Weekends Can Be Murder, page 28
“Of course not. As I said, it is very early in the investigation. He knows he is a suspect, but also that we have nothing concrete to build a case against him. This makes him confident, enough perhaps that he may let slip something in conversation. A full confession would be formidable, to be sure, but at this point I would be satisfied with any new details about the crimes. Are you willing to do this?”
On the jotpad, Larry printed, INSTRUCTIONS?
“Very simply, get him to talk about the events of the weekend. I will take care of the rest.”
Brassard stepped forward and slipped a small device behind the water jug on the table beside the bed. As she removed her hand, Larry spotted the familiar green light facing him and understood: this conversation was going to be recorded. Then he recalled something Detective Constable Rivas had said earlier about the expectation of privacy.
WARRANT NEEDED?
“Already obtained.” Brassard reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out an earpiece, and showed it to him before pressing it into place.
So the police would be listening in. That made it more than a recording. It made it a sting. And Brassard had brought the technology with her, along with the card and the flowers, so she must have known how this visit was going to end up.
YOU CAME PREPARED, he observed.
“We are always prepared, Mr. Holmes.” Addressing Selena, she added, “I will be nearby. Any time you feel endangered, speak French and I will arrive immediately. Good luck.”
So saying, she walked briskly out the door.
Larry gave Selena’s hand a squeeze and got a determined nod in return. They were partners, helping the police to catch a killer. They could do this, and they would—together.
Moments later, Antony Court arrived, bringing his own fanfare and carrying a gift bag with a cluster of brightly coloured balloons depicted on it.
“Mr. Holmes! I’m so glad you’re going to be all right,” he declared as he set the bag down on the rolling tray parked at the foot of the bed.
Larry bobbed his head in response and printed, THANX. GLAD U R 2.
“How’s your head feeling, Tony?” Selena asked. “That was quite a wallop you took.”
“It’s a little achy, but otherwise all right. The doctor has cleared me to drive my car, so that tells you something. I’ll be more comfortable when the staples come out, though. They itch.”
“So there was no concussion? That’s good. We were concerned because you’d been unconscious for so long by the time you were found. About forty minutes, in fact. It’s amazing that you came through it all so well.”
He shrugged. “Good genes and a thick skull, I suppose.”
Head like a cannonball?
Time to change tack. Larry printed a single word on the jotpad and showed it to Selena.
FARLEY?
She took his meaning immediately. “Do you know who’s arranging for Farley’s funeral?” she asked Court.
“No,” he replied. “He was from somewhere down east, and the police are still trying to locate his next of kin. In any case, the medical examiner isn’t ready to release the body yet. Something about a complete autopsy being required when foul play is suspected.” He made a sour face.
“You don’t think there was foul play?”
“I think they’ll discover what everyone already knows, and nothing more. The boy fell off a cliff to his death. End of story.”
NOT QUITE
Court paused. “You’re right,” he said at last. “It’s not over yet. And I hate to speak ill of the dead, but that boy had a rotten sense of timing. If he’d survived the weekend, I would have turned him in to the police myself.”
FOR ATTACKING YOU?
“Among other things. But why are we discussing—?”
“Because we know and you know that you lied to the police about what happened Friday night. Farley didn’t hit you from behind and then drag your unconscious body into that unfinished room, did he?”
Drawing himself up to his full height, Court declaimed, “You don’t know a damn thing.”
It sounded like a line from a play.
“Then enlighten us,” Selena challenged him. “Tell us how you knew the gun was back in the desk drawer.”
Silence dropped with the finality of a third-act curtain on closing night. A heartbeat later, she said softly, “You saw him put it there, didn’t you? You can be truthful with us, Tony. We’ve been assembling that night like a jigsaw puzzle, and you’re holding the missing piece. We just need to know what happened so we can call the mystery solved. Please!”
Court’s shoulders sagged. “Sure. Why not?” he said dully. “When I encountered Farley in the foyer and he told me what he’d done… I couldn’t believe it at first.”
BELIEVE WHAT?
“That he’d taken my script for the murder mystery game and used it as the blueprint for an actual murder. That he’d put Wylde on that staircase and shot him with my pistol, implicating me in the crime. And he was actually proud of himself for that! Like he expected me to thank him for doing me a favour!”
“Right. Blame the dead guy,” said Warfield’s remembered voice in Larry’s mind.
“If I’d just asked him calmly for the pistol, I imagine he would have given it to me,” Court continued. “But I lost my temper and made a grab for it, and I guess he panicked. We fought for the gun. It fired a couple of times. Then he got it away from me and clocked me with the damn thing, and I went down.”
BUT NOT OUT
“No, not out, not right away. As I lay there on the floor, half in and half out of the drawing room, he stepped over me, returned the gun to the drawer, and took a handkerchief to the area around the handle. After that, he helped me up and took me back to my quarters, apologizing all the way there. And it was strange, because I could have sworn I’d left my door unlocked, but it wouldn’t open for him. While he was busy fiddling with the knob, I made a dash for the parlour. Tried to, anyway. While crossing the foyer, I finally passed out. He must have forced a door on one of those bedrooms in the south wing and dragged me inside, since that was where you found me.”
Larry and Selena exchanged knowing glances.
“So, you knew he’d put back the gun and wiped down the desk,” she told Court, “and you didn’t dare touch either of them barehanded, for fear of bringing suspicion onto yourself. You couldn’t dispose of the gun either, because it was the attempted murder weapon. The police needed that to make their case against Farley, and you wanted him to pay for what he’d done. That’s why you asked us to lock the desk drawer.”
“Correct.”
Larry printed another message, this one for Selena’s eyes only: PROTECTING?
She read it and nodded.
“Then why did you lie to everyone about the attack?” she asked Court. “Baker and Warfield I think I can understand. There’s history there.”
He looked startled. “What? How do you—?”
Selena drowned out his protestations, bringing her hand down in a chopping motion for emphasis. “But lying to Brassard when you knew your sworn statement could put Farley away for murder? Tony, the man confessed his crime to you and then let you watch him conceal it. Why on Earth would you hold back that information if you truly wanted him to pay for it?” A pause, then she added, “Unless you’re protecting someone.”
Court went instantly rigid. “What the hell is this?” he demanded angrily.
Larry was wondering the same thing. They were supposed to be having a conversation, not bullying a suspect. That was Brassard’s job.
Regardless, Selena was evidently under a full head of steam and not about to back off. “Farley didn’t just tell you what he’d done, did he? He told you who’d instructed him to do it. That’s why you claimed not to know your attacker. Pointing the police to Farley would have meant sending someone you cared about to prison.”
“That’s ridiculous!” he blustered. “And you have no right to interrogate me like this.”
True, Larry thought, but as long as she was in full bad-cop mode… He printed a name on his jotpad and showed it to her.
KEMPER?
“Will told me earlier that you treat your staff as if they’re your children,” she said.
“And that’s a crime now?” he bristled.
“No, but I’m pretty sure protecting them from the consequences of committing their own crime is,” she informed him, raising her chin to a defiant level.
His complexion darkened. “If you think my other actors had anything to do with what happened last weekend, you are dead wrong, Ms. Watt.”
“Really? Diane must have known something was terribly wrong when she went out to fetch Farley and witnessed him shooting at Wylde, but she apparently did nothing about it. Why? Because she knew who’d put him up to it and feared for her own safety if she came forward? Or was it because she was in on the plan?”
Court spat a disdainful syllable at her. “You’ve read too many mystery novels. I’ve known Will since he was a child. He loves Diane and would never hurt her.”
Bingo!
“I never said it was Will,” Selena pointed out. “I never even used the word ‘he’. You’ve just incriminated him, Tony.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped. “I’m going to deny this discussion ever took place.”
“Not to me, I hope,” said Brassard’s voice from the doorway. “It appears my arrival is fortuitous. Would you care to revise the statement you gave us earlier, Mr. Court?”
His face fell. He was done and he knew it. Without another word, Court slouched out the door, presumably to be reinterviewed by the constable waiting in the corridor.
Brassard swept into the room, collected her recording device, and left, pausing on the threshold to say in a stern voice, “Thank you both. Your service is appreciated. And your part in this and any future police investigations is now over. This is your warning. From now on, any crimes that you attempt to solve are to be contained between the covers of books. Entendu?”
“Entendu,” Selena replied, trying and failing to look contrite.
Two days later, Brassard texted Larry a final message: after another round of follow-up interviews, Will Kemper was under arrest for soliciting the murder of Gareth Wylde, and Court and Diane were facing charges as well. Whether those would be for aiding and abetting or for being accessories to a crime was yet to be determined. Meanwhile, Farley’s death had been ruled suspicious and was still under investigation, with Kemper the prime suspect due to Farley’s role in the attack on Wylde.
“Scary, isn’t it?” Selena remarked after Larry had shown her the screen of his phone. “If Will had picked anyone but Farley to carry out the murder, Gareth Wylde would be dead right now, and the who and why of it would still be a mystery. Farley’s bad timing ruined a perfect plan.”
Larry paused, carefully picking his words. He was off the oxygen and permitted to speak, but his voice sounded and felt like a bullfrog coughing up razor blades, so he was trying to talk as little as possible.
“Trip wire,” he croak-whispered.
“That was Will’s doing, for sure. He must have rigged it with a pull-cord or something so that Farley could tighten it later from the top of the bluff, sending Wylde tumbling down the stairs.” She paused, frowning thoughtfully. “The scenario the Crime Club worked out was pretty much spot on. Farley saw Diane coming toward him and took the shot too early. But if she was in on it—”
“He didn’t know. Fall guy.”
Larry let out a groan. Wordlessly, Selena handed him the jotpad and pencil.
Then she continued: “So Farley didn’t have all the facts. Okay. Fall guys are typically kept in the dark while the incriminating evidence mounts all around them. But Farley knew who he was working for and could trade that information to the police in exchange for a deal.” She turned troubled eyes to Larry’s face. “Will always planned to kill him to keep him quiet, didn’t he? Farley promised Will a fall guy, not realizing it was going to be himself all along.”
THEN COURT ALTERED THE SCRIPT.
Her eyes widened. “Of course! Court was angry with him even before Farley pistol-whipped him, so he changed the game to expose Farley as Wylde’s attempted murderer. After we questioned him, Farley realized he’d been targeted to take all the blame. He knew what Will was capable of and that he was in danger. He might even have reached out to the only police presence on the island at the time—Baker—to parlay for protection.”
BUT WITHOUT NAMING WILL.
“That’s right! Because otherwise, Baker would never have teamed up with Will to question Farley. You really do think like a sleuth, you know.”
This time it felt like a compliment. Larry let out a sigh of contentment and leaned back against his pillow.
“Thank you,” he croaked.
* * *
After six days in the hospital, Larry was going home, with an inhaler, a prescription, and a list of instructions to follow that covered both sides of a sheet of paper. The doctors had found some damage to his lungs and upper airway, but nothing that wouldn’t heal. Eventually, the pain and shortness of breath would be gone, and he could be recertified for active duty. Physically, anyway.
The other part could still be an obstacle to his returning to work. But there would be time to deal with that—five to seven weeks to full recovery, according to the pulmonary specialist assigned to his case.
“Are you ready to go home?” Selena stood in the doorway, her smiling face a welcome sight.
He feigned wariness. “In your vehicle? Not taking any back roads, I hope.” His voice was hoarse and still a little raw. He had to remind himself not to try clearing his throat.
“Not to worry,” she assured him. “It was the funniest thing, though. After the police had brought us back to Windsong, Hugh and Liz drove me to where the tow truck had taken my car. The mechanic swore up and down he hadn’t worked on it—he probably would have charged me an arm and a leg if he had—but when I tried the key again, the Chevy started right away. Weird, eh? Since then it’s been running without so much as a hiccup. If there ever was a problem, it’s gone. So, you can rest easy—I’ll get you home safe and sound. And by the way, there’s a present waiting for you on the back seat.”
“Oh?”
“Until you’re well enough to work on your pumper truck, you’ll need something else to occupy your time, so I’ve put together a box of reading material for you.” Her expression was full of mischief now.
“Let me guess. Murder mysteries?”
“You did promise to try them, remember? To find a flavour that you like? Who knows? You might even discover one about a firefighter and a conference planner who team up to solve crimes.”
Hmm. A strange combination, he thought, returning her smile, but definitely worth exploring.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Fire Chief Ross Parr and Fire Prevention Inspector Jeff Gage, both of the Town of Collingwood, for helping to ensure the technical accuracy of the manuscript. As well, I'm indebted to Nancy Merriman of the Ontario Provincial Police for her practical guidance with certain details.
Although relatively recently completed, this book was actually begun many years ago. At the time that I was researching firefighting, then-Fire Chief Robert G. Kennedy of the Town of Richmond Hill took the time to sit with me and provide information about everything from safety gear to the nature of fire and critical incident stress. His kind assistance was much appreciated, and I thanked him for it at the time, but I would really have liked to give him a copy of the finished novel as well. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans: life threw a wrench into my writing career, and Retired Chief Kennedy passed away in 2007. I think he would really have enjoyed Weekends Can Be Murder. I hope you did too.
Born and raised in Toronto, Arlene F. Marks has been writing since the age of 6, and she has no plans to stop anytime soon. A veteran teacher of the craft, she has authored two literacy programs for the classroom, along with From First Word to Last: The Craft of Writing Popular Fiction. Her short stories have appeared in various online and print magazines, as well as in an anthology of reimagined fairy tales, Grimmer Tales Volume One (from ArtOrder). She is also the author of Sic Transit Terra, an ongoing series of space opera novels set at the turn of the 25th century (from Edge Publishing) and Adventures in Godhood, her first of several Brain Lag releases. Imaginary Friends, her debut story collection, came out earlier this year to great reviews, and The Earthborn is forthcoming in 2023. Arlene lives with her husband on the shore of beautiful Nottawasaga Bay, Ontario. She spends an inordinate amount of time in the worlds she has created but can be lured back to reality by dark chocolate or an interesting owl to add to her collection. Find her on Facebook or visit her web site:
www.thewritersnest.ca
Arlene F. Marks, Weekends Can Be Murder
