At this time of the day, at this time of the year, walking east, the sun blinds you mercilessly.
True, it’s a sign of a nice day coming but it makes walking dangerous; you can’t see anything looking straight ahead so you walk looking down and hope that those coming in the opposite direction are looking up.
But Gord and I are out for our first walk together. Gord and I are same-condo dwellers. We don’t really know each other that well yet but this is a social building and by happenstance, through a condo sponsored activity, we got to recognize each other.
The social history of the building goes way back and when a group of women got together on a regular basis, I believe it was for yoga, the male component had to compete and so met for a strenuous cup of coffee until they could re-unite with their spouses and drive them home.
It was to this group that I was invited to join and first got to know Gord.
Gord has had more than his share of physical challenges and I couldn’t help but ask him if there’s anything I could do to help him get through his daily activities. I was thinking helping him unload his car.
“You can walk with me,” he almost demanded.
“I can not only do that but would be happy to,” I acknowledged, and so here we are today.
I flattered myself that Gord saw that I would be good company, he had laughed at some of my witticisms over coffee but no, the principal reason was to make sure he didn’t miss a step.
“Walk on my left,” Gord directed, “cause, if I have any non-political leanings, that’s where they tend to take me.”
Gord explained a history of horrific medical challenges that made me admire his positive outlook. Gord is a few years older than I am so I’m very interested in how he copes today as it could be me in a couple of years. Not that I wish his medical condition but I would want to be as upbeat as he is.
Back to the start of the day. I have ambivalent feelings about the end of August; the weather’s still wonderful but you can’t help but see September looming and September the first, for some reason, officially says, “Summer’s over!”
But greeting the day at this hour is a marvel, you’re not the only one wandering about!
Bikers, those individuals, male and female, who can both bend over their handle bars without popping a vetebrae and go fast are out and about. Walkers, too, like us taking to the paths with or without a dog as an excuse.
Now that we’ve turned away from the sun, it’s quite marvelous. The water is calm, geese and ducks abound and the temperature is just right to encourage a quick pace. Gord knows this neck of the woods. His career travels have brought him back to Toronto five times and each time he loves to explore his surroundings. We pass by a monument to George VI and Queen Elizabeth’s visit in 1939 which opened the Queen Elizabeth Way, formerly the the Middle Road. Now why would they want to change such a lovely name? The monument, proudly shown then on the left and now, below, hidden from the beaten path, upsets Gord. “Hasn’t been sand blasted in 40 years,” he sadly declaims and he’s not a royalist.
The Queen Elizabeth Way, now affectionally called the QEW was Canada’s first four lane highway and it had lights, as you can see.
For many years, signs such as this one identified the Queen Elizabeth Way with these two letters E and R that recognized, in Latin, Elizabeth Regina. Visiting tourists of the time from south of the border, however, were both surprised and pleased to see Eleanor Roosevelt’s initials welcoming them.
I know the area but didn’t know you could take a walk under the bridge that covers the Humber and surfaces to another path which I usually bike along. A pleasant surprise.
Gord and I make the dangerous decision to get back home by crossing the busy South Kingsway. Gord’s been holding back on me, he can hustle his buns when his life’s at stake.
The walk covers a little more than a leisurely two kilometres.
Gord walks to get his strength back which means he can go anywhere and take his time doing it.
I usually walk to get somewhere so to walk for the pleasure of walking is quite a change. And Gord knows all the places you can walk that aren’t the main sidewalks that shoulder the principal streets.
Today is the Willliard walk which is a meandering combination of hidden paths and out-of-the-way streets that start at Bloor Street and Williard in the north and end up at Ormskirk Court in the south.
A bit of a digression here, kirk is Scottish for church and on a visit to Scotland we went through the lovely little village of Kirkcudbright on the river Dee which empties into the Atlantic to the west. Kirkcudbright is pronounced ‘Kuh-coo-bree’ by the locals so an outsider would never be able to find it if they asked for ‘Kirk-Cud-Bright’. Good for the namers of Ormskirk Court to put the kirk after the Orms or I don’t know what you’d end up with.
Back to the walk. The walk takes you through dead end streets (or courts for the pretentious) which empty onto the Kingsway, a main drag linking Bloor Street in the north with the Queensway/Lakeshore/Gardiner Expressway in the north. It’s a main artery and I wouldn’t want to live on it as I’d be challenged to get my car in and out of the traffic.
The streets are quiet but with little morning light as the rise to Windermere Avenue to the east blocks any sun before mid morning. Don’t think I’d live here either. Would a real estate agent only show in the afternoon here?
The walk covers a little over 3 kilometres and towards its southern end there’s a small, well hidden play area for children called Ormskirk Park and/or playground.
Again, thank God the kirk is buried in the name or we’d be looking for ‘Kuh-Ooms-Par-Kay. Or something like that.
We skipped a day because Gord wasn’t feeling well. He takes a pill for his osteoporosis that can set him back for a day, but it’s better than a pain killer.
We’re taking the same walk we did on the 20th and I’m curious about the difference in sunrise times, only 5 minutes, but in late August you feel you can sense a change. The sun is still a bright orb but orangier (sic) than the other day and not quite as blinding.
The weather’s still warm though and what hasn’t changed is the high activity at this hour. Those biker boys (bicycles, not motorbikes) do run at a fair clip. We’re at the junction of high park and the Queensway and those speedsters come down from High Park, a steep descent and, if they time the lights correctly, easily take the turn heading west on the Queensway at a guessed at 50+ kph which is a few dollars over the posted limit of 20 kph.
For those who like particulars, that stretch from High Park is Colborne Lodge Road. You can drive up it, heading north to the lodge and go no further but you can drive on it all the way down from Bloor. This is a popular run for cyclists; there’s a natural loop they take on the flat part of High Park.
We watch our step. By the way, if you don’t push that little button to change the lights, the lights for the traffic change but not for the pedestrians. After a while, when you’re getting nowhere, you figure it out.
Gord asks me, “What’s new?” and I mention that the umbrella we ordered for our patio table arrived on the same day we experienced gale force winds on our terrace.
“That’s too bad,” he consoled. “Since we couldn’t use it,” I enlightened, “I sent it back … wasn’t working.”
No, that’s not a laser but something I captured the day before out on Lake Ontario near where we were walking. Well, I needed a picture
Gord humours me and presses the change-the-light-button more repeatedly.
We walk along the board walk heading towards the Humber. Time for a rant. The board walk doesn’t use boards, thankfully, but artificial wood which handles the weather better but when the boards give in to the seasons over time, the powers that be, who fix the worn bits, replace them with wood. Go figure.
We get to talk sailing and each of us had had experiences with a Laser. That’s an internationally recognized Canadian designed single sail dinghy which became an Olympic class in 1996.
We take a rest and Gord updates me on the physical challenges that he’s faced over the years ending with gout. I picture that as a Victorian condition and the movies always seem to portray the patient sitting with his foot, which is either twice the size it should be or wrapped in miles of material, resting on an ottoman.
I suggest to Gord that if there are plans to have his tombstone list his life’s challenges there would have to be a ‘see over’ to continue reading round the back.
But his good spirits dominate and we challenge the traffic on the South Kingsway to get home successfully.
Chalk up another 3 kilometres or so to our walking, not running, total.
The day starts out overcast so it’s darker than it should be at this time of year but still warm. Gord walks at this hour year round so it means starting and ending in the dark for half the year which doesn’t sit well with me.
“No problem at that hour, I wear a reflective vest so you’ll be the one that gets hit,” comes the reassurance.
“How much for the vest?” I ponder and try to figure out how I can get Gord to always walk nearer the traffic.
We do the Williard Walk this morning; up to Bloor and then down the back alleys and quiet streets home. Sorry, pretentious courts.
As cyclists blow down the South Kingsway on their morning race to the fitness finish line, Gord says he’s been hit twice by cyclists. We, I include myself, aren’t supposed to ride on sidewalks where Gord’s mishaps occurred but there are times when riding on the street would tempt fate.
I’m sensitive to the drivers’ needs; they give up a lane when there’s a biker and no bike demarcation line so I understand their frustration and, in these situations, cyclists aren’t that smart. It wouldn’t take much for a cyclist to catch a stone and slip into the path of a passing car. The press seems to take the cyclists side in these situations hence converting major routes like Bloor into bike lanes. I see this as a mistake.
Were I a politician, I’d argue that bikes are not a form of transportation in North American cities. Few would take them to work and then only during clement times of the year which should garner a round of applause sprinkled with a few raspberries.
Enough of the rant, back to the walk. We talk this and that, repeating some topics which is probably typical of our vintage. Construction stops us here and there with high priced homes smothering small lots. We both wonder why they have to be so big? We guess size says ‘money’ and that’s still important so I make a mental note to buys shares in mortgage companies and, just to be safe, in foreclosure operations. I should break even which is still OK when you read about today’s negative interest rates.
Gord’s a dog owner and lover so when we meet a leashed canine we stop to chat and pet. Dog owners seem to know the names of the dogs better than the names of the owners. “Do you know such and such in our building?” Gord enquires. Long pause of no recollection then Gord clarifies, “The dog’s name is Bailey.” Lights come on and the conversation kicks into high gear.
This meeting interests me even though I’m a man without a best friend. The dog owner is actually looking after the dog for a while. The dog is to be trained as a seeing-eye dog which means the dog sitter has to give it up at some time but the dog has allergies so it will be disqualified much to the owner’s pleasure.
And on that high note we turn onto Ripley Avenue taking over the street before business drives in and we enter another couple of kilometers into our log.
I had occasion to work with a chap who bragged that he, “never did dishes.” What a missed opportunity.
Men are constantly challenged to know what to do to get on their significant other’s good side without having to be told, “Move your buns Lothario, fall’s been here for a month and the electric rake you got yourself for our anniversary is fully charged.”
I can now reveal how I pile up mega points: start washing the dishes.
I’m not talking about after dinner but (slowly) dur-ing-the-prep-ar-ation-of-dinner.
Sure you can set the table to get a nod of appreciation but you can almost train a pet to do that.
We all miss a Spot now and again
While dishes pile up during meal preparation, you start washing them. The effect on your partner is unbelievable starting with a questioning, ‘Now what’s he doing?’ quickly followed by an almost imperceptible ’Wow!’ and then finishing with a mile wide smile and an added splash of brandy to romance the sauce.
And it lasts because once dinner is ready, the kitchen is clean. None of this after dinner, “That was lovely, I guess we’d better clean up,” depressed state.
Before I get too excited and have to sit down from the wonder of it all and fall into a dizzying why-didn’t-I-think-of-this-before? state, I must confess that this isn’t the only answer.
There will be times when there are no dishes to clean and your significant other feels you’re not carrying your weight and dirtying a dish just to clean it to get the point meter off zero will more likely get her to wondering why she agreed to elope with you in the first place even though she provided the ladder.
No, you’ll have to continue to do the little things you do now to keep the peace: take out the garbage; bring in the garbage pails; clean up the garbage that the racoons didn’t find tasty; answer the front door and tell the canvasser, ‘No, but thank you for pointing out our chimney is a day away from resting in our driveway’; answer the front door and tell the Black and Blue Party that you already voted for them in the advance poll; answer the front door and feign fright from the mature individual in no discernible costume who is doing what exactly going out on a Halloween night?
But for that gotta-hit-it-outta-the-park occasion, you’ve got the answer. You’re welcome. As for my “never did dishes” friend? I hear he’s on his third marriage.
“This will be perfect, what a laugh, nobody will suspect a thing.”
“Go over it again. Your Daddy’s suite is just below the floor where the party’s taking place?”
“Right.”
“So we break away from the party and use your Dad’s suite? Fun. But I’m surprised your stick-in-the-mud Dad would give you a key.”
“He didn’t …”
“… so how will we get in?
“I’ll let you in from inside the suite.”
“And you’ll get into their suite …”
“…from their balcony.”
Chapter one
Welcome back, Tillinghast, all rested up after solving those exhausting Moriarty mysteries?”
That was J. J., Jim Jenkins, head detective at 5th division, who never misses an opportunity to get my goat and make sure everyone within earshot enjoys my discomfort. As usual, he ended his zinger with a resounding snort.
Before I could come up with a satisfactory rejoinder, the chief barrelled into the squad room heading directly for me.
“Tillinghast,” he blasted.
“Chief?” And then he said the two words I didn’t want to hear.
“Lance Steel.”
I decided to play dumb but I could hear a rumble starting from J.J.’s corner of the room.
Ah, Lance Steel, a guy with looks that could get away with murder.
“I don’t want that guy to get away with murder,” amazingly came the chief’s psychic demand.
“What’s every daughter’s mother’s worst nightmare up to now, chief?”
“You must have been living under a rock these last few days, Tillinghast, it’s in all the papers. (Chief waves newspaper in Rupert’s face.) Lance Steel prime suspect in Madison Arthur’s fall to death.”
I knew all about it, I just wanted the Chief to have to have his moment in front of the new guys in the room.
“And you’re telling me all this because …”
Slamming a file on my desk, “Sort it out!”
The rumblings from J.J.’s corner erupted … “Couldn’t happen to a nicer detective” … capped off with a guffaw that encouraged everyone in the room to chip in with a foot stomp.
Lance Steel. Yes, that’s his given name and along with a Hollywood moniker Lance possessed good looks, a pedigree and beautiful women hanging on to his every word.
Not that he had much to say in my envious view. Lance favoured the quiet good life and took away more than he gave back to society.
Lance was the offspring of Major William Steel, a name in military power circles, and Jennie Woodstock, a lady of wealth and social position. Lance didn’t have a worry in the world. His education, all private school and a recognized university, didn’t prepare him for anything. And why bother? Whatever skills he had, or learned, were never going to be required in his daily life.
And what a life; travel and partying. Lance was bright and what gave him the most pleasure was beating the system. Unfortunately Lance made questionable choices for his fun, often taking romantic risks with other people’s lives and getting away with them.
I’m Rupert Tillinghast, long suffering detective out of 5th division and my assignment was to see if Lance was having innocent fun with Madison Arthur or guilty of murder.
Madison Arthur, in any other life a true femme fatale. Unfairly attractive and bright, Madison was a highly visible politician who didn’t always agree with party policy nor Daddy’s conservative ways which meant she shouldn’t get distracted by square-jawed, cleft-chin Lance. Lance didn’t fool her but he was fun and she had fun with him but always on the QT.
On his way out of the squad room, Rupert couldn’t pass by J. J.’s desk without trying to touch a nerve.
“What are you working on, J. J. beside the crossword puzzle.”
“The Philby case, you know it?”
“Right, that’s the personal trainer who choked his client to death. Talk about not taking advice.”
“Supposedly. Not obvious, I confess we’re struggling with this.”
“Well, if anyone can get a hand on this,” Rupert tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin, “It’d be you, J. J.”
Rupert dodged the flying eraser as he left the room.
Chapter two
The cocktail party took place on the roof top of the Plaza, a luxury downtown condo. Melody Morrison, a celebrated defense attorney, hosted the event. Rumour had it that she was laying the political groundwork for her campaign to be considered for attorney general.
This was a smart-setters-must-be-seen-at event and the press was out in force guaranteeing it would be next day’s news. Lance and Madison, secretly having their fun, were in attendance but came separately and avoided each other.
Lance and Madison had scheduled a rendezvous at Daddy’s suite for that night because it was located on the 22nd floor, one below the party floor. Lance couldn’t hide his excitement. Madison said she could get to Daddy’s suite somehow from the balcony. Madison had the spunk and athleticism to pull this off and Lance, playing his part, encouraged her; she sure added spice to his life.
Well into the party, Lance noticed Madison at the far end of the room unobtrusively slip out to the balcony. Minutes later, Lance thanked Melody and left the party.
“Madison? It’s your love bird,” cooed Lance as he gently knocked on the door to her Daddy’s suite.
“Madison?” repeated Lance, now showing some concern, knocked more loudly.
Just then the elevator opened and the property manager entered the hall.
“May I help you?”
You have to hand it to Lance, in addition to being bright, he was cool under pressure. He didn’t want to pass up turning Daddy’s suite into a romper room with Madison.
“Good evening, I’m Lance Steel …”
“Yes, Mr. Steel, I recognize you, anything wrong?”
“I’m a bit early for a meeting with the major, he’s probably in the shower. I’ll go downstairs and wait for him.”
“No need, here, let me help.” And with that, the property manager put his key in the door and said goodnight.
“Madison?” Lance called now inside the suite.
Still no response, the light from outdoors drew him to the balcony.
In the darkness, Lance almost tripped over a rope. Picking it up, Lance leaned over the balcony timed perfectly to be spotlighted by a police searchlight from below.
“Oh oh.”
Chapter three
If a person gets pushed over the edge of a life-threatening precipice, against one’s wishes, you can count on a couple of givens:
Screams from the about-to-be dearly departed and those around the about-to-be-dearly departed
Dramatic attempts by the about-to-be-dearly-departed to prevent the fall which means either scratches on the person next to the you know who or at least on anything nearby that could break the fall
As luck would have it, in this case, there were none of these. Unfortunately the weather wasn’t co-operating that night, rain and lightning so nobody was on the balcony. And nobody recalls Madison Arthur’s fall; there were no screams nor scratches.
I reviewed all the interviews, forensics and lab results but the mystery persisted; we couldn’t be sure of exactly what happened so I decided to look into Madison’s past. Why would somebody want her dead or why would she want to end it all? And since Lance was a suspect, and on the scene, I considered possible animosity between the two.
“Well Tillinghast, it’s been a week, what have you got?” bellowed Chief Falco.
Unlike the crime shows on TV where an ‘aha’ or two is forthcoming before the commercial break, I volunteered, “Nothing.”
“I don’t want this to become a cold case, R. T., the press is screaming and Madison was a populist politician. You want me to put J.J. on the case with you?”
I was tempted, that would shut him up. “No, I’m good, I’d like to work with Kayleigh, though, to see things through a classy gal’s eyes.”
“You got it and I want a report from both of you by the end of the week.”
Kayleigh, Kayleigh Quinn, a fair colleen and a first class, first class detective.
“Glad to be on board, Rupert, but J.J. says to be careful.
“Careful?”
“He says you’re a misogynist.”
“A what? Not like J. J. to use multisyllabic words. Those hours on the crosswords are paying off.”
“One who denigrates women.”
“I haven’t been denigrating since I found out what the word meant,” came Rupert’s supposedly off-putting defence.
“And you’re not that witty,” Kayleigh shot back.
“Back to being a misogynist, give me an example,” backpedalled Rupert.
“That joke you cracked the other day at J.J.?”
“I don’t recall.”
“J. J. didn’t laugh and you moved on to tell the same joke to Danya.”
“Is there a punchline to this story?”
“When she didn’t laugh, you went into great detail explaining the joke to her.”
“And that’s misogyny? I normally have to explain my jokes to J. J., too.”
“Just giving you a heads up, but I want to work with you.”
“I’m afraid to say anything. But you will correct me should I …”
“I’ll give you three swings. Tell me what you’re thinking about the case.”
Chapter four
“Melody, I want you to defend me.”
Melody’s professionalism stopped her from rolling her eyes. Can the mighty Lance Steel be begging? Can the leader of the hedonistic party actually have come down to earth? Is that a tear or did he just finish an onion sandwich?
“I’d be pleased to represent you, Mr. Steel.”
“Call me Lance.”
“Mr. Steel.”
“I can explain everything, well, mostly everything.”
“I’m sure, first thing, don’t explain anything to anyone. Whom have you spoken to about this?”
“Nobody that I can remember.”
“Can you make bail?”
“Yes.”
“Good, let’s get that settled and get you out of here.”
“I see where Lance has engaged Melody Morrison as his counsel,” cameKaleigh’s observation.
“She’s good … is that condescending?…”
“No, carry on, she’ll put up a formidable defense, I’ve seen her work.”
“OK, let’s review the case, Kaleigh.
“The big question is whether Lance pushed Madison or not. There are no witnesses yet Lance was there so he had the opportunity but why kill her? According to the press, this had all the appearance of a rendezvous. The word on the street is she’d already fallen when he got into the room so it was an accident.”
“It looks that way but we only have Lance’s word for it. And what did we decide about the rope?”
“This is how Madison had to get to the balcony from the top floor balcony.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kayleigh, “where did it come from if Lance didn’t bring it?”
“Well, her father testified that Madison visited with him that afternoon, she could have brought it and set it up on the balcony and made sure the balcony door to his suite was unlocked.”
(Kaleigh seriously) “So, do you think Lance was in the room with Madison? I’m pretty sure the defense will say Madison fell trying to come down to the balcony. But it’s easy to see that circumstantially, Lance was involved. He was there; he could have pushed her in fun and that’s grounds for manslaughter.”
(pause) “You know, Kayleigh, you’d look a lot cuter if you smiled more.”
“That’s one!”
“Oh no, I …”
“Yep.”
“Sorry. Back to work. What do we really know about these two?”
“Who knows about your romantic escapades with Madison Arthur?” questioned Melody.
“Not sure, we tried to keep it quiet. Her father would have run me out of town if he’d known.”
This will probably be the prosecution’s argument, you held their relationship over her; if she didn’t play your games you’d expose her and threaten her political career …”
“… this is crazy”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of ‘he said’ ‘she said’.”
Chapter five
Jury duty is a cattle call; a lot of people get a letter in the mail saying they’ve been chosen and you’ve no choice, you’ve got to appear.
Allow me to paint you a picture of a hypothetical day in the life of the jury selection process.
When you answer the call and show up in Room 3B, you quickly realize you weren’t one of a chosen few. The courts need lots of bodies to end up with a dozen and you quickly surmise more than half of the gathered throng would be happier to be somewhere else.
‘Do-your-civic-duty-and-uphold-the-democratic-process’ is a hard sell. ‘How do I get out of this?’ is the prevailing plea.
“I’m a part-time emergency room nurse, on call 24 hours a day.”
You’re excused. Next.
“I can’t serve on a jury, I need to work everyday, I’m a sole provider; eleven people depend on me.”
“What do you do?”
“I … uh … I’m a farmer, that’s it, a farmer.”
“And what do you farm?”
“Ah … medicinal herbs.”
“Take a seat over there. Welcome to jury duty.”
That’s just the first step, you do get another chance to dodge doing your civic duty if either the prosecution or defense doesn’t think you’d favour their client.
“Mr. Jones, what is your profession?”
“I’m an engineer.”
“And what is your responsibility?”
“I volunteer my services to help third world nations implement systems that use sustainable resources to provide their people with basic electric power and clean water. In my spare time I teach the less fortunate in these countries how to make pancakes out of flax seeds discarded by migrant monkeys. I pay for these trips myself.”
(The defense team then huddles to decide if this highly educated, in demand rational, reasonable family-man-church-going-pillar-of-the-community would be favourably disposed to their client who, though charged with dealing drugs to B celebrities from the back of his Range Rover, in his defense can still play the kazoo well enough to receive Arts Canada grants. This was a skill he perfected while being held back in junior kindergarten at reform school.
“Your honour we’re going to use one of our challenges and excuse this individual.”
So ends the hypothesis. In Lance’s situation, the defense is looking for liberal minded, red blooded frat boys of a partying persuasion whereas the prosecution would love to fill the seats with exemplary female graduates of Our Lady in Perpetual Pain primary school.
And so it goes till twelve people surface to face the jurisprudence tennis match between the defense and prosecution.
Chapter six
Rupert and Kayleigh had just finished a session with the prosecution team.
“Now what?” came Kayleigh’s query.
“We wait, hear what both sides have to say, we may be called to testify, and then wait again for the jury’s decision. Why the frown?”
“I just heard that I didn’t get the promotion. They said I was qualified and deserved it but they didn’t want to put that pressure on me. Can you believe that?”
“I’ve a confession. I was part of that decision.”
“That’s two.”
“Ladies and gentlemen on the jury, have you reached a verdict?” intoned the judge.
“No your honour,” replied the jury foreman. Gasps resonated around the panelled courtroom.
“Is there an opportunity to resolve the impasse? questioned the judge.
“No your honour,” came the reply.
“Then I declare a mistrial. Does the prosecution wish to retry the case?”
Brent Smithing, standing for the prosecution, “No your honour.”
“Then I declare the case dismissed and the defendant is free to go.”
(Sound of gavel)
“Well, well the return of the conquering heroes, at least you got a draw Rupert,” came the zing with a smile from J. J. as Kayleigh and Rupert entered the squad room.
“Probably the right decision,” concluded Rupert, “Lance was quite shaken by the experience, he certainly seemed overwhelmed. We could never nail down the time between Lance’s meeting with the property manager and when Madison fell. There was a gap, which probably caused reasonable doubt in the minds of some of the jurors.
“As the defense concluded, Madison, her recklessness combined with the bad weather, probably slipped and missed the balcony.”
“You’re probably right, Rupert,” said an understanding J. J. “You two did good work; now that that’s put that to bed, how ‘bout helping me solve the puzzle, what’s a 13 letter word for ‘A breathtaking murder’?”
“I hear you’re still struggling with the Philby case, J. J.”, Rupert reminded loudly enough so everyone in the room heard, “ … let me think, 13 letters eh?”
Rupert, enjoying himself and with a wink to Kayleigh let the tension build …
“How ‘bout ‘strangulation’?”
Epilogue
(Case windup office get together at Kayleigh’s apartment with Kayleigh at the piano playing ‘Moonglow’)
Rupert, admiring her playing, “I didn’t realize you could play the piano; that’s a favourite of mine.”
“Do you play Rupert?”
“Not at all, always wanted to, but if I could just make a suggestion …”
A story of intrigue, mayhem, gore, dastardly deeds … even deer flies all seasonally adjusted with bits of local lore and very little humour.
Well, it’s a murder.
“This better be ketchup.”
A Rupert Tillinghast mystery.
“Definitely, in all my years on the force, a mystery.”
Prologue
It wasn’t dark and stormy, not even a little bit overcast, the day we headed towards one of Ontario’s most picturesque cottage destinations, Parry Sound.
It was light, fair and warm which is what a late July day should be.
The Marchers generously opened their chalet to us for a few days to get away from the clutches of Covid-19. Well, to get away from where Covid-19 was on your mind all the time. The cottage was almost isolated and, of course, practically outdoors so masks and social distancing weren’t required. We were in for a touching few days.
The drive from Toronto, as you can see, is a pretty straight line on the multi-lane 400 highway.
The map’s white isn’t snow but as you move further north you do get a feeling that everything is more verdant from the urban living you left behind.
Road signs keep you amused:
Fresh French fries and gas.
“I’ll just have the fries, thank you.”
Slower traffic keep right.
This is a subtle way of saying that the left lane is for passing in Ontario. At one time this was the law, probably still is but drivers persist in hogging the left lane which means you have to pass them on the right which means that’s now the faster lane which means, if you follow the signs literally, in some cases, religiously if you’re the slower traffic, you should move to the shoulder, or ditch. A good defense if you’re left-lane-hogging-minded might be dyslexia.
In Switzerland, if you pass on the right, a giant native bird of preying, the great tit, (Careful how you Google this, you could end up at a porn site.) descends and removes your car from the multi-lane highway. Or worse, leaves an unremoveable deposit on your windshield, eye level. Switzerland, now that we’re on this topic and still letting cruise control lull you to Parry Sound, has you pay for the use of their super highways. Proof of payment is a sticker on your windshield. The naïve1not an umlaut, which would indicate a change in the vowel sound, but a diaeresis motorist, usually a tourist entering the land of Toblerone, who doesn’t sport such a sticker, gets stuck with the equivalent of a $100 fine and, just to rub it in, has to buy a sticker. Most Swiss police start their patrolling on the super highways at the border.
Once you pass Barrie on the way to Parry Sound (see map above), you not only leave civilization which pretty well covers the stretch from Toronto to Barrie but start to be impressed by the highwaymen (not the robbers) who had to chisel their way through some forgot-the-name 2Canadiangeographical shield. Cottagers must love non-cottage owners who helped pay for this four lane stretch of highway. There’s no commercial reason why there’s so much highway here. Doubtless, a politician has or had a cottage and bemoaned the time it took to spend a weekend near the water and signed up to be on the transportation board and immediately approved the egregious sum to get him to where he wanted to go faster.
The widening of the highway, though, did clean up the carnage that surfaced every summer weekend with cottagers racing to beat the other guy. Today’s trips of two hours were then known to take five.
We leave this asphalt non-jungle and take to the local roads to achieve our end point. Speaking of which, the address, a mere number hidden in the woods, is locatable on your GPS. Who knew? We’re 15 minutes away using driveable roads to get to the final disappearance into the brush.
The car, your car if you have the latest in warning signals, balks. Your car’s monitor, today almost the size of your first TV but in colour, tells you there’s an object ahead and you should detour. The object turns out to be the median between the ruts in the road that would challenge a Range Rover in high dudgeon. The median could also use a hair cut.
Your vehicle scrapes its way making a last ditch stand and voilà: the cottage, the forest, the lake and the silence welcomes you and eases out a uncontrollable smile; “You have reached your destination, your destination is on the right.”, 111 Bay Avenue Road.
Chapter one
The kid in you eagerly empties the trunk and rushes to take everything in as quickly as possible. While the distaff side responsibly puts everything away (although you did chill the beer and wine) you rush around to refresh your memory of memories past. (This had not been our first invitation.)
The cottage, situated on the inland lake Kingshott3The lake was named after Gordon Gerald Kingshott who was killed in action during the Second World War. The Canadian government had the commendable policy of naming lakes after their war dead, and Gordon is thus commemorated., is in pristine condition and warms you to lazing on the deck in brand new Muskoka chairs aka Adirondack chairs aka the only style of chair that seems to be legally allowed in cottage country. You know this chair: a curvaceous seat to handle the uncomfortable curves; a leaning fan back back-of-the-chair; large arm rests to handle any libation and give you the necessary leverage to extract yourself later without help or losing your pants; and, in some cases, the ability to tilt things in your favour. All guaranteed to support somnolent snoozing any time of the cottage day.
But all is not fun and games just yet. The master of the boarding party has to check things out: pump, check; water, check; hot water, wait a minute – check; electricity, check; fridge working, check; toilet working – please, check; stove working, check; coffee pot working, not sure but everything looks spot on including the spots on the porch.
Wait a minute, spots on the porch! Where did they come from? I look upward expecting to see a lion enjoying its kill.
“Sheila, what do these look like to you?”
The highly trained professional nurse of years past quickly assesses the situation and drawing on a medical master memory decidedly decrees, “Ketchup. Dried ketchup, now go and fire up the BBQ, chef.” But something’s not right; I pay attention when streaming detective shows. Ketchup stays red or at least redder than blood. I know, I know – blood isn’t the red it is on Murder She Wrote. Just as binoculars aren’t two circles when you see through themand see through the movies idea of what you should be seeing. No, this was blood. No ketchup sweetness to the nose. And the blood didn’t stop on the porch. There was blood on the railing, too.
“Sheila, look around in front of the porch to see if you can spot any unusual spots.”
“What part of ‘now go and fire up the BBQ, Bourdain,’ didn’t you comprehend, Sherlock?” came her pointed rejoinder. “And measles has been eradicated,” she added for good measure.
“Humour me Miss Child, have a look around, I’ll take the back of the cottage.”
Minutes of meandering produce nothing on my side.
“Anything your way?” I shout.
“I think I just killed …”
(Incredulously) “ … what?”
“. … a deer fly, gotcha.”
“Focus, Sheila, focus.”
“How ‘bout a body,” came a stilled voice.
“A body of what, water? A body of works? (we tend to take the entire output of an author on holiday to spot his self plagiarism.)
“How ‘bout a body of body.”
This is no time for high school humour. What in blazes is she up to? I scramble from my bramble patch and work my way towards the distant, “Oh Mys.”
But it is indeed a body. A non-moving form of indeterminate age, maybe in the sixties? A male body in working clothes with working-rough hands and glasses slipping off his head held by a hand as if he’d made a last grasp to save them.
Funny how when we’re in the throes of a fall, rather than try to save our un-athletic body from permanent damage and spread our hands to break the fall, we tend to focus on not spilling the glass of wine we’re holding or the gallon of paint or whatever that will generate a severe scolding, “You broke my mother’s favourite cup and saucer.”
“I think my femur is fractured.”
“You broke my mother’s favourite cup and saucer.”
“My femur is definitely finito.”
“It was her George VI and Queen Elizabeth commemorative cup and saucer. She treasured it.”
“I’ll give her my Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson commemorative cup and saucer.”
Sheila breaks the reverie, “Do you know him?”
“No and why should we, we’ve only been here a few times, never met anyone.”
“What do we do?”
“Call the police.”
“Maybe he just fell.”
(Rolling him over)
“Well, then his head fell on a bullet.”
Chapter two
Hello 911, what is the nature of your call?”
“We’re calling about a body.”
“A body of water; a body of work …”
“A body of body; someone’s been shot.”
“Let me put you through to the police.”
“Hello, Parry Sound police, sergeant Peters.”
Signs of better times
“Hello, we’re found a body.”
“A body of water, a body of work?”
“I don’t believe this … (sputtering) … a dead body.”
“Where are you?”
“111 Bay Avenue Road. Do you know that?”
“Yes, yes, we get a lot of garbage calls from there. Stay where you are, don’t touch anything, we should be there in 15 minutes.”
“Rupert … I’d like you in on this.”
“Jock, I’m on holidays and we’re to go fishing this morning.”
Rupert Tillinghast, detective of note, stationed out of 5th Division in Toronto. Famous for his unravelling of the mentally challenging, physically undemanding ‘Moriarty Mysteries’ that kept the tabloids busy for several issues. Alert, personable, no aquiline nose but with hair, lots of hair, and a dedicated mien that seeks out truth, justice and a good Chablis. Currently on vacation in Parry Sound as a guest of Jock Peters, long time associate and seeker of nothing more than a cheap plonk of red colouring. Hey, opposites do attract.
“Come on, it’ll be fun, won’t take long, these cottage types don’t know a speckled trout from a red herring, could be nothing.”
Jock Peters, Rupert Tillinghast and Virgil Pinkerton, Jock’s assistant deputy, lover of everything Bobby Orr4Parry Sound native Bobby Orr played in the National Hockey League (NHL) for 12 seasons (1966-1978), 10 with the Boston Bruins and two with the Chicago Black Hawks. Orr remains the only defenceman to have won the league scoring title. He holds the record for most points and assists in a single season by an NHL defenceman., arrive at the scene.
“Tape off everything, Virgil, and take notes,” Jock rattled on.
Meanwhile, Rupert ambled off on his own.
“So folks, explain in detail, what actually happened,” questioned Jock to the nervous twosome.
“Not so fast,” cautioned Virgil, licking the end of the stub of his Bobby Orr 4B pencil and then carefully forming the letters.
“It’s Ben Billings,” explained Jock, closely examining the body, “a local handy man. You sure you don’t know him?”
“Well, we’re not the owners, the Marchers probably know him, probably engaged him to get the cottage ready for us.”
“You could be right, I’ll confirm it with the Marchers. But why was he killed?” wondered Jock.
Virgil pipes in, “Pretty severe for doing shoddy work.”
Peters ignores the remark and concludes, “Looks like a 10 mm cartridge probably shot with a Glock 22. But why would anyone kill a harmless old guy like Ben? Beats me. Where’s Rupert?”
As if on cue, Rupert appeared seemingly enjoying his walk on the ubiquitous pine needles. “Who owns that new Ford 150 up on the road?”
“That’d be Ben’s,” answered Virgil.
“Any signs of what happened, Rupert?”
Not answering, Rupert headed for the dock.
Sheila and Roger, now sitting comfortably on the Georgian Bay chairs and being naturally hospitable, offered to get the police something to drink.
Both Jock and Rupert declined but Virgil requested, ‘a sarsaparilla’. Correctly interpreting the questioning looks, Virgil explained, ‘It’s what Bobby Orr drinks.”
Rupert returned.
“Well folks,” Jock started, vainly sucking in his gut and placing one foot strategically on a stump to gain importance, “Here’s how I see it. Ben here was doing some work for the Archers, early in the morning so it was dark, and since there have been a lot of break and enters in these parts, one of the neighbours fired a warning shot to scare him off and he was mistakenly killed. We’ll check with the neighbours. I’m sure it’s all a tragic mistake. I’ll hand the details over to you Virgil. Excuse me, do you have any red wine?”
Rioting St. David’s Day fanatics
Jock turned to Rupert. “Is that how you see it, Rupert? You must get this a lot in the city. Police called to quell a St. David’s Day celebration that gets out of hand. Police fire warning shots which inadvertently hit a couple having an affair on a balcony on the 23d floor. Poor Ben; wrong place at the wrong time. I like that. Include that in your report Virgil.”
Rupert clears his throat, Sheila and Roger struggle to get out of their Coureur-des-bois chairs to hear what Rupert has to say.
“I think the shooting was intentional but Ben wasn’t the target.”
Chapter three
What?” came the gasping chorus. Virgil swallowed his gum
Jock, a bit put off, longingly eyeing the bottle of fine red wine on the table, (I can adjust my taste, he reasoned), turned to Rupert and said awkwardly. “On what basis do you say that?”
Rupert explained. “As you said, Jock, why would anyone kill Ben? And that got me to thinking. Where did Ben get the money for the new truck? You told me he was a handy man, he can’t earn that much so Ben must have known something that someone wanted.”
“But if Ben knew something, why would you kill him?” Jock wondered, moving towards the wine.
“Good point. I think, once the killer got the information he wanted from Ben, he killed him to keep him silent. They obviously knew each other.”
“How did they do it? I didn’t see any signs of someone coming onto the property,” puzzled Virgil, scratching behind his ear with his Bobby Orr autograph ruler from his Bobby Orr signature geometry set.
“They came by water,” explained Rupert. There are signs of recent scrapes to the dock.
“Now what? Wondered Jock out loud.
“Let’s try to understand Ben a little more. What do you know about him? What’s his typical day?”
Sheila and Roger, no longer needed in the investigation, forcibly unclenched Jock’s fingers from the bottle of wine and settled into their Oastler Park chairs to drink in the rest of the day.
Rupert headed back into town.
Taking in the sights, Rupert walked to the main dock. The cruise ship The Island Queen was moored there. This tourist favourite promotes trips around the area’s boasted 30,000 islands and, indeed, this part of Georgian Bay is populated by what looks like a lot of bits of floating forest. He couldn’t help but wonder at the changes in travel from the early days when steamers were the only way to visit this part of cottage country. Scanning the harbour and looking east away from the water, the trestle bridge stands out for its height as it spans the gorge that defines the harbour. It wasn’t until the early 1900s, 1908 to be exact, that train travel opened up Parry Sound and gave travellers from Toronto a convenient alternative.
And now, of course, you can also fly into Parry Sound with the charter service catering to fishermen and sightseers.
(Back at police headquarters)
“Well Rupert, Virgil did some digging and none of Ben’s clients spent large sums with him; he basically opened and closed cottages, did odd jobs, and looked after them in the off season so I don’t know how he afforded that new truck and when I checked with the dealership, they said he paid in full. The Marchers confirmed that they’d asked Ben to do some plumbing for them and that’s why he was at their place.
“But Virgil did discover a bit of a head scratcher, Ben never worked on Fridays.”
Virgil quoting from his notes. “I phoned his work number and in addition to the usual ‘leave a message’ info, he said his business hours were 8 to 6 Monday through Thursday. You’d think Fridays would be a working day for a handy man. I confirmed that with his clients, he never worked Fridays.”
“What do you think, Rupert?”
“I’ve no idea, what can you only do on Fridays in Parry Sound?”“There’s Bingo,” offered Virgil, “my aunt Rowena plays there regularly but it doesn’t cost much and I never saw Ben there so I’d put that down as a ‘maybe’. She did win $18 which, to her, was substantial. What’ja think?”
“Let’s walk around and talk to the businesses in town,” Rupert suggested, “maybe something will turn up, why do you think he left town on Fridays? And, if so, why every Friday? I’ll need one of your portable phones.”
The three of them split up the town and starting knocking on doors.
“Rupert, Virgil?” Jock here, “I’m at Tailwinds, I think I’ve got something.”
“That’s the charter airline, right?
“Right, at the dock beside the restaurant, on the other side where the Island Queen is docked.”
“Where do they fly to?”
“Well, they’re seaplanes, so wherever there’s water,” Jock replied.
“I’ll be there in about 10 minutes, Jock.”
(Fairways’ office)
“Hi Jock, good to see you, planning a trip?”
“I wish. This is Rupert Tillinghast, Vern, a detective friend of mine up from Toronto, Rupert this is Vern who runs Georgian Bay Airways. Vern who flies for you?”
“A couple of guys, Miller James is our lead pilot, he’s out right now. What can I help you with?”
Rupert jumped in, “”We’re interested in any regular flights you might schedule, especially on Fridays.”
“Let’s see,” consulting his log book, “Well, Ben Billings usually books flights on a Friday.”
“Where does he go?”
“Manitoulin Island, Ben’s got his Mum there, she’s not well, makes a regular visit.”
“And where to on the island?”
Let’s see, “South Baymouth, that’s on the south eastern shore of the island.”
“Does that mean anything to you Jock?”
“Not sure where you’re going with this, Rupert, I’ve never been to Manitoulin island.”
“Are you up for a little trip guys? You can both swim, right?”
Virgil thoughtfully put the gum he was chewing behind his ear.
Chapter four
Manitoulin Island, which separates the North Channel and Georgian Bay from Lake Huron’s main body of water is the world’s largest lake island. Looking from high in space the island’s south coast is a perfect piece of the perimeter of a large circle that arcs from Lake Michigan in the west round the island and then down following the coastline of Lake Huron to the east. A remarkable geological, geometrical form.
“Whom do you know that handles police work on Manitoulin Island, Jock?
“Bill Holden looks after local squabbles, he reports into Sudbury.”
Our three intrepid truth seekers charter a Georgian Airways flight to the island and set out to try to understand if Ben had been more than just a thoughtful son.
After an uneventful 30 minute flight, Bill meets the plane and takes them to a local restaurant.
“How can I help you guys?” Bill questioned over coffee.
Jock started, “Would you know Ben Billings by any chance?”
“No, is he on your wanted list?”
“He’s a handy man back at Parry Sound, says he visits his mom regularly; she’s in a home here. Any idea where that would be? He flies into South Baymouth.”
“Closest home I can think of would be Wikwemikong.”
“Virgil, would you look into that, please, thanks.”
Rupert spoke up, “Who visits Manitoulin, Bill?”
“Well, the summer’s our biggest season. Boaters, sailors, fishermen; most come by water.”
“Where do they come from mostly, would they come from Parry Sound?”
“Not too many but we get a lot of Americans from as far away as Michigan; the Island has so much to offer for the boater. Let me give you a drive round.”
They dropped Virgil off at the home and drove into Gore Bay, the island’s capital.
“When you say a lot of Americans visit the island, where do they check in for customs?” Jock wondered.
“That would be Meldrum Bay, up on the north west corner of the island.”
“How does that work?”
“Well, it’s the honour system, actually,” explained Bill, “but if you don’t check in and get caught, we confiscate the boat so visitors are pretty honest.”
They headed back to pick up Virgil and catch a scheduled flight back to Parry Sound from South Baymouth.
“No record of Ben’s Mom at Wikwemikong,” Virgil reported, referring to his notes. “But of course, she could be at another place, there are several. But the staff said if you flew into South Baymouth, this would be the logical place.”
The only one in town
“Virgil, when we get back, would you take pictures of any American plates in the parking lot, please? Thanks.”
“Sure thing, Rupert. Is this one of those detective hunches? Jock’s never work.”
Chapter five
(Back at Parry Sound police headquarters)
Any ideas, Jock?”
“Well, Rupert, if Ben wasn’t seeing his Mom, why the trips to the Island?”
“Good question, maybe we should have another visit with Georgian Airways and today’s Friday. You didn’t tell Vern about Ben, did you?”
“No, I kept it quiet.”
“Good, let’s keep it that way for a while.”
(at Georgian Airways office)
“Hi Vern, you remember Rupert, we’re interested in any flights planned for Manitoulin Island today.”
“Funny thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, today is Friday, Ben’s usual day but Ben didn’t book the flight. You know Sam Armstrong? He said Ben was busy and asked him to take some things for his Mom. Ben said he’d pay for the flight. Armstrong’s right there waiting to board if you’d like to catch him.”
“Who’s Sam Armstrong?” Rupert asked Jock.
“Nice guy, local attorney, tough situation, his daughter got caught up in the local drug scene.”
“Would Armstrong have a gun?”
“Yes, as I recall, he’s licensed. Most people hunt up here.”
(Turning to Vern) “No, that’s fine, thanks Vern.”
Outside the office, Jock collared Rupert. “Why didn’t you talk to Armstrong and ask him what he was up to?”
“I have an idea, can you contact Bill Holden on the island? Here’s my thinking.”
Chapter six
(Back at police headquarters)
Jock? Bill Holden here from the island. Boy, you guys hit the jackpot.”
Virgil put the call on speaker phone.
“You were right, the plane lands and connects with a power boat, but then all hell breaks loose. This guy jumps out of the plane with a gun and starts shooting. The boat flies outta there and then the plane fires up to take off and the guy with the gun barely gets back on board. We took off after the power boat and caught up to it as it headed to open water heading south west away from the island. We’ve got everyone in custody, will fax you the details and await further instructions.”
“Thanks Bill, get back to you soon.”
Rupert takes charge, “Let’s go and meet that plane, guys, and Virgil, bring some handcuffs.”
(Georgian Air Lines, Parry Sound, Sam Armstrong’s flight just landed)
“Sam Armstrong, I arrest you for the murder of Ben Billings, please step out of the plane and put your hands behind your back. Anything you say will be taken down and can be used against you.” Virgil was bursting with pride and later confessed that he always wanted to be in a position to say something like that.
“Book the pilot, too, Virgil,” directed Rupert.
(Back at police headquarters)
“I’m all ears, Rupert,” a wonder-eyed Jockbegged his companion.
“I suspected your attorney friend, Sam Armstrong; after all, he knew Ben was dead. He had to be out for revenge for his daughter when he went after the occupants in the boat. Armstrong probably learned from his daughter that she got her drugs from the handy man, Ben Billings. But I’m pretty sure Armstrong wasn’t after Ben, he just wanted to know who was behind it all.
“Armstrong probably got Ben to talk on the threat of exposing his scheme and we’ll have to see if Armstrong pleads accidental death but I suspect Armstrong killed him intentionally to keep him quiet.”
“But why kill him at the Marchers, they’ll be really upset.”
“Perfect spot: isolated, neighbours not too close, hidden access from across the water, faded James Bay chairs on the deck give it that ‘somebody’s there’ look and feel so you wouldn’t be surprised to see some activity.”
“Good point,” added Jock, “and to make it even easier to get the jump on someone, they’re seldom there. I believe they have another chalet in Québec; probably friends with the Mulroneys.”
“They’d be known as Marché, there,” contributed Virgil, not wanting to be left out of the solution and suddenly imagining his grade IX French.
(Rupert continues the wrap up) “Ben took a regular Friday flight with the pilot, Miller James, who was in on this scheme and they hooked up with some Americans who, Bill Holden tells us, came over from Harrisville in Michigan. They got their drugs from Detroit.”
“Well, well, well,” mused Jock, “I’ll get back to Bill Holden on the island.
(A bottle of red wine appears) “Sorry Rupert, Chablis is just not on my shopping list, (Liberally pouring three glasses.) I can’t thank you enough.
“Man, we’re small town compared to you city guys but I think I see the big picture now. So, to cover all the bases, you cleverly had Virgil track down any US plates because if things didn’t ‘fly’, excuse the pun, here and something ever happened to Ben, they’d have backup to pick up the drugs and find a new distributor. How am I doing?”
Rupert suppresses a smile.
Jock steadies his glass on a Bobby Orr signed coaster and turns to Virgil with a determined look) “Virgil, go and check out the owner of that US plate and take some backup, I’ve a hunch things could get nasty.”
“I did follow up, Jock, when I took the picture.”
(shifting nervously in his chair) “And …”
“He’s a Bobby Orr fan, came up for some memorabilia.”
not an umlaut, which would indicate a change in the vowel sound, but a diaeresis
2.
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Canadian
3.
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The lake was named after Gordon Gerald Kingshott who was killed in action during the Second World War. The Canadian government had the commendable policy of naming lakes after their war dead, and Gordon is thus commemorated.
4.
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Parry Sound native Bobby Orr played in the National Hockey League (NHL) for 12 seasons (1966-1978), 10 with the Boston Bruins and two with the Chicago Black Hawks. Orr remains the only defenceman to have won the league scoring title. He holds the record for most points and assists in a single season by an NHL defenceman.
