The Art of Murder

by Kevin Hopkins

  ‘Do you paint in the same style as your grandfather? I would love to see your work sometime,’ said Penner.

  ‘It’s kind of a mix of traditional, like his work was, but with my own spin. I don’t want to copy someone else’s work if I can help it. It’s good to take inspiration from what came before, but you have to make it your own. I have some pics on my phone if you want to see them,’ he said, taking his phone out of his back pants pocket.

  ‘Yeah, for sure,’ Penner said. ‘I’m just going to grab another glass of wine. Anyone else?’

  ‘Might as well have one more scotch,’ the Captain said. ‘I can be a bit late for work in the morning, if need be.’

  ‘I’ll come give you a hand,’ said Beverly. ‘And I’m just going to try calling Mark again. I don’t know whether to be worried or annoyed.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Rob, pass me another beer, would ya?’

  ‘Here,’ Rob said, tossing a can of stout over to Jay.

  ‘Cheers.’ Jay cracked the can open and slurped around the rim. ‘Man—the wind ever howling,’ he said, listening to the small window on the ice shack rattling. A stream of snow suddenly blew in from the seal around the window, right down Jay’s neck. ‘You really have to do some work on this thing for next year.’

  ‘What I’d like to do is build a new one,’ said Rob. ‘Really not sure if the wife will go for it, though. She thinks I spend too much money on stuff as is.’

  ‘Well, you do spend like you have your own printing press,’ Jay said, putting another piece of wood in the woodstove. ‘You’re going to have to start saving some money sooner or later. Your pension isn’t going to give you that much every year.’

  ‘Pretty sure my lotto numbers are going to come up before then,’ said Rob, looking around before knocking on the wooden crate he was using as a stool. ‘Knock wood,’ he added. ‘Been playing the same numbers for years now—they’re bound to get drawn at some point.’

  ‘And how’s that working out for you so far?’ Jay asked.

  ‘Well, not so good. End up losing more than I win. But, when they finally hit, it’ll be all good,’ Rob said with a smile.

  ‘Probably come out way farther ahead if you just put the money you spend on tickets into a savings account. I can almost guarantee you’d come out ahead at the end of the year,’ said Jay.

  ‘But what fun would that be? I like that anticipation every Saturday morning—checking my tickets while drinking my coffee.’

  ‘Well, if you do ever win, just remember your friends,’ Jay said, taking a mouthful of beer.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll see about that.’ Rob shuffled his crate a bit closer to the fire. ‘The wind really does come in here, eh?’ Another dusting of snow blew in beside the window. ‘Did you just hear someone yell?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything. Probably just the wind.’

  ‘Shh, listen.’ Rob stood up next to the window. ‘Sounds like someone yelling for help.’

  ‘I think you’ve had too many beers,’ Jay said. He jumped at a sudden pounding on the shack’s door.

  Rob opened the door to a faceful of stinging snow. He stepped back as a young man pushed his way into the shack, his eyes wide, his face pale.

  ‘Do you have a phone? You need to call 911,’ the young man said, catching his breath.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jay asked, unzipping his jacket and pulling his phone out of the inside pocket.

  ‘I was fishing a couple hundred meters from here in my shack. The flag on my line went down and I started reeling in. It was heavy, real heavy. Thought it must have been a big pike or a musky. No fight, but really heavy. I thought I was going to break my line.’

  ‘So, why do you need 911?’ Rob asked.

  ‘When I finally got it close to the hole, I could start to see it. I was expecting to see a large head, but…’ The man stopped, shaken.

  ‘What? You snag something?’ Jay looked over at Rob who just shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Yeah. I could see fabric. Looked like a jacket or something. I got it as close to the hole as I could and reached in to pull it out.’

  ‘I still don’t see why you need 911,’ said Jay. ‘We’re not too far from the falls at the power plant. Lots of garbage ends up coming down river.’

  ‘When I reached in the water and grabbed it, it didn’t feel empty. I think I snagged a body.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘I really don’t see the appeal of ice fishing,’ Millar said to Grant as they walked across the frozen river towards the light coming from the ice shacks. ‘I love fishing in the summer but sitting out on a sheet of ice really doesn’t seem like my kind of fun.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’ Grant grimaced, pulling his tuque down over his ears. ‘I’d much rather go to the grocery store, pick out a piece of fish and fry it up at home in my warm kitchen.’ The ice creaked and groaned with every step they took. ‘I hate when it does that. I can’t believe people actually drive their trucks out over the ice. That’s just asking for trouble.’

  ‘I assume they have a good idea how thick the ice is, but someone always seems to go through every couple of years. Explain that one to the insurance company,’ said Millar.

  A figure walked up to them, shining his flashlight directly in their faces. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, seeing Millar and Grant shield their eyes. ‘Wasn’t sure who it was.’

  ‘No problem. So, you first on scene?’ Millar asked the officer as they walked together towards the shack. Wood smoke poured out of a makeshift chimney.

  ‘Yes, sir. Myself and my partner. When we first arrived, we went to the shack over there,’ the officer said, pointing his flashlight down river. ‘My partner’s still down there talking to the guys that called it in.’

  ‘Dispatch said someone found a body?’ Grant asked, pulling his collar up as far as he could as another gust of wind blew through.

  ‘Yes, sir. According to the guys in the other shack, the guy who was fishing here hooked into what he thinks is a body,’ the officer said, shining his light on the shack behind him.

  ‘Have you seen the body?’ asked Millar.

  ‘No, sir. I haven’t been in yet. I just walked over right before you showed up.’

  ‘I’ll check this out,’ Millar said to Grant. ‘You go down and talk to the caller. See what happened.’

  Grant looked at the light shining in the distance. ‘Sure you don’t want to go? The fire here seems pretty inviting.’

  ‘One of the perks of being the senior officer, my friend,’ Millar said, patting Grant on the shoulder. ‘Just don’t think about it, and it won’t feel so cold.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Grant said, shaking his head. ‘I’ll let you know what they say.’

  Millar opened the door into a wall of warm air. ‘Cozy,’ he said, stepping inside.

  ‘Enjoy that,’ Grant called back as he turned to walk down the river.

  ‘Should I come in, sir?’ the officer asked, putting his hands under his armpits. ‘These issued gloves don’t do much against this cold.’

  ‘Give me a minute to look around first,’ Millar said. ‘I’ll try to be quick.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that, sir,’ the officer said, as the door closed in front of him and cut him off from any warmth. He stomped his feet and muttered something unpleasant under his breath.

  Inside, Millar looked around the small shack. A portable wood stove with a crackling fire sat in the corner. He took off his gloves and held his hands over the stove to warm them up. Pressed up against the wall beside the stove was a small cot with a sleeping bag splayed open on top of it. ‘People sleep in these?’ he said to himself, surprised. Next to the door was a card table with a two-burner stove on top. There was a pot on the stove and Millar stepped over to lift the lid. He sniffed. Chili. Putting the lid back on, he turned to look at the main event—the hole in the floor. Directly in the centre of the shack was a two-foot square hole in the plywood floor, which revealed the ice beneath. Sitting over an eigh
t-inch hole in the ice was a makeshift fishing rod. Millar leaned down to get a better look. Holding the rod above the open water was a cross made of two pieces of wood. They looked like they were cut-offs from an old hockey stick. Attached to the base was an upright piece of wood, which held a reel of bright green plastic line. On top of the upright was a red flag attached to a steel rod and a spring.

  Millar moved the wooden contraption away and placed it on the ice beside the hole. He looked inside. He thought he could make out some fabric floating a few inches below the waterline, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. He grabbed the green line that went into the water and gave it a tug. Whatever was attached on the other end was heavy and gave some resistance, refusing to move. He grabbed the line with both hands and pulled harder. He watched the hole, seeing the fabric move closer to the top, finally breaching the surface of the water. He gave another tug. Suddenly, the line went slack, breaking right above the waterline. Millar watched the fabric slowly start floating back down into the darkness.

  ‘Constable!’ Millar yelled, plunging his arm into the frigid water.

  ‘Sir?’ the officer opened the door and poked his head inside.

  ‘Find me something to tie this off with,’ Millar said. He was on his knees beside the hole and was holding onto an arm that stuck straight out of the small hole in the ice. ‘Try to hurry. I’m freezing here.’

  The officer looked around the small shack. Hanging on the wall beside the wood stove was a small-linked, metal chain, about three feet long. He grabbed it off the wall and kneeled beside Millar.

  ‘That should work,’ Millar said, pulling the arm up as far as he could. ‘Try tying it off around the elbow, then again around the wrist. I don’t want it slipping back into the water if we can help it.’

  The officer looped the chain around the arm, pulling it as tight as he could. ‘That should hold it, I think.’ He looked around the shack again. ‘What should we tie the other end off to?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Millar. ‘I’m going to let go slowly—we’ll see if this is going to hold. Get ready to grab it if it seems like it’s going down.’ He released his grip and the arm sank back down below the waterline, stopping once the chain went tight in the officer’s grip.

  ‘Should hold,’ the officer said. ‘Do you just want me to keep holding this, or what’s your plan?’

  Millar stood up and took off his wet jacket, laying it out beside the fire. He grabbed the cot that was beside the wall and pulled it into the centre of the shack beside the hole in the floor. ‘Tie the chain off to the leg.’

  ‘Seems pretty light, no? I’m not sure it will stay in place. Whoever is attached to this arm is kinda heavy,’ the officer said, making a couple of crude knots with the chain around the leg of the cot.

  ‘No problem,’ Millar said, sitting on the edge of the cot. ‘I’ll just sit here, and make sure it doesn’t move. It will give me a chance to dry out and warm up.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, sir?’

  ‘Go back to your squad car for now. I’ll put in a call to dispatch to get them to send out some help. Might need the fire department’s water rescue squad to come and cut the ice—make the hole big enough to pull the body through,’ Millar said. ‘Before you go, do me a favour. Can you grab my phone? Inside breast pocket of my jacket. Left side.’

  The officer felt around the jacket and pulled out the phone, passing it to Millar. ‘I’ll go to the other shack first and let my partner know where I’m going,’ he said, opening the door to the frigid night air.

  ‘I’ll let him know,’ Millar said, dialing his phone. ‘I’m going to call my partner, Sergeant Grant. He’ll tell him.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, sir.’ The officer took one last look at the wood stove before walking into the snow and closing the door behind him.

  Millar laid down on the bed and waited for Grant to pick up. ‘Pretty cozy in here, actually. I think I’m starting to understand why people do this.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Wow. Your paintings are really beautiful,’ Penner said, scrolling through the photos on Gabe’s phone. ‘So, how long does something like this take you to paint?’ she asked, pointing at one particular photo.

  ‘That one…probably about twelve hours, but it could have been a bit longer. I really don’t keep track because if I did, I would get depressed with how low my hourly wage is,’ Gabe said with a chuckle.

  ‘Is it hard to make money selling your art?’ Penner asked, looking at more of the paintings. ‘I really like this one,’ she said, examining a painting of a walrus on an ice flow.

  ‘Thanks! That’s one of my favourites. It can be tough—especially up North,’ Gabe said. ‘Thankfully, things have started to work out in my favour ever since Beverly bought some of my pieces and was able to help me get my first art show in Ontario.’

  ‘I was just happy that I could help,’ Beverly said, smiling at Gabe. ‘I think you’re going to have a great career—especially once you get a couple more shows under your belt. Speaking of shows,’ she said, nudging Gabe’s arm. Gabe just stared at her. ‘You have to learn how to self-promote.’

  ‘I’m having a show here in town in a couple of days,’ said Gabe, looking back and forth at Penner and the Captain. ‘Beverly helped set it up.’

  ‘That’s great! Where is it going to be?’ asked the Captain.

  ‘At the Spider Loft Gallery, on Sparks Street. I think this show is going to be really good for you,’ Beverly said to Gabe. ‘I’ve sent out invites to all the local media, some politicians that Mark knows and some rather big collectors from here in Ottawa, Toronto and Montreal. If the weather holds off, it should be a packed house.’

  ‘Is it open to just anyone, or is it invite only?’ asked Penner.

  ‘Open to one and all. You should try to come out. Gabe’s paintings look much better in person than on a phone.’

  ‘If I’m not working, I’ll be there for sure. Who knows? This could be where I become an art collector. I may have to buy one of your pieces before you become too famous and I can’t afford your work.’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ said Gabe with a grin.

  ‘That’s one nice thing about Gabe’s work—there are pieces in several different price ranges, so there’s something for everyone.’

  ‘I’m a bit nervous about it, but I’m looking forward to it at the same time,’ said Gabe. ‘With any luck, if the show goes well, I’ll be able to consider doing this full time.’

  Beverly looked at her watch. Her hostess demeanour was slipping, and her anxiety was beginning to show. ‘Where on earth can Mark be? I’m starting to get worried. I’m going to try his cell again. Please excuse me for a moment.’ She took her phone out of her purse and walked away from the noise of the room.

  ‘Do you think we should ask patrol to start a search?’ Penner asked the Captain. ‘Maybe send somebody over to their house to see if he’s there. Maybe he had a heart attack or something.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ the Captain agreed. ‘I’ll call dispatch and get one of the officers to stop by their house and just do a check. Who knows, maybe he just forgot and fell asleep.’

  ‘That’s not really likely,’ said Chris, overhearing the Captain’s words as he approached the group. ‘He definitely knew that this was going on and he wouldn’t have missed it.’

  ‘Alright. I’ll ask someone to check their house.’ The Captain excused himself to make the phone call.

  Gabe noticed that the crowd of people waiting to get into the exhibit hall had lessened and turned to Penner. ‘While we’re waiting, if you want, we can check out some more of my granddad’s pieces in the gallery.’

  ‘I’d like that,” said Penner. ‘I’d love to find out more about the different techniques that he used and his inspirations.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do,’ Gabe said. ‘I wasn’t born yet when he passed, so I don’t have a lot of insight into what he was thinking when he did the pieces. But I can tell y
ou what I think he was thinking.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Penner as she led the way back into the exhibition.

  ***

  ‘Alright, keep me informed if they find anything.’ The Captain put his phone back into his jacket pocket and searched the room one more time in hopes that he would see Mark. There were still so many people in the crowded hall that it was hard to identify one individual face. Then he saw Beverly emerge from the crowd and walk towards him, a concerned look on her face.

  ‘I still can’t get in touch with him. He’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘I just called dispatch. They’re going to send an officer over to your place to see if he’s there. Maybe he fell asleep or something,’ said the Captain unconvincingly.

  ‘Well, at this point, I hope that’s all it is.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be going down to Florida sometime soon?’ Constable Curry made a right-hand turn onto Sussex Drive.

  ‘I was, but I had to cancel my trip. My cat got sick—turned out to be bladder stones. Stupid thing ended up needing emergency surgery. Cost me over five thousand bucks! Can you believe that?’ Constable Carlson said, shaking his head. They had been having a coffee in the local donut shop when the call from dispatch came in to check out the Williams’ house.

  ‘Five grand? You know how many cats you could have bought for that type of money?’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Constable Carlson, ruefully. ‘But I’ve had him for nine years—I couldn’t not do the surgery. Plus, he’s my little buddy.’