. She told herself the warm air would soon be on its way north to Port Ainslie. But somehow she doubted it.

  Elendt Gallery was in Bloor West Village, a high-class part of town. Several works of art hung in the display window. The gallery name and hours were written in gold lettering on the window glass.

  Looking through the glass door, Max saw white walls and gray carpet. She had not been inside many galleries, but this looked familiar to her. Everything, she realized, was chosen to show off the paintings well.

  She stepped inside. The tinkle of a small bell sounded as the door closed behind her. She stopped and looked around.

  Soft music played from hidden speakers. Paintings hung on all the walls. Through an open door at the rear, Max could see into a small office. A woman in a turtleneck and skirt sat in front of a computer.

  Max walked through the room, looking at the art. Some paintings were done by the same artist whose work Max had seen in Beth Morton’s home.

  When the woman in the office looked up to see Max in her police uniform, the smile she’d put on faded. She rose from the chair and said, “Can I help you?” Her voice was rich and warm.

  “I’m looking for a man named Steve Carson,” Max said. “Would you know where I could reach him?”

  “Stevie?” the woman said. “He’s not here anymore. Hasn’t been for quite a while. Why are you looking for him?” The woman was taller than Max.

  “You say he’s no longer here,” Max said. “Did he work here?”

  “Yes. Yes, he did,” the woman said.

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “No, not for some time.”

  “But he did work here.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And you sold his art here.”

  “We still do. Older works.” She nodded to some paintings by Carson.

  “May I ask your name, please?”

  “It’s Sandra. May I ask why you’re looking for him?”

  “It’s a police matter.” Max took out her notebook and began writing. “When did you see him last?”

  “About four and a half years ago. No one has seen him since.”

  “No one?”

  Sandra shook her head.

  “I was told he was in Muskoka last week,” Max said.

  “Is that right?” She looked surprised.

  “He’s a bit of a rover, I heard,” Max said. “But a very good painter.”

  “One of the most talented I know.”

  “Do you have any idea where I could find him?”

  “If he was seen in Muskoka, I suggest you start there.” Sandra seemed edgy.

  “If he travels a lot,” Max said, “I guess he could be anywhere.” She wanted to keep this woman talking.

  “I guess so.” Sandra spread her hands. “If there’s anything else I can do for you…” She tilted her head toward the office. “I have some work to finish.”

  Did I drive all this way for nothing? Max asked herself. She had looked for answers. All she’d gotten were more questions. Where had this guy Steve been for the last four and a half years? Why had he shown up just before his sister’s husband was found dead and frozen in a ditch? What about the black pickup truck? Who was driving it? If he wasn’t Beth’s brother, who was he? Max was sure Beth had lied to her about her brother. But she couldn’t add up all the lies she thought she had heard.

  “I may stay for a moment and admire the artwork,” Max said. “I like some of the paintings. Might buy one for my home, if I can afford it.”

  Sandra’s smile said she didn’t think Max could afford more than an empty frame. “Let me know if I can help you,” she said as she walked back to her office.

  Max saw three paintin
gs similar to the one in Beth’s home. They were not as large, and they were not as abstract either. In one, Max could make out a stream that flowed through a dark green forest. Another had waves crashing on bare rocks. The third held Max’s gaze. If she stood back and closed her eyes a little, she could see wild-flowers in a crystal vase.

  Whoever painted them, Max decided, had known Stephen Carson’s work and tried to copy it. Max knew enough about art to figure that out. But this artist had added more realism, which Max liked. The work lacked the angry tone she had seen in the painting in Beth Morton’s home. She imagined this painting of flowers hanging in her own living room. It appealed to her. She had always thought about collecting art. Maybe this was the time and place to start.

  She lifted a corner of the painting away from the wall. On the back was the same Elendt Gallery label she had seen in Beth’s home. That painting, however, had not had a price on it. This one did. Ten thousand dollars.

  The frame made a soft thunk as Max let it swing back against the wall.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Max turned to see Sandra leaning back from her chair to look into the gallery area.

  “Everything’s fine.”

  Sandra kept watching her.

  “Actually, I think I have all I need,” Max said. She waved a hand. “Thanks for your help.”

  Sandra turned back to her computer screen.

  Max thought, Must be nice to be able to buy paintings like these. She looked for the first time at the artist’s signature in the bottom right-hand corner. Wait a minute. She looked again at the artist’s name on the label, then from the painting to the office. All she could see was the woman’s back. The rest of her and the computer were hidden.

  Max recalled the view when she arrived of Sandra walking toward her in slim skirt and turtleneck top. She moved to one side of the room so Sandra could not see her. Then she walked lightly toward the office and stepped in front of the open door.

  Not loudly but urgently, Max said, “Stephen! Stephen Carson!”

  The woman started and turned to face Max, her mouth slightly open. She had responded, Max knew, to the name that had once been hers.

  SEVEN

  “Beth was always ashamed of me,” Sandra Carson said. They were in the office, she and Max, seated on metal chairs. A coffeemaker sighed in the corner.

  Max had told her why she was there. She said that Bob Morton had been found murdered. That’s when Sandra invited Max to have coffee with her in the office. Sandra needed to talk. “I learned not to trust police over the years,” she said. “They called me and people like me the usual names. And I tend to protect myself from strangers. Where Beth is involved…” She shrugged. Then she told Max her story in soft, flat tones.

  She had spent much of her life feeling like a woman trapped in a man’s body. As a teenager she had told her parents and sister about it, wanting their love and support. I am not a boy, she said to them. She had tapped her chest with her hand. Not in here. Not in my heart. Her parents tried to take the news as best they could, and she loved them for that.

  “But Beth never got over it,” she said. “She told me I had shamed her and our family. I had not shamed anyone. She was just afraid the people she tried to impress would think less of her. They would judge her for having a brother who wanted to be her sister.”

  Sandra poured herself a cup of coffee. She held the pot toward Max, who shook her head.

  “I grew angry at her…and at myself and the world for what and who I was,” she said. “I poured all of that anger into my art. It’s not there now, the anger. And my art has changed.”

  She told Max she had been running the gallery for five years. The owners lived in New York City. “They sell my work in New York,” she said. “They leave me to run things here. As long as I make money here and my work still sells in New York, I am on my own.”

  “Sounds like a good deal,” Max said.

  “It is. But it can get lonely. Not many people come to galleries anymore. They buy on the Internet.” She smiled. “I welcome the chance to have a chat, even with a police officer.” Then the smile was gone. “Too bad it involves my sister.”

  “So you are still upset about the way she treated you?” Max asked.

  “That and other stuff.”

  Max wondered what other stuff meant, but she said nothing.

  “She never wanted me around,” Sandra said. “Even when my work brought good reviews and prices, she wanted nothing to do with me. She wouldn’t come to see my work or talk about it. She did not even tell me about her marriage to Frank Higgs. I was never invited to her la-de-da dinner parties. She would have other artists, but never me. And when Mom and Dad died just six weeks apart, she didn’t let me know. I was in Paris at the time. She knew where I was and how to reach me, but she didn’t…”

  Her voice broke, and she lowered her head. She covered her eyes with her hand. “She buried them and never said a word to me. I wrote her to ask why Mom and Dad didn’t answer my letters. There was never a reply. I had to come home to learn…”

  Max reached out to touch Sandra’s shoulder.

  Sandra sat up and smiled. “I’m all right,” she said. “Thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

  Max said, “I saw one of your paintings in Beth’s living room. So she must like your work.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Beth said. “When I was going through the change from male to female…” She stopped. Then: “It was… it cost a lot of money. More than I had. Thousands of dollars more. I went to her and Frank to ask for help. I promised to pay them back when I was able to paint again. It was so important to me.”

  Beth, Sandra said, would not even talk about it. “She made me feel so small.” But Beth’s husband agreed to help. “Frank Higgs was a sweet, classy man. I adored him, which upset Beth. He came to the gallery, liked that painting and gave me ten thousand dollars for it. I accepted, of course. Beth was furious, but Frank insisted. Frank…” Her eyes grew wet again, and she lowered her head.

  “What is it?” Max asked.

  “Never mind.”

  Sandra sat upright and began again. She said she’d always wanted to be close to her sister. Beth had rejected her as Stephen and still did, now that she was Sandra. She knew how much Beth disliked her brother’s need to change gender. Sandra had even promised that she would erase every trace of Stephen Carson. You will never have had a brother, she said to Beth. The world will never know. You will not be embarrassed anymore.

  Sandra shook her head. “I told her that over and over. It was the only way Beth would even agree that I existed. I tried so hard to destroy proof that there was once a man named Stephen Carson. About the only things left are my birth record and the paintings I signed as Stephen. But she still will have nothing to do with me.”

  “Now you sign them as Sandra Carson,” Max said. “That’s what gave me the clue out there.” She pointed to the gallery. “Along with your voice.”

  “Which is deep,” Sandra said.

  “Not too deep.”

  “And my hands. They’re big. I hate them. And my turtleneck. I wear high collars all the time. Even in summer. They were not able to remove my Adam’s apple, so I hide it.” Sandra smiled. “You know, all those feminists are right…it’s not easy being a woman.”

  Max needed to get back on track. “Beth said you were the young man who stayed at her house the week before her husband left. She told me knowing that Stephen Carson could not be traced.”

  “Not easily. Anyway, it was not me. Not a chance.”

  “Who do you think this young man was?”

  “I think he may have a number, not a name.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My sister has a thing for young men. Always has. What did they use to call women her age that acted like that? Cougars? Well, Beth is a first-class cougar. Of course, up in Port Ainslie the kind of young men Beth likes are not as easy to pick up as they are here.”

&n
bsp; “Why is she living there?”

  “It’s where Frank wanted to live. It was his money, after all. Beth would rather have stayed here in the city. When she saw the house that Frank wanted to buy, she changed her mind. She loved it. Loved it much more than she loved Frank.” Sandra shrugged. “Beth got the house when Frank died. She got everything when Frank died. She also got Bob, who left his wife and kids for her.”

  “What was Bob like?”

  “Good-looking man. Five or six years younger than Beth.”

  “Was he a heavy drinker?”

  “If he was, I think Beth drove him to it.”

  “How well did you know Bob?”

  “I met him twice. I went north in the fall last year to get some ideas for painting.” She waved a hand toward the gallery. “One of them is out there. I took a room at a B&B and went to visit Beth. I had this crazy idea that we might be able to get along as sisters. Bob answered the door and said Beth didn’t want to see me. When he said I should go away, I was crushed all over again. I think Bob felt sorry for me. He learned where I was staying and invited me to meet him the next day. At the place where he worked. So I went. I thought he was a nice man, but a sad one. He still felt guilty about leaving his family for Beth. I think he believed he’d made a big mistake. Beth drank too much, and Bob was sure she cheated on him. And she scared him.”

  “How?”

  “She could be violent. She would throw things at him. Dishes. Books. Knives.”

  “Did he say anything that might link your sister to his murder?”

  Sandra thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said finally.

  “You don’t know, or you can’t say?”

  “I just don’t know. Only that Bob had reason to be scared of her.”

  Max could see Beth Morton as a mean drunk. It seemed to fit. She had learned quite a bit about the woman. She wasn’t sure what it all meant or if it would help her solve the murder of Bob Morton. But she knew she would have a lot to think about during her drive back to Port Ainslie.

  She stood, thanked Sandra Carson for her time and said she was sorry if she had upset Sandra with her questions.