Murder Below Zero

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  “The most upsetting part,” Sandra said, “was talking about Frank Higgs.”

  “You must have liked him a lot,” Max said.

  Sandra nodded. “Did you hear how he died?”

  “Drowned in their swimming pool.”

  “That’s one story.”

  Max stopped, her hand on the door to Bloor Street. “What’s the other?”

  When Sandra told her, Max knew she had more to think about on the way back to Port Ainslie. Far more than she had expected.

  EIGHT

  “She murdered her first husband.”

  Max was back in her office in Port Ainslie. It was almost three o’clock. The sky was as gray and the air as chilly as when she left that morning. Margie sat across from her. Henry leaned against the wall, listening, his arms folded.

  “Bob Morton told Sandra about it when Sandra, who used to be Beth’s brother, visited last year,” Max said. She had described the first part of her interview with Sandra Carson. Now she was revealing the rest of what Sandra had told her.

  “Frank Higgs, Beth’s first husband, had a serious heart problem. He needed medication three times a day.” Max looked from Margie to Henry and back again as she spoke. “One night when Beth was drunk and angry with Bob, her second husband, she said nobody except her knew what happened to Frank. And she told him. She bragged about it. Or maybe she thought it would scare Bob. I’m sure it did.”

  Beth said she had replaced Higgs’s heart pills with sugar pills for a week. When he began to complain about chest pains, she said he needed to relax with a swim in the pool. Once he was in the water, she began pushing him under with a long pole used to clean the pool.

  “He must have known what she was doing,” Max said. “And he was already in pain. He had a massive heart attack, there in the pool. Just like Beth planned. She told the police she tried to rescue him, but he couldn’t grip the pole. Nobody thought about it. The coroner confirmed a heart attack, and she had the body cremated the next day.”

  “Why wouldn’t he come to us?” Henry said. “The second husband? Why wouldn’t he tell us what he knew?”

  “What proof would he have?” Max said. “All he could tell us is what he told Sandra. Beth would deny it, of course. The whole thing would be useless in court. You can’t get a murder conviction on that kind of tale. What we need to do now is get her for the murder of Bob, her second husband.”

  “What about the young man she picked up?” Margie said. “The one she said was her brother? He had to be in on it.”

  “Find him and you might solve the case,” Henry added.

  “The question is,” Max said, “do we tell Beth Morton that we know she lied to us about him being her brother? Or do we stay quiet and try to catch her in a bigger lie?”

  “We?” Margie said. “There’s that matter of sharing what we know with the OPP. If they find that you tried to hide evidence from them…”

  “I know, I know.” Max held her head in her hands. “I’ll call Boucher tomorrow. I’ll tell him what I know and ask if he needs a report from me.” She looked from Margie to Henry. “I hate to do it. I told Sandra I would protect her privacy as much as I could. When the OPP hears about her, they’ll rush a team to Toronto and spread her name in all the papers.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to talk about her,” Margie said. “Unless they order you to.”

  “You didn’t give me squat,” Boucher said when Max called the next morning. Max had told him Beth Morton did not have a brother. She said she had learned this by speaking to someone in Toronto. “Actually, she does have a brother. This was in my report, in case you failed to read it. We knew that from our computer files,” he said. “By going all the way to Toronto, you went beyond your bounds. You just wasted time and gasoline. It took you all day to find out what we were able to learn in seconds. That’s why you people up there should stop playing detective. From now on, leave the serious stuff to us.”

  Max had not had time to say that Beth once had a brother who was now her sister. Just that she did not have a brother. Hearing Boucher’s words, she chose not to pass on the news about Sandra Carson to him now. Maybe later. Maybe never. “If you knew she had lied to us about her brother,” she said, “why didn’t you tell us? Aren’t we all to share what we know?”

  “No, Chief Benson,” Boucher said. He spat the word Chief as if it were a joke. “This is not a two-way street. You share all you know with us. We do not need to share what we know with you. And we won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we figure any secret stuff we might pass on to you will not stay secret. If you get my drift.”

  “I don’t get your drift. Talk in plain words, please.”

  “I just did. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Did you speak to Beth Morton about her lie? Can you tell me that?”

  “Yes, we did, since you asked. She claims her brother is mentally ill. He’s a nutcase who spends his life erasing all records of his life. So as far as she is concerned, she does not have a brother.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “Could be true.”

  “Where are we with the investigation?”

  “If by we you mean the OPP, we are checking trucks that match the one driven by the man Beth Morton says is her brother.”

  “A black Ford F-150.”

  “Correct.”

  “How many are there in the country?”

  “Thousands. Tens of thousands.”

  “Then you are looking for the wrong thing.”

  “What does that mean?” Boucher said.

  Max had hung up.

  Max spent the rest of the day drinking too much coffee and reading the OPP report too many times. By noon she was confused and angry. Confused by the facts she had that might let her arrest Beth Morton, and angry over the insults from Boucher.

  She understood his need to keep things under wraps, but she had done nothing to suggest he couldn’t trust her. She had respect for the OPP and its people. That wasn’t the point. She just wanted them to accept that she could solve a major crime like murder. Or at least be an asset to them. Didn’t her twenty years as a cop in Toronto count?

  Many crimes, she knew, were solved by hard-working cops searching for links between people, places and events. The best way to solve a murder case was to study the facts. You looked for facts that matched. When they didn’t match, you went looking for reasons to explain things. She was sure that was how the murder of Bob Morton would be solved. Find the claims that were true, and follow the ones that were false.

  “The phone hasn’t rung all morning,” Margie said at noon. She had brought a bowl of homemade chicken soup and a square of corn bread for her lunch. She was about to put it all in the microwave oven. “I can’t believe I’m having chicken soup and corn bread for lunch in June,” she said. “I should be eating salad and cold poached salmon.” She looked over at Max. “Want to share this with me?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll drive home and eat there,” Max said. She reached for the keys to her cruiser. “It’ll give me a chance to think.”

  Max did not go home for lunch. Instead, she drove to Sunset Hill.

  Beth Morton answered Max’s knock. She opened her front door just wide enough to look out. Her eyes flew from Max to the cruiser and back.

  “I wonder if I can speak to you,” Max said.

  “About what?” Beth lifted her chin and glared at Max.

  “About the death of your husband.”

  “I’ve been told not to talk to you.”

  “By whom?”

  “By the OPP. I am to talk only with Constable Boucher or his staff. Not you.”

  “I just need to ask…”

  The door closed.

  Max had wanted to see how Beth would react to the news that Max had met Sandra Carson. They would have much to talk about, she was sure…if she could get Beth to discuss it. The more suspects talk, Max knew, the more likely they are to say something they did
n’t mean to say. That’s what she had hoped would happen in a visit with Beth. Now it seemed like another of her ideas that had gone nowhere.

  Maybe, Max thought as she drove down Sunset Hill, she should let Boucher and his pros do whatever they wanted to do. She, Margie and Henry could sit and wait for summer to arrive. They could relax like tourists.

  She called Margie from the car and asked if anything was new. Margie said no calls had come in. The cool and overcast weather just might be making people obey the law more than normal. Maybe we shouldn’t hope for warm weather after all, Max thought. She told Margie to call her at home if she was needed. Then she drove to Willow Cove, made herself lunch and ate in her kitchen looking over the lake. She would have liked to sit on her porch in warm sunshine, but it was still too cold and gloomy.

  She was about to return to the police station when Geegee appeared at the kitchen window, a plate of shortbread in her hand. The smile on her face and her raised eyebrows made Max laugh out loud.

  “I’m here to trade for dirt,” Geegee said when Max opened the door. “What can you tell me about that body you found the other day?”

  “Nothing,” Max said, setting the shortbread on the table and reaching for the coffee pot. “Not yet. You take cream, right?”

  “Black.” Geegee looked hurt. “Boy, I thought living next to the chief of police would liven up my dull life a little.”

  “Sorry,” Max said. “Tell you what.” She picked up her cell phone. “You can listen in while I get all the news from Action Central. How’s that?”

  “Action Central?” Geegee said. “In cold Port Ainslie? What, you’re gonna call Tim Hortons?”

  Max had already dialed Margie. “I may take another hour here for lunch,” she said when Margie answered. “Any reason to come in?” She switched the phone to speaker mode, ready to make notes if needed.

  “Only to send some stuff to Boucher like you promised,” Margie said.

  “I’ll draft it when I come in later. Where’s Henry?”

  “Out on patrol. He likes to crank up the heat in the car higher than here. He says I don’t feel the cold as much as him ’cause I’m still getting hot flashes. I told him that was sexist, and he said, What isn’t these days? I was glad to see the back of him.”

  “What’s happened since I left this morning?”

  “Got a note that the old cruiser’s due for an oil change next week,” Margie said. “Those folks on Creek Road said not to worry about that generator that was stolen last week ’cause it’s back. Carter’s dog was out with no leash again. Henry picked up the dog and warned them. Again. Expect another box of candy. Town council wants a budget review next month. Plus you missed some good soup. I’ll bring you a bowl tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be back by two,” Max said. “See you then.” She switched off the phone and looked at Geegee. “So there you are,” she said. “How’s that for true crime in Port Ainslie? You’re not going to hear that kind of news out of Hollywood, are you?” She reached for a piece of shortbread.

  “Kind of strange, isn’t it?” Geegee was resting her chin on her hand.

  “Not strange. Perfectly normal week around here.”

  “I mean the generator thing. People report it’s stolen. Then they say it’s back. Like somebody borrowed it. Whoever took it in the first place.”

  “Well, maybe they…,” Max began.

  “Like, if you steal something from somebody, why would you take it back? You’d be as likely to get caught putting it back as you would stealing it, right? So why’d they do it? Did they feel guilty or something?”

  Max sat frozen, listening.

  “And taking it back doesn’t mean there was no crime. If you take ten bucks out of my purse and put it back later, you’re still a thief, right? So why didn’t these people want you to do something about it?”

  Max almost jumped out of her chair.

  “Where’re you going?” Geegee said.

  “I’m not sure,” Max said. She was slipping one arm into her tunic. In her free hand she was calling Margie on her cell phone. “Margie,” Geegee heard her say as she went out the door, “tell me about that stolen generator.”

  NINE

  Port Ainslie’s town limits stretched along the shore of the lake and up the face of Granite Mountain. The boundary covered a lot of land. Yet the town could afford only a chief, a constable, Margie Burns and two cars.

  There were few crimes to solve in Port Ainslie. Residents just didn’t seem interested in breaking the law. Not much of it anyway. Port Ainslie had a lot of land, but it had few criminals. Still, the townspeople liked the idea of having their own police force, small as it was. Waste of money, some folks said, meaning the police budget. Stubborn fools, the OPP called the town and its council. It didn’t matter. The people in Port Ainslie were more independent than others in Muskoka. They wanted to police themselves, without outsiders. Including the OPP. They took pride in being the only town of its size to have its own police force. Such as it was.

  When people pointed out that Port Ainslie was not like other towns in the area, they meant its refusal to be patrolled by the OPP.

  They might also have meant the way it was split in two by Ainslie Creek.

  Most people lived…or wanted to live… in West Ainslie. It had the best beaches, and included Sunset Hill and Willow Cove. East Ainslie was rocky and raw, with forest and brush but few homes. This led to people saying they lived either “across the creek” or “up the creek.” Living up the creek meant in East Ainslie.

  The people who had reported the generator stolen, then returned, were Jack and Flo Brenner. They lived on Creek Road, the dividing line between East and West Ainslie. They had told Margie they wanted to forget about the theft of the generator. Why? Because it had been brought back. They were fine with that. But where had it been for more than a week? They didn’t know. And why didn’t they want the thief caught? They didn’t say.

  Many people in Muskoka kept portable generators to be used when the electric power failed. This could happen in mid-winter. Heavy snows could break the power lines and it could take days to restore the electricity. When the temperature reaches 25 or 30 below in Muskoka and furnaces don’t run, you need a large wood stove. Or a generator.

  This spring had been cold, yet not so cold that anyone would need a portable generator. But someone needed it for a week and then didn’t need it again. They needed the power badly enough to steal a generator. Then they brought it back. On one level this didn’t make sense. On another level it made perfect sense.

  She had no problem finding the Brenner home. A painted sign said Jack & Flo’s Creek Side Nest above a drawing of two rocking chairs. The sign would have been too cute for words in the big city. On Creek Road in Port Ainslie, it looked right at home.

  “We are sorry if we caused trouble,” Flo Brenner said. She handed Max a cup of coffee and pushed some butter tarts toward her. She was in her fifties, not as old as Max had expected.

  “Just did what we should have done,” Jack Brenner said. He leaned against the sink, a tall man with white hair and a warm smile. “Didn’t know who took it, did we? Only use it when the power’s out. That was…how often last year, Flo?”

  “Twice, I think,” his wife said. “We ran it after that ice storm last March. We had lights, television and the fridge all week long till the power came back. More than most people had. People with furnaces, like our neighbors, they near froze to death.”

  “Where do you store your generator?” Max asked.

  “In the garage.” Jack Brenner looked away.

  “Do you think someone knew it was there?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Why did they bring the generator back?”

  No one spoke. Max kept looking at Jack, who looked at Flo. Flo looked out the window at the garden. Max sipped her coffee, watching them both. Then: “Who brought it back?”

  Jack said, “Our nephew.”

  Max turned to Flo, still looking at t
he garden. “His name is Ted,” Flo said. “Ted Huffman.”

  “Don’t need more trouble,” Jack said. “Ted don’t.”

  “So he took the generator,” Max said, “and didn’t tell you about it. Then he brought it back.”

  “And said he was sorry.” Jack pushed away from the sink to stand near his wife. “He’s family. You tend to forgive family.”

  “He’s my sister’s boy,” Flo said. “She and her husband moved to BC ten years ago.”

  “They ran a maple camp here,” Jack said. “Back in the bush, near the falls. That’s where they boiled down sap and made syrup, all that stuff. They sold the land to some outfit, said they would build houses on it. Never did a thing. Land’s sat there since. Outfit says they want to sell it if they can make enough profit from it. It’s all about money these days.” He made a face.

  “He went with them for a while to BC,” Flo said. “Ted did.”

  “Got into some trouble out there. Kind of a wild kid, he is,” Jack said. “Still call him a kid. He’s a man now.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Max said.

  “Usual kind, a young man like that,” Flo said. “He likes the girls, and the girls like him. Loves to have his fun.”

  “Did a few months in jail for theft,” Jack said.

  Flo made a face at her husband’s words.

  “Sorry,” Jack said. “But it’s true. The police here, they could find out anyway.” He looked at Max. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Tell me about Ted,” Max said. “When have you seen him over the past two weeks?”

  Flo told Max that Ted had shown up to ask if he could stay with them for a while. “Came by sometime last month,” she said. “Didn’t call ahead to ask if he could stay. Just pulled in the driveway with a smile and a hug. And a suitcase.”

  “Showed up with a handful of Gimme and a mouthful of Much obliged,” Jack said.

  “Told us he was on his way east to look for work on an offshore oil rig,” Flo said. “He’s not a bad boy. Just a little wild. We remember him as a youngster.”