Weekends Can Be Murder, page 17
“I needed to find some evidence and record it so it couldn’t be disappeared before the police arrived. I thought about telling you, but I knew you’d try to talk me out of it.”
“Damn right, I would have! And when that failed, I would have come along, to protect you.” A pause, then, “So, did you find any evidence?”
“They interrupted me before I could get very far. Would you really throw one of them over the bluff just for giving me a side-eye?”
“And mess up a crime scene?” he said with feigned horror. “No. If push came to shove, I’d throw him down the stairs. In the meanwhile, I think you and I should wait for the police together in my quarters. I’ll show you my mystery novel and you can show me yours.”
Fifteen
Approximately thirty minutes later, as the sun was clearing the horizon, the Provincial Police Services investigative unit arrived, by air and by water.
Larry heard the approaching thud-thud-thud and rushed to his window in time to see a dark grey helicopter descend onto the grass at the rear of the house. The wash from its blades was enough to bend every shrub in the garden and send several lawn chairs flying toward the porch. There was a large white cross on the ’copter’s side. Before the rotors had stopped moving, an opening appeared where the cross had been, and three people spilled out of it. One of them was carrying a black case. The other two reached back into the helicopter and hauled out a gurney.
They’d clearly spotted the body on the rocks beneath the bluff, for instead of heading for the front of the house, they stood gazing and pointing in the direction of the beach.
Selena had dozed off on Larry’s bed, book in hand. A heavy pounding at the door brought her instantly awake and nearly launched him out of his skin. “They’re here!” came Norman’s voice from the hallway. “Two boats are tying up at the dock and the Crime Club is going down to meet them. Hugh and Liz want us to present a united front. Come on, you two! We know you’re together in there.”
Larry hesitated. A united front? Were the Sampsons expecting pushback from the police?
Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, Selena closed her book and gave him a smile. “Like I said earlier, Mr. Holmes, in the eyes of everyone on the island, you’re one of us now. Besides, you only get one chance to make a first impression, and this one is going to be important later on.”
Larry had been awake for twenty-four hours at this point and didn’t have the energy to argue with her.
“Okay, okay,” he finally replied, stepping barefoot into a pair of deck shoes. “Let’s go, then.”
Apparently, everyone else in the house had had the same idea. There was a sizable crowd standing on or near the dock. The grass was cool and damp against Larry’s ankles as he negotiated the terraced front lawn. Following Selena, he cut through the assembled guests and ended up standing with her and Hugh, directly in front of a tall, stern-faced woman wearing the navy blue uniform of a Provincial Police Services officer.
“Ah, here they are!” said Hugh. “Making an entrance, as usual. Mr. Holmes, Ms. Watt, meet—”
“I am Detective Sergeant Isabel Brassard,” the officer cut in, addressing the gathering in a voice with a distinct francophone cadence. “This is now my investigation. From this moment, everyone on this island will follow my orders, whether given directly or conveyed by my constables. Is that understood?”
A chorus of murmuring followed her announcement.
“Mr. Baker, you reported that the crime scene was inside the house,” Brassard said, turning to face him.
Baker squared his shoulders and replied, “I did, and it is.”
“And now there is a second body, found on the beach. How was this body discovered?” She paused, her dark eyes bright and expectant.
A flush was rising up Baker’s neck and along his jawline. “I promised your dispatcher that your team would be fully briefed when you arrived.”
“Yes, I heard that. And now we are here, and we look forward to receiving all the details surrounding this second, tragic death. In the meanwhile, we now have two scenes to process instead of one. Varney and Gladden, you will go down to the beach. Berman and Hashi, Mr. Baker will show you to the murder scene inside the house. You know what to do. The rest of you are on crowd control and witness statements.”
“I beg your pardon, Sergeant Brassard,” said Hugh. “I don’t know whether Baker told you about this, but there are a couple of things you should know before beginning the investigation.”
“You are talking about your little murder mystery game?” The curl of her lip left no question regarding how she felt about that.
“It’s not just a game,” Hugh protested. “At least, it wasn’t this time. In the course of solving the imaginary murder, we turned up some information—”
“And you will have your chance to share it during the interviews,” she assured him. “I’ve heard about the Crime Club, and how you like to ‘help us out’, so I am going to nip this in the bud, as they say. A murder investigation is not like a novel or some television show. It is not going to be neatly wrapped up in an hour or two by some reckless amateur coming up with the pivotal clue. I know you and your friends are well-meaning. You may even be useful at some point. However, my unit is well-trained, and their diligence, expertise, and persistence are what is needed to solve these crimes. Stand aside and let us do our jobs. If we need your input, we will ask for it. Entendu?”
Her words were polite, but her eyes were flashing a warning.
Larry took notice and kept his mouth shut.
However, as if to illustrate Brassard’s point about reckless amateurs, Selena piped up, “Are you aware the house is cursed?”
“That again?” Brassard let out a martyred sigh. “It’s a myth. We have files on Rafferty Island that go back a hundred years. And while it is very sad to think about the number of deaths that have occurred in this place, when you compare that to the total number of people who have perished on Georgian Bay in the last century, it is a very small portion. You may choose to believe that supernatural forces are at work here, but we of the PPS concern ourselves exclusively with facts and hard evidence.” She beckoned to one of the officers to join them. “Detective Constable Johnson, would you escort these persons of interest up to the house, please, and take into custody all the scripts that were used for their imaginary murder game.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As the burly officer began urging them up the lawn and Brassard wheeled to answer a radio call, Larry felt compelled to say something. “Those scripts aren’t completely fictitious.”
“Wait a minute!” Grim-faced, Brassard came striding over. “Did you write them?”
Larry turned to face her. “No. They were created by the game master, Antony Court. Whoever interviews him will need to ask him directly which parts are factual and which are not.”
“I see. And you are…?”
“Larry Holmes. I’m a firefighter, based in Groverton.”
“You are the first responder Baker told us about?”
“I guess I am.”
“Johnson, tell the others to add Mr. Holmes on Dr. Michison’s interview list.”
“Way to make a first impression, Larry,” Selena murmured, giving his arm a little nudge.
“One more thing,” said Brassard. Her expression had hardened. “The medical examiner just texted me from the other side of the house. The body on the rocks appears to have died of injuries received from a fall.” She showed them an image on the screen of her phone. “Do you recognize this man?”
As a firefighter, Larry had seen his share of catastrophic injuries, including what happened when a human body fell from a height onto a hard surface. Fortunately, the early morning darkness had cloaked what remained of Farley, enabling Larry to get Selena back to the house without further traumatizing her. Now, it seemed that his efforts to spare her were about to be for nothing.
As though reading his mind, Hugh inserted himself between Selena and Brassard and peered at the image for a moment.
“I’m afraid we do,” said Hugh. “That’s Farley.”
Larry stole a glance over the other man’s shoulder. Miraculously, Farley’s face had escaped most of the impact. In the photo, he was lying on his back, with a pool of blood surrounding his head like a halo, and his features frozen in an expression of surprise.
Selena elbowed Larry aside and viewed it for herself.
“Yes, that’s Farley,” she echoed. “We don’t know his full name. He was one of the actors in the simulation, playing the role of a meal server.”
“Antony Court hired him. He can tell you more,” Larry supplied.
Sgt. Brassard levelled a speculative gaze on both their faces. “This Mr. Court seems to know a great deal. Why do I have the feeling that you two know more as well?”
“Not really,” he said. “Not for sure. Although, when I asked Farley whether he and Baker knew each other, he became evasive, even belligerent, so there’s probably something there.”
“And there was that conversation that Liz and I overheard,” Selena cut in. “I recognized Farley’s voice. We wrote down what was said, as best we could remember it. It sounded as though they were planning to frame someone for a murder that Farley had been hired to commit. Unfortunately, we were unable to identify the second voice, and Farley can no longer tell us who it was.”
“How can you be certain that this conversation wasn’t simply part of your game?” Brassard demanded.
“Simulations are make-believe. They don’t generally lead to real-life concussions and scalp lacerations,” Selena replied. “And Farley referred to someone he’d attacked as having a head like a cannonball.”
“You wrote that down?” Selena bobbed her head in reply, and Brassard returned her attention to Larry. “The concussions. These refer to the two injured men you treated?”
“As best I could, yes. I’m not a paramedic, but I was able to give first aid.”
“This is useful to know. Thank you.”
“And if we think of anything else that’s relevant…?” Larry said.
“Tell it to one of the constables,” she instructed him, gesturing to Det. Constable Johnson to resume shepherding them up to the house.
In the dining room, someone had refilled the coffee urn and washed or replaced the cups. There were also plates of muffins, croissants, and cinnamon rolls arranged on the sideboard, with cheese trays and pots of whipped butter.
“I guess we were scheduled to have a continental breakfast today,” Selena remarked as she and Larry paused on the threshold.
Most of the “persons of interest” were sitting around the table, quietly eating and occasionally murmuring to one another, under the watchful gaze of a pair of police constables. Court, Wylde, and the two living Pykes were absent. No surprise there. Meanwhile, interviews were being conducted behind closed French doors in the parlour and drawing room. Officers could be glimpsed through the glass panes, jotting copious handwritten notes on letter-sized pads of paper.
Larry followed Selena to the breakfast buffet. After filling their cups and plates, they turned to survey the table and saw Hugh and Liz shift over to make room for them to sit side by side.
“So it’s true,” said Liz. “Farley is dead.”
“As a doornail,” Larry confirmed. “That danger is now over, at least.”
Just then, a brief commotion at the front door drew everyone’s attention. They watched as a gurney was wheeled across the foyer toward Arthur Pyke’s room. A moment later, their view was obstructed by the arrival of a short man wearing wire-rimmed eyeglasses and carrying a large black case. He walked past the gurney, directly into Arthur’s quarters.
“The medical examiner?” Selena ventured.
“Now we’ll finally find out how Arthur was killed,” said Hugh.
For the next fifteen minutes, everyone was slathering croissants and muffins, unfurling cinnamon rolls, and commuting back and forth between the table and the coffee urn. Conversation sprang up, then died down as the first interviewees returned from being questioned by the police.
“Uh-oh,” said Liz, gesturing toward the doorway. “That can’t be good.”
Larry looked where she was pointing. The M.E. and Sgt. Brassard were framed by the entrance to the foyer. At first, they appeared to be engaged in an animated conversation. However, as he watched, they both turned and stared directly at him. At last, her face an unreadable mask, Brassard slowly raised her hand and beckoned him over.
“It appears to be your turn, Mr. Holmes,” said Hugh.
Nodding acknowledgement, Larry licked the last crumbs of his croissant off his fingers and wiped his hands with a serviette. He crumpled it and dropped it onto his plate before getting to his feet.
“Tell them the butler did it,” whispered Selena, giving him an encouraging pat on the arm.
Ha, ha.
Larry felt his shoulders rising and forced them to relax as he rounded the table and approached Brassard. “You look like you’ve got a question or two for me.”
“Several, actually,” said the M.E. “I was told two men had sustained some head trauma, and that a first responder conducted a preliminary examination. That was you?”
“Yes, sir, it was.”
“I need a consultation regarding your patients,” said the M.E., ushering him into the parlour.
After directing Larry to one of the club chairs, the other man pulled out a pen and a notebook and sat down facing him. “Mr. Holmes, I’m Dr. Michison. I understand that you are a firefighter. Have you had any paramedic training at all?”
“I’ve taken some courses, but I’m not certified.”
“Well, I have to include the history of their treatment in my report, so I’ll need you to fill me in. Tell me everything—what you found, what you did, what you told them, and what they told you. Take your time, and don’t leave anything out.”
Larry complied. When he described testing Court’s blood to make sure it wasn’t ketchup, Michison’s mouth contorted in a failed attempt to keep a straight face. At the end of the recitation, the M.E. said, “And you never actually examined Mr. Wylde for injuries?”
“He wouldn’t let me touch him. However, from his description of the event and his memory loss, I deduced that he had fallen and hit his head, and his wife later reported that he was experiencing headache and blurred vision, both symptoms of a possible concussion. She also told me that he was following my recommendation that he stay awake until he could be seen by a medical professional.”
Michison grunted with satisfaction, scribbled a final brief note, and put away his pen. “You’ve done well, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for that detailed report. I can take it from here. And now, I believe the sergeant requires a word with you, in the drawing room.”
Brassard met Larry in the foyer and escorted him to a chair in front of the big desk. Then she took the seat behind it and squared up her pen and notepad in the middle of the leather-bound blotter. She was interviewing him without a witness present. Evidently, in police math, one sergeant equalled two constables.
“Is this my official police interview?” he asked.
“It’s one of them. I’m following up a previous interview and just need some clarification.” So saying, she placed a voice recorder on the desk.
Correction: one sergeant plus an electronic device equalled two constables.
Larry leaned back in his chair. “Ask away, Sergeant.”
Brassard leaned back as well, her expression anything but relaxed. “Tell me about the gun.”
Apparently, the interview she was following up had been with Antony Court.
“What I personally know about it? Or what I heard about it from Mr. Court?” Larry asked.
“Both.”
“All right. At approximately 8:30 yesterday evening, I heard that a prop gun loaded with blanks that had been brought by Mr. Court for the simulation had been removed from its place in that desk drawer.” He pointed at it, expecting her gaze to follow his finger, but it didn’t. Her attention remained steadily fixed on his face. Okay, so she already knew. “At 8:41, we heard a couple of loud bangs and thought they might be gunshots.”
“And how can you be so certain about the times?”
“The Crime Club members are used to these simulations. I guess it’s a reflex for them. They hear shots and they check their watches. Or their phones.”
“And one of them shared this information with you?”
“Actually, she ordered me to look at her phone.”
“You had her phone?”
“I was closer to it than she was at the time. Why are we—?”
“B’en. Go on.”
He drew a deep lungful of air. “Later that night, I wanted to check on Mr. Court. He was sitting in the dining room. That was when he informed me that the gun had reappeared in the desk drawer. We wanted to make sure no one moved or touched it before you arrived, so Selena found the key and locked the desk.” So saying, he dropped his key onto the blotter in front of her. “There are two. Ms. Watt has the second one.”
“Why did Mr. Court not do this himself?”
“Mrs. Pyke had chased him out of the drawing room and taken it over. He told us the Dragon Lady hated him, and he wasn’t going back in there until she had vacated the premises. His words.”
“So you have never actually seen this gun? Never touched it yourself?”
“Never.”
“And you have only Mr. Court’s word for it that the gun is now in the desk?”
“And Ms. Watt’s. She assured me that she checked to make sure she wasn’t locking an empty drawer.” Larry didn’t like the direction this interview was taking. “What is this about, Sergeant?”
She beckoned to someone behind him. Larry turned and saw Dr. Michison in the doorway.
“It’s confirmed?” Brassard asked him.
“It is.” Michison crossed the room and stood beside Larry’s chair. “I’ve examined Mr. Wylde. He has a wound consistent with a bullet grazing his skull.”
“So, the reason that he cannot remember falling—”
“—is that he was rendered unconscious by the bullet. And, I daresay, if he hadn’t spoiled the shot by losing his footing when he did, he might very well be dead right now from a gunshot wound to the head. He’s a very lucky man.”
