Murder at the Marcher’s cottage
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.
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
| 1. | ↑ | not an umlaut, which would indicate a change in the vowel sound, but a diaeresis |
| 2. | ↑ | Canadian |
| 3. | ↑ | 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. | ↑ | 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. |