A Rupert Tillinghast mystery

“You can’t go back and change the beginning , but you can start where you are and change the ending.”

C. S. Lewis

July 1, 1867, Canada’s first birthday, Clapson Corners.  A time for celebration but not for John McGregor and family. John had co-signed a loan for his friend and farming neighbour, Ben Gleason, and Ben had defaulted on the debt so John had to honour his commitment and that meant giving up his farm.

John packed up his family and moved to the neighbouring town of Goodwood and managed to secure a position with the local mill but it was difficult to make ends meet. More importantly, John was no longer a farmer which is what he was good at and longed to do. Soon after, John McGregor took his own life.

July 1, 1952, Canada’s 95^th birthday, Sandy Beach. Young Brent Carson celebrated Canada’s birthday playing games, eating hot dogs and revelling in a period in his life that he would always fondly remember.

Life couldn’t get better; summer at the cottage. Never ending days enjoying the freedom of cottage life. Brent had no concept of time, a calendar never guided his days. He was only aware of the end of summer when his folks announced, ‘It’s time to pack up and return to the city.”

Sandy Beach was situated on Lake Jordon, a large body of water that didn’t encourage fishing or boating because it was seldom calm but did draw you into sunning yourself on the sand all afternoon and swimming in its clear, warm waters. You had to wait until the end of June before the waters warmed up but then you had all summer to luxuriate in the near perfect conditions. The beach faced west so it enjoyed the prevailing winds and glorious sunsets.

Cottage life at this time was pretty simple: no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no telephones, no grass cutting, none of the city’s obligations. But no matter.

Sandy Beach had a small downtown, if you could call it that: a drugstore, a summer only goods store, a post office and a sinful greasy spoon with tantalizing pin ball machines. Oh my.

You didn’t have to go all the way downtown though to get the essentials such as milk and bread. A 10 minute walk to Mrs. Jenkins convenience store got you through the week until you went into town to shop. At that time, coal oil for the stove top was the big necessity which forced Mrs. Jenkins, herself, with an audible grunt, outside to the tank around the back. It cost all of twenty five cents to fill the glass bulb which you turned upside down to let gravity feed its contents to the burners.

And the ice man visited regularly to cool down your icebox. You had a square piece of cardboard that had the figures: 25, 50, 75 and 100 on the sides which you put in your window, stuffed between the screen and sides of the frame turned to indicate how many pounds of ice you needed. What a joke, nothing would freeze. It sort of kept things cool. If ice cream was on the shopping list you knew you were having it with that evening’s dinner.

There were twin towns just under an hour away if you needed serious stuff like building materials or clothes or to do the laundry and get booze.

But it wasn’t easy to get a beer then. Prohibition still had a presence. One town, if you can believe it, was dry and the other was wet. Everybody knew why you drove to town #2. And the booze store couldn’t promote itself. If you didn’t know where it was, the locals understood why you were driving slowly and gawking out the window and they kindly put you out of your misery by giving you hand directions.

Funny. But all these things didn’t matter; it was cottage life. It couldn’t get better.

In addition to lazing on the beach, days were filled with playing tennis at a basic tennis court or trying the 9 hole golf course.

At that time, waterfront cottages rimmed the lake and everybody knew everybody. It was typical to put your name on a sign on the nearest tree to your property facing the road.  Nobody locked their doors and each cottage had some sort of knocker on its door, typically in the form of woodpecker that you pulled a string to announce your presence. Or there was a wooden box, pen and pencil inside, to say you’d dropped by. Fabulous gimcracks

On one side of Brent’s cottage were the Mace’s then the Williams who had a pump that produced drinking water, which they generously shared as everyone didn’t have an underground stream ideally placed.

On the other side were Brent’s grandparents then the Cargills then the Worthingtons and so on down the line.

Grandma’s cottage was the gathering spot for her clan and their relatives, or as she called it, ‘The Breed’. Grandma’s brother had property at the end of the road so visits were common and conversations settled comfortably into good times gone by.

It’s into this lazy, peaceful scene that murder entered. Ken Cargill, next door neighbour, was found bludgeoned to death.

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Chapter two

July 1^st, 2020, Canada’s 153^rd birthday, the city and Rupert found himself working the holiday. Even the chief was in, things weren’t going well on this holiday weekend in the city, unrest that showed picketers marching through the downtown protesting frozen wages in the midst of a recession with the threat of violence. The mayor didn’t want to leave anything to chance so all hands were on deck.

          “Tillinghast”, came the bellow from the chief’s office.

          “Chief,” answered Rupert as he entered the sanctum sanctorum. Rupert wondered where the chief got his taste in decorating. Granted his office didn’t give him much to work with; a box roughly 20 feet square with a single window facing north that seldom caught the sun and even more rarely got cleaned. Everything had a pallor that reminded Rupert of the dimly lit catacombs when he vacationed that week in Paris and took in the sites. The walls he had painted in shades of, to Rupert, bilious green with a throw rug of clashing colours trying hard to hide some of the well worn parts on the floor. Pictures of the chief smiling with lesser know personalities dotted the walls and a commendation for ‘good work’ from the force centred over his desk. The pièce de résistance was a brown cracked leather sofa, the only place to sit, that swallowed up its inhabitants so that the chief was always looking down on you. Rupert always stood.

          “Have a seat,” ordered the chief officiously nodding towards the sofa.

          “I’m good,” came the reply forcing the chief to just giving him the evil eye knowing that he’d never get Rupert to agree to playing his game.

          “You’re off to Sandy Beach.”

          “I know not of which you speak, is this some kind of penance?”

          “No, it’s a summer vacation spot couple of hours north of here on Lake Jordon.”

          “Before I thank you for rewarding my stellar service with a well deserved vacation, what about the picketers?”

          “No vacation and this is more important, besides you’re a detective, picketers respond better to the reasoning of billy clubs which you don’t possess nor would   know how to use.”

          “And what, may I ask, calls us to Sandy Beach?”

          “Murder, a miss Sarah Smith.”

          “Ah, and the locals … “

          “Just constabulary, no detectives. Here’s the file. You’re helping out a friend of        mine.”

And with that, Rupert returned to his desk and studied the dossier.

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Chapter three

The two hour drive was pleasant as all the traffic had jammed the roads the night before. Rupert enjoyed the drive, nice to get away from the city. Driving alone relaxed him. Rupert’s car didn’t have satellite radio, he didn’t drive enough to warrant it or drive any distance to appreciate having the same station wherever you were but it did have a scanning feature. Once a signal weakened, the radio went to the next stronger signal. As Rupert distanced himself from the city the music moved from rock to country; discussions went from serious with politicians or leaders of industry to light banter with the locals; even the ads seemed less immediate and dramatic.

          While it lasts, Ritchie Feed and Seed meets all your manure needs at 10% off.

Once he got there, It wasn’t easy to find the Smith’s. Cottage directions rarely put names to streets and numbers to properties. Rather, owners loved to come up with cute names such as, “Bide a-way”, “Sunset Paradise” and Rupert’s favourite, “The last resort.”

Some folks kindly added their names to the signage and the Smith’s, fortunately, just posted their name. After questioning a series of locals, Rupert found the Smith’s cottage, yellow tape was still cordoning off the area and a police car stood guard. Rupert rolled down the window, introduced himself and a parking space appeared.

          “Sean Nixon,” greeted Rupert, “You must be Rupert Tillinghast, thanks for coming, “I head the local force out of Bentington, Sandy Beach doesn’t have a police force.

Sean seemed like an affable fellow. All of six and a half feet and helplessly gangly. Rupert put him in his mid 50s. Light red lines on his nose, broken capillaries Rupert surmised suggesting a lifetime of not refusing a tipple. How demanding could it be working the cottage circuit?

          “Thanks, I might be here for a couple of days, any suggestions on where to stay?”

          “It’s the long weekend so there won’t be much here, I’ll call the office and we’ll get you something in town.”

          “Thanks, when did the murder take place?”

          “Yesterday, the body’s in the morgue at the hospital which doubles as a police facility.”

          “And forensics?”

          “We handled that, probably not with the experience you people have but I have it at the office. We don’t have murders in cottage country.”

          “OK, lets visit the scene of the crime.”

Sarah Smith, born in 1983 was the younger of Trent and Gladys Smith’s two daughters. An accomplished writer of children’s stories Sarah unfortunately inherited cystic fibrosis and was confined to a wheel chair. This didn’t affect her writing but she was basically cottage bound during the summer.

Sarah met her demise with a knife through the heart. No witnesses, everybody was doing something else and no suspects; Sarah was just a great gal enjoying her time with family at the cottage.

Blood stains had darkened the wood floor; they won’t be easy to remove, thought Rupert. Rupert always enjoyed crime series on television and the movies which showed blood forever in a shade of rosy redness to make sure viewers knew that someone had done some bleeding. And while we’re on about what the entertainment world gets wrong, how ‘bout binoculars? You’d think today the viewing public would know that binoculars give you a singular view of one circle not that look that mimics the outline of binoculars. I guess whoever is using the binoculars could decide, at the last second, to switch to a telescope and confuse the viewer but I doubt it.

          “Did you do a blood splatter analysis?” asked Rupert.

          “Yes, as best we could, but we don’t have the results yet.”

The chief showed Rupert a series of pictures including one of the knife.

          “Looks like an ordinary kitchen knife, anything missing?

          “We’re not sure, we’re guessing the killer took the knife with him. Cottage kitchen   cutlery can be a mish mash of various sets.”

Rupert nodded. “And she was wheelchair bound. Wait” Rupert paused, “this Sarah Smith. Is she the writer of children’s books?”

          “I believe so.”

          “What a loss, I loved her writing. Gave a book to my niece. She wrote for children but she spoke to adults, too. Had a good sense of humour.”

          So, who was here?”

          “I have a list, most of the Smith clan was here for the weekend.”

          “I’ll need a list of the neighbours who were up for the weekend too, several         cottages on each side. What’s the estimated time of death?”

          “The call came in around 4 o’clock in afternoon. A neighbour was dropping off          something, knocked, and when nobody answered, came in and saw the body. We got here within the hour.”

          “So anybody could walk in?”

          “Yes, that’s normal cottage life.”

          “What do you know about the deceased apart from her being a writer?”

          “Very little, certainly the family is in shock, no known enemies. They can’t explain it. Not a robbery. We really have nothing to go on. Oh, now that I think of it, I had forgotten one thing.”

Rupert turned slowly to the chief.

          “There was another murder at Sandy Beach, in the ‘50s I believe. I wasn’t here at the time. Never resolved as I recall. I can get you the details.”

          “Thanks, that would help.”

Rupert went back to his car and studied his notes. Anybody could have killed her and it was so easy. No break and enter, the victim in a wheelchair and so casual; strangers could freely visit other cottagers and nobody would suspect a thing.

          “Chief, I think that’s enough for today here, can we get settled in town and I’d like to get the details on that other murder.”

          “Good, follow me. And I got a call that the best hotel in town is expecting you.”

          “What makes it the best?”

          “Sounds better than the worst; It’s the only hotel in town.”

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Chapter four

The star hotel was aptly named; it was a one star hotel. But what could you expect, thought Rupert, if it wasn’t for the men’s pub downstairs it probably wouldn’t survive. Sean left Rupert with the list of the Smiths that were staying at the cottage:

Trent and his wife who would be in their 80s. Their son Fred and his wife and Fred’s children Selina and Sarah, the victim. He’d interview them tomorrow along with the neighbour who found the body.

In the meantime, Rupert took in the town of Bentington named after a seaman who saw the potential in this natural harbour off Lake Jordon. All this and more was well displayed on historical site signs. Bentington had a population of around 13,000 and never moved too far from that number. At one time there was an active granary, still standing, and a rail line to the big city that delivered goods from ships docked from travels through Lake Jordon and connecting waterways. Now it was a growing retirement community because of the good hospital.

Rupert sought out a diner and risked the local fish dish which turned out to be quite good. He complimented the chef/owner but turned down the proffered recipe. Rupert always took the opportunity to learn as much as he could when at a site.

          “You’ve been here a while?” Rupert asked of the chef.

          “Herb Anderson,” offering a hand to shake, “No, my wife Alice and I moved here      about a dozen years ago. Had it with the big city, had a pension and cooked in the army so I looked around and this town has been good for me. And you?”

          Rupert shook his hand, “Rupert Tillinghast, here to look into the murder at Sandy    Beach.”

          “I heard about that. Unbelievable. Alice and I have gone there to swim on weekends; sleepy little place. Hard to accept that going on. Any news?”

          “It’s early. That fish was good.”

          “Thanks, hope to see you around.”

Rupert headed back to the police station and met up with Sean.

          “Here’s the blood splatter analysis.”

Sarah’s body had taken most, if not all, of the blood splatter suggesting she was knifed from the back. Rupert surmised that the killer knew Sarah, came in, greeted her to her back. Since Sarah would have known who it was, she wouldn’t have needed to turn around, carrying on with what she was doing. In effect, Sarah’s body acted as a shield. No clothes to clean.

Forensics didn’t add anything that couldn’t be assumed. All the footprints and fingerprints were of the family and friends. You’d be hard pressed to conclude that someone outside the immediate family and known neighbours was involved.

          “I’d like to do some interviews, when are you planning to head to Sandy Beach?”

          “First thing in the morning. Please join me, I’ll handle the introductions.”

And with that, Sean and Rupert said goodnight.

Next morning, Sean picked Rupert up at the hotel and together they made the short drive to the vacation spot in the police car.

          “This is Helen Henderson, she found the body.”

Helen couldn’t hide her nervousness and lingering shock. Middle age, Rupert guessed in her 40s and not prepared for any of this.

          “Mrs. Henderson, this is Rupert Tillinghast of the metro detective squad from the city, here to help us out.”

Helen had trouble looking up but forced a nod.

“I know this has been quite a shock,” intoned Rupert, trying to put on his best relaxing manner, ”would you please go over the moments before you found the body.”

          “I’m a guest of Judy Carson’s, we’re best friends from the city, and she’d asked me to drop off some baking that she had done that morning. Nobody answered the door when I knocked, it was a screen door, so I just walked in, planning to leave it on the table and then I saw Sarah, I didn’t know her, she was sprawled on the floor. All that blood. I almost dropped the pie.”

          “Where was Judy?” Rupert queried.

          “Down by the water, everyone was there.”

          “Why did you come up from the beach?”

          “I had to use the bathroom and I remembered Judy had asked me to drop off the pie.”

          “When you were down at the water, was everyone there?”

          “Well, yes, off and on, I don’t really remember. People are in and out of the water, they come and go to get something from the cottage.”

          “Thank you.”

          “Rupert, this is Bill, Bill Carson, Judy’s brother. Bill this is Rupert Tillinghast a detective from the city here to help us out. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”

To Rupert, Bill could have played professional football. Big and boisterous, muscular with bulging biceps and sporting the signs of a broken nose from some earlier fun. Sean’s notes said he had a construction company in the city.

          “I tell ya,” Bill started, without prompting, “I’m thinking of selling. This is crazy. We   now have gangs coming up here.”

          “Gangs?” came Rupert’s question.

          “On the weekends, especially holiday weekends. They take over the place.”

          “Why would they murder?”

          “I thought about that,” Bill continued, “Just to get me thinking the way I’m thinking. Cheapen the properties and buy.”

Rupert had to hide a smile, maybe Bill’s right although he didn’t think gangs were that interested in acquiring cottage property but you never know. Maybe there was some merit to that.

          “But why Sarah Smith?” came Rupert’s next question since Bill was keen to express his ideas.

          “Well, just her bad luck, I guess, they knew that most people wouldn’t be in during the afternoon and maybe tried a few cottages and came across a helpless cripple, liked the spot and killed her to put the owners in a panic.”

Rupert had to give Bill credit, he had a lively imagination. Rupert turned to Sean.

          “Have you had gangs here?”

          “Yes, but we’ve never had any problems with them, lots of innocent drinking on the beach; the residents complain about the noise. We can’t treat them any differently from the residents although the residents wished they didn’t come. They do spend, though, so the shopkeepers are of two minds.”

          “OK, and where were you when the body was found, Bill?”

          “Down at the beach with the others.”

          “Thanks, would you send in your sister now, please?”

Sean did the introductions.

Judy McWilliams, née Carson, struck Rupert as an in-command person. Professional, no nonsense, not easily rattled; very calm. Late 40s, Sean’s notes indicated she ran a wealth management consulting firm in the city. Quite attractive and greeted Rupert warmly.

          “Mrs. McWilliams, why didn’t you take the pie over to Sarah Smith?”

          “I baked in the morning and I like to let things sit and I don’t usually like to visit people early in the day especially Sarah as I know she needs help getting started.”

          “So what did you do after the baking?”

          “It was mid to late morning, as I recall, so I did what I usually do and went to the beach to read.”

          “Was anybody else there?”

Here Judy paused,

          “Let me think, Bill, his clan, my folks, Brent and Lily; people came and went, I    don’t think Helen was there at that time as I’d asked her to take the pie to Sarah, I can’t be sure.”

          “Were any Smiths clients of yours?”

          “No, why do you ask?”

          “Just wondering.”

Rupert thanked her and turned to Sean.

          “All the Smiths have been accounted for, correct?”

          Sean referred to his notes, “Yes, they all had alibis, why would they kill one of their own?”

          “Judy mentioned that Sarah had to get ready each day, who helped her with that?”

          “They have a care giver but she went into town with Sarah’s mother. You’re right that we don’t know when everybody left the cottage but everybody was around at one time or another, Sarah was seldom on her own. They’ve all testified that they said goodbye to Sarah in the company of someone else. The family would have to agree to jointly kill Sarah, it just wouldn’t add up.”

Rupert turned to Sean, I’d like to go over your notes, who would know the family trees, in your estimation?

          “Well, on the Carson side, maybe Brent, he’s in his 80s. And on the Smith side, Trent, I suppose, again the oldest living relative. Brent and Trent.” Sean slipped from his professional demeanor and had a chuckle.

          “Let’s talk to them.”

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Chapter five

“This is what I’ve got,” said Rupert to the gathering of Sean, Brent and Trent. “Is this right?”

1867	John McGregor has one daughter; Sheila		Ben Gleason has two children: Jack and Beth
1886	Sheila marries Trevor Judson has one daughter Joan		Jack has a daughter Jen	Beth marries a Smith and has a son James
1912	Joan marries a Scott and has a daughter Ruth		Jen marries a Shaw and has a daughter Liz	James marries, has a son Peter
1937	Ruth marries a Carson and has a son & daughter: Brent & Mary		Liz marries a Cargill and has a son Ken	Peter marries and has a son Trent
1982	Brent has a daughter and a son: Judy & Bill			Trent marries and has two daughters: Sarah & Selina
2007	Judy marries a McWilliams and has a daughter & a son

Sean took Rupert aside.

          “Why are you linking these two families, they just happen to have cottages near one another. And now you’ve opened another can of worms: Ken, I looked it up, was the one that was murdered in the 50s.”

          “Seriously? Well, that helps. Is Mary Carson alive?”

          “Brent,” questioned Sean, “where is Mary?”

          “She died in a car accident. Trent and I agree with the lineages but why?”

Rupert updates the lineage.

          “I don’t mean to upset you, I just wanted to get things straight in my mind. Thank           you for your help. One last thing, where did your ancestors come from?

          “Well,”came Brent’s account, “we’re 3^rd generation Canadian. I believe my great grandfather was a farmer in Gloucester county.”

          “That’s my understanding, too,” said Trent. Both farmers from the same county.”

          “Thanks, I don’t need you anymore.”

          “What now?” questioned Sean.

          “I have some work to do on my own, can you drop me off at the hotel, I need my       car?”

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Chapter six

The next day started bright and warm with no movement on the water; a sign of a hot, lazy day to come. Rupert dropped by the police station and asked Sean if he’d like to go for a walk, Rupert wanted to discuss the case and didn’t want anybody in the station to overhear and get exited or draw the wrong conclusions.

They headed for the docks, used now only by commercial tourist boats that did day trips out to Lake Jordon and the surrounding islands.

          “You’re saying it was revenge?” came Sean’s head scratching query.

They found a bench that the seagulls hadn’t freshly anointed. Rupert brought out the chart of the family trees.

          “Yes, the records show that John McGregor took his own life. And you made a          pivotal point which opened up the revenge line of thinking.”

          “Refresh my memory.”

          “When you told me there had been a previous killing in the family, Ken’s murder, I couldn’t shake that. Two members murdered from the same lineage, highly suspicious. What was the link, if any, between the two? That got me into making some calls. I was sure Judy killed Sarah.

          “Why Sarah?”

          “Well, she was the most vulnerable, exposed, and couldn’t defend herself. Just a bit of tough luck really which, in a sense, is what the family suffered in the beginning. Judy could plan the killing to suit here schedule and probably get away with it.

          ”I’m missing something, where did you go yesterday?”

          “I made a trip to the land registry office for Gloucester County which is located in Clapson Corners and this is where it all started.

          “As you see from the family trees, Judy and Sarah, though not family, were connected indirectly by a situation that happened a long time ago. The records show that in 1867, Judy’s ancestors deeded their property to the Gleasons, ancestors of the Smiths.”

          “Why?”

          “Good question. Both families were starting out in farming, why would you give up your farm?  And no money changed hands. Again why? I had to conclude that John McGregor, who, records showed, owned the land outright, but Ben Gleason didn’t, must have had to give up his property to Sarah’s forefathers.”

          “Sorry Rupert but I have to ask why again?”

          “This is where you come in, Sean. I’d start by checking county fund transfer           records which should still be around to see where the money went but I’m guessing a loan had to be repaid.”

          Sean interrupted. “There has to be more.”

          “I’m sure this is the reason John McGregor took his own life. It certainly put the        family into hardship and let the Gleasons, if you will, off the hook. It’s a scab the family wouldn’t let heal, though. And I’m sure that wound was kept alive through the generations until someone was determined enough, and had the opportunity,   to treat it. I strongly suspect Mary killed Ken Cargill. I’ll leave that to you to confirm.”

Rupert and Sean were silent for a few minutes.

          “But wait a minute,” interjected Sean, “If you’re right and it is revenge then Mary      killing Ken would have satisfied their macabre plans.”

          “I agree, and that’s what bothered me, normally it should end there unless the family were degenerate killers. But I think Mary and Judy, mother and daughter, were in this together and when I discovered, confirming the family trees, that Ken was adopted, Judy surely knew this too and decided that the score really hadn’t been settled.”

           “No, I had no idea.”

          “I gather a direct descendant of Ben Gleason’s had to die. As it happened, Mary died before she could exact the biological revenge so Judy took up the   challenge.”

Sean leaned back, hands behind his head, spread his long legs out and looked away in the distance seemingly in wonder of what Rupert was telling him.

          Rupert turned to Sean. “She had every opportunity here at the cottage. Under         questioning and with this evidence, I think you’ll be able to get her to unravel.”

          “Ladies,” muttered Sean, “the weaker sex? Nice coincidence that they both have   property on the lake.”

          “Everybody here is from the city so it’s not too surprising that when this land was     developed families who wanted a cottage knew about this opportunity. Or there   was a friend of a friend to them both that got them interested. Something for you and your team for a rainy day.”

          “One last question,” queried Sean, “why did you ask Judy if any of the Smiths were a client of hers?”

          “I couldn’t see Judy taking a chance with a member or members of a family she knew pretty well and worked with. The more distant she was the better. Something could slip and expose her. She would then have to convince the next generation to take up her cause and who knows if her children would support her vendetta. This further convinced me that it had to be Judy.”

They both got up, shook hands and ambled away from the dock.

          “You’ll be heading back now?”

          “Yes, catch a bite and head home. You OK?”

Sean could hardly not stifle a laugh. “Will keep you posted. You’ve been great, love to invite you back under better circumstances, take in a day at the beach, I have property further up on the lake from where we were.

          ”I’d like that.”

          “Welcome back,” came Herb’s warm greeting, “How goes the murder mystery?”

          “Well I’ve left Sean Nixon with a few ideas. He’s a good man, he and his team should wrap things up pretty soon. What’s on the menu, have you still got that fish dish?”

          “I do, glad you liked it, guys here usually go in for the ever challenging hamburger and fries.”

And with that, Rupert enjoyed his northern pike, perfectly filleted and prepared, and then headed back to the city.

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Chapter seven

“Ah the vacationing detective returns,” came J. J.’s sarcastic welcome. “I didn’t    see your name in the news even though you had to have been working hard …on your tan.”

J. J. punctuated this with his well known snort.

          “Well, I doubt that Sandy Beach news would make it to prime time but things went well. Nice folks, enjoyed the area, something to be said for small town living especially when you can have property on a beautiful lake. No, I can’t give up the city; I miss the energy. But I did bring you back a souvenir from cottage country J. J.”

          “What’s this?”

          “A doorknocker, you pull on the string (Rupert demonstrated) and that whaps the woodpecker’s beak against the backing board which that makes a noise to see if anybody’s home.”

J. J. took up the gadget and fiddled with it cautiously. “But you can see that I’m here, you don’t have to knock.”

          “Well, for the times you’re in but not there then.”

This time the snorts came from the room.

Rupert confessed, “I confess, Fridays are my friend.”

Not a breakthrough of biblical proportions, granted, most people look forward to Fridays because Fridays look forward to the weekend.

Must take a moment for a tip of the hat to my Latin teacher who determined, over a lifetime of suffering student apathy, that the only day of the week he could hope for some response from his students was Wednesday. Thursday and Friday were spent contemplating the pleasures of the up-coming weekend and Monday and Tuesday took all their remaining energies getting over the pleasures of the previous weekend.

A detective’s life, however, is not Monday to Friday so Friday could be just another work day followed by another work day. But if people weren’t getting shot up on a Friday that needed Rupert’s insight and smarts to unravel, then Rupert looked forward to the evening at his desk. Yes, the evening. Rupert rarely left his desk before 10:00 p.m. on a Friday.

It all started at school. Most kids tore out of the classroom on Friday to embrace the up-coming days away from studies. Rupert figured that forgetting school after classes on a Friday meant trying to remember what you had to do for Monday on a Sunday and then doing it. Twice the work. Rupert wanted his Saturdays and Sundays to be carefree.

You’ve probably done it yourself; after divot-digging 18 holes, you take your clubs home and wash them immediately so you’ve nothing to do at the last minute to ready yourself to enjoy the next game. More importantly, you escape the, “Oh my God,” moment when you next tee off and look down at clubs that could pass for gardening tools. No?

So the Friday evening in question had Rupert leisurely tying up loose ends, going through e-mails and finishing up reports that were past due. Among the in-basket items that caught his eye, he is a detective after all, was a clipping, ‘Mickey Pearson is dead. Foul play suspected.’

“Mickey Pearson,” murmured Rupert, leaning back in his chair and pulling up the past. “The chemist; we called him the chemist, the mixer of magical potions because he always poisoned his victims and never got caught.” Well, Rupert had some success but Mickey never spent much time behind bars. Loopholes and loophole-finding lawyers kept him on the outside most of his life. You’d think that once you knew the victim died of poisoning and the victim was known to be on Mickey’s best-of-enemy’s list, a detective of Rupert’s standing could put two and two together and have the boys in blue call Mickey and say, “we’re on our way, turn off the Bunsen burner and don’t go anywhere.”

There were several obstacles that always seemed to block this logic. The principal one being you had to prove Mickey did it even though the victim, a sworn enemy of Mickey’s, could be reeking of cyanide.

On the night in question, Mickey Pearson, well lubricated with alcohol, was playing poker with his regular cronies and that’s how the authorities found him; dead at the table, spilled glass and holding two pair: black pocket aces and eights. How appropriate, known as the dead man’s hand which Wild Bill Hickock was holding when he met his demise. 

Well, Rupert smiled, not my problem then his phone rang.

          ‘Glad I caught you in,’ came the melodious voice of one Sarah Benson from forensics. ‘Got a minute?’

          ‘It’s Friday, nobody works on a Friday night.’

          ‘And you’re there because the door’s locked and you left your picks at home?’

Ever the humourist but Sarah was lots of fun. Bright, beautiful and a dog with a bone when it came to doing her work. Loved the tough cases so this call wasn’t a waste of time but why me?

          ‘I’m not the lead detective on this, what gives?”

 “No, but nobody else answered their phone, it’s Friday night remember? And nobody works on Friday nights. It’s Charlie Chase’s (aside: yes, I kid you not, Charlie Chase, could have been a dog catcher), case and Charlie is not only not answering his phone he’s not answering the bell; seems Charlie’s in rehab, I just checked with your esteemed leader and he said to call you knowing you work Friday nights and had worked on previous cases involving our citizen of the month. He didn’t say if you were any good or not.”

          “Ha ha,’ I wittily rejoindered, “he would, so what’s up? Just do an analysis on the bullet and file the report.” Two can play this game.

“Not so fast, Sherlock, no bullet.” 

          “How ‘bout that old standby, natural causes?’

          “This guy, although he probably didn’t follow a strict diet was relatively young and    in pretty good shape. Nothing obvious is this regard shows up.”

And then it hit me, somebody poisoned good ole Mickey. Love the irony.

          “So what did the tox screen say? And why am I doing your job?”

          “Nada.”

          “Nada? OK, Heart attack. And why am I still doing your job?”

          “You could sell his heart on the open market, it’s that healthy. So, lead detective, I need your detection, when can we get together?”

          “You’ve ruined my weekend, I’ll think of nothing else. Call you next week.”

          “Have a thoughtful weekend.”

---

Chapter two

Rupert was a fan of Mick Haller, the Lincoln Lawyer, a creation of Michael Connelly’s. Here’s this crack attorney working out of the back seat of his car cause his life had taken a turn. You’ve got to like the character; somebody beating the system but not keeping up the pretension.

And lo and behold, doesn’t Billy Bob Thornton show up in a similar premise on Netflix in a show named Goliath. Only this time, our out-of-the-mainstream legal beagle has taken over two spots in a local motel as his office/home and drives an always-top-down convertible Mustang. It obviously never rains in California.

This Friday, Rupert had planned to watch the second season of episodes of Goliath as his love lives knew enough not to make a siren call on Fridays.

          “So, back to Mickey Pearson.”

Rupert couldn’t shake the idea that he had been poisoned. It just made so much sense once Sarah confirmed he wasn’t shot or didn’t keel over from lack of blood to the brain. But maybe not, as Rupert recalled, Mickey had a taster who tagged along on poker forays to make sure drinks were all booze and nothing but the booze.

There were many motives, most of them playing poker with him that night. Rupert would pick up the details on Monday when he’d know who was there. In the meantime, back to school, time to name your poison.

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Chapter three

It’s all Agatha Christie’s fault; her background in things chemical encouraged her to  introduce this way of removing a person of disfavour and every mystery writer since has pondered using this means to an end.

Well, it is convenient. Slip a little something into one’s drink and enjoy the rest of the evening. No sweaty days building a guillotine or taking out a year’s membership in a gym to build up muscle. Nor no furtively looking for an AK-47 on eBay. But when it comes to poison, science has reared it’s ugly head. Hard not to detect today what sends a person to the promised land what with all the latest technology. Which is why the tox screen didn’t spin and stop at three cyanide pills and spit out the confirmation note ‘winner’ on Sarah’s machine.

Rupert turned, not to his oak lined library of well worn reference tomes, but to the internet. This is the 21^st century after all and only lawyers not working out of their cars or motel rooms mull in oak lined surroundings with libraries down the hall similarly enshrined with the x hundred dollars an hour wallpaper.

Those libraries don’t tell you about what their client used to get them to visit in the first place just how to get them out of jail for using it.

Let’s start with the grand daddy (my words) of them all, cyanide. Most people are familiar with this poison, in a literal sense, because they’ve read about it, not necessarily tried it.

          “Ugh, what is this stuff? Never mind.”

 And it’s readily available if you entered ‘terrorist’ on your passport application. Take it and cardiac arrest is typically the result. Large doses of cyanide cause death almost immediately due to respiratory and heart failures.

In the past, it was hard to detect. Maybe you just had an hour or so to come to an ‘aha!’ moment. Now tests can find it weeks later.

Arsenic and Old Lace is a play by American playwright Joseph Kesselring, written in 1939. It has become best known through the subsequent film adaptation starring Cary Grant and directed by Frank Capra. 

It’s also a classic cocktail from the 1940s made with gin, crème de violette, dry vermouth and absinthe. Rupert put pen to paper and updated his ‘notes on what to serve when his know-it-all buddy Forsythe-Fitzbottom drops by.

Rupert went to his edited high school copy of this humourous classic and confirmed that, yes, there was arsenic in Arsenic and Old Lace. This was the potion that the ladies, aka ‘lace’, in question, used to move their guests, who had obviously overstayed their welcome, to their next life.

Yes arsenic is the other grand daddy poison (my words again), which, applied regularly in small doses, can be easily mistaken for an illness and the victim suffers for days. In large doses, death occurs in hours. But that is all in the past. Now arsenic poisoning is easily detectable and it is harder to get your hands on. None of that would apply to Mickey, though, and Sarah would have quickly spotted that. Mickey would have suspected something, too, when his taster took off so many days.

          “Feeling ill, boss, have to take the day off.”

          “How many days does that make now, close to seven?”

          “Closer to nine.”

          “Things OK at home? The little woman still have a bourbon and branch water waiting for you when you get home from work?”

---

Chapter four

Monday found Rupert in the squad room rifling through Charlie Chase’s case files. All the usual suspects were there at Mickey’s demise, all his poker playing colleagues in crime and Rupert knew them all. No surprises except none of them left the scene of the death; one even gave Mickey mouth-to-mouth. Talk about reversing the kiss of death. All this led to the conclusion that they were innocent.

Chase had interviewed them all and they all said the same thing,

          “He keeled over. Nobody touched him. We called 911 right away.”

Maybe it was like Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express, they all had a stab at him.

I called Sarah and she said she was free so I made my way to her office. It was one of those glorious days spoiled by the lack of knowledge that wouldn’t stop nagging at me. I was sure Sarah would find the answer; poisons have changed since I made margin notes in my copy of Arsenic and Old Lace. Gotta be something we missed.

Sarah is a forensic toxicologist. One of the first things they teach you when you join the detective ranks is the difference between the two disciplines so that if you’re hitting on a dream like Sarah, you don’t lose her interest in the first inning, striking out if you will. Toxicology on its own is the study and identification of toxins and drugs in the human body and analyzing and quantifying the amounts of these substances. Forensics is the application of science in criminal and civil law in order to evaluate or detect evidence that may lead to the prosecution of a criminal. So, a forensic toxicologist is someone that determines the presence of toxins or drugs in order to identify a cause of an unnatural death.

Sarah’s offices occupied the top floor of the Anderson building. The Anderson building was in a block of buildings abandoned by the university when it got its new steel and glass houses of academia paid for by generous alumni. Would that the police and its supporting services had such luck.

          “Dean, I’m pleased to announce that my wife and I are donating 10 million dollars which will go towards adding a wing to the oncology centre.”

The Dean, at his obsequious best, then went on to thank Dr. Brian Henderson for his generosity and assured the doctor that his name would be prominently displayed.

          “What the dean failed to mention in his announcement is that Dr. Henderson graduated last in his class and is grateful to be called a doctor,” mumbled Sarah.

          “Ha,” echoed Rupert. “But no similar announcements from Slim ‘The Knife’          Billingsly I gather who was known to be generous with other people’s money that he acquired during the holdup?”

          “Let me think …Mr. Billingsly, aka The Knife as you so aptly put it, on his release from his tax paid stay with us he gave us the finger and a promise to cut the red tape on our next opening of a new facility. I’d stay away from that ceremony if I were you Rupert.”

The entire block of buildings were classified as should-be-torn-down, relics from years gone by but were kept standing by weak-kneed politicians who wouldn’t raise property taxes to support their resurrection but could find the funds to resurrect the Beatles or who’s left of them to headline our city’s summer exhibition. I was met by Hilda, a department staple for many years, who guarded a glass panelled door with lettering that spelled ‘forensics’ in letters that brought back Humphrey Bogart movies. At least Sarah’s equipment was state of the art.

Sarah was a fashionista so I never missed an opportunity to compliment her on her attire.  “Sarah, my dear, how lovely you look, is that this year’s lab coat?”

          “Watch it, Tillinghast, you’re not sporting anything Good Will would accept either.”

Now that the formalities were done with, we got down to work.

          “Why are you so keen on poisons?”

I gave her Mickey’s background and since she didn’t have any evidence to the contrary, it had to be the play of the day.

          “What’s new in the poisoning business, I’m not that up to date.”

          “First of all the autopsy showed pretty normal stomach contents which you’d         expect but no surprises and, as I mentioned, a first toxicity pass didn’t give us a tell tale poison. But that’s not conclusive.”

          “Please elucidate.”

 “Succinylcholine for example. When used in the uncontrolled environment, the drug will cause the paralysis of the entire body including the respiratory organs, which will eventually lead to death by asphyxiation. The thing that makes it tricky for examiners is the fact that human body breaks down succinylcholine quickly, leaving no obvious traces. Still, it leaves clues and by products that are good indicators of succinylcholine being present in the bloodstream at some point.

          “And yes, since you’re so keen on this poison thing, we’ll do an in depth analysis on it and on other rare drugs but it takes a while. I’ll get back to you with the results.”

That didn’t sound too encouraging so I headed back to the squad room and decided to do a little digging

          “Well look who’s here,”

came the bellow of J.J., Jim Jenkins head detective at 5^th division and always at the ready to give me a shot.

          “I understand you’re bailing out Charlie, good man. He’ll be surprised you’re helping him out. Charlie was always a little suspicious of your ways, always   solving cases that sort of seldom came up with an iron clad suspect. He figured you should be working in the bunco squad handling cases of flimflam,    humbuggery, mountebankery, pettiifoggery and out-and-out chicanery. Don’t think I’ve missed anything. That’s what probably drove him to drink.”

J.J. loved to play to the crowd and the recruits encouraged him with sheepish grins and congratulatory muted clapping.

          “You really are getting good at cross word puzzles, J.J.”, I shot back, ”amazed you find the time to catch those shoplifters.”

Before J.J. could get his brain cells aligned for a comeback, I hit the computer room where you could access all the databases on known miscreants.

Mickey Pearson’s start in crime was unexceptional. Petty theft, followed by joining a gang that dealt drugs but then Mickey somehow showed an interest in the chemistry behind it, how they worked and what they were used for in the real world. This led him to getting into the local college taking night courses under the guise of becoming a research chemist but all along he saw this as a way to support his criminal activities. The police weren’t equipped to look for ingested poisons; if there was blood they were looking for blunt force trauma and Mickey never had a hand in that.

Mickey’s only weakness and exposure to exposure was his love of the drink. Maybe he needed it to build up the courage to settle his scores. He was up, several times, on DUI charges and his habit eventually pushed him into rehab.

          “Guilty as charged,” Mickey bragged on one investigation on a suspicious murder, “I do like a wee dram of the Lagavulin.”

I remember Mickey was found at the scene of a crime but he was quite inebriated and that was his defence, “How could I poison the victim when I couldn’t even stand up?’

Even his friends thought that drink would be the death of him and that got me to thinking, ‘Is there such a thing as alcohol poisoning?”

---

Chapter five

Charlie Chase couldn’t have been more surprised.

          “Rupert, you’re the last man I expected to see. That’s unkind, I didn’t think anyone from the office would drop by. It’s good of you.”

          “Well, I am working on your case, and you can help me.”

          “Do tell.”

          “What tests did they give you when you arrived.”

          “Blood work mostly, that quickly tells you the amount of alcohol in your bloodstream. But let me get you the high priced help, they can give you the whole story.”

And with that, Charlie introduced me to Dr. Tuscana who was more than happy to dot the I’s.

“The amount of alcohol found in the blood is measured as a value called the blood alcohol concentration (BAC). The importance of forensic toxicology in measuring BAC’s is that there is a legal BAC limit when you are driving or performing certain services (such as operating machinery). Any amount above this level is considered a violation of the law and that person can be charged with a criminal offence. Additionally, it can be used to determine what state a person was in when they died in order to determine whether they died as a result of alcohol poisoning, accidental death due to high alcohol levels or another cause not related to alcohol consumption.”

“Bingo,” I called Sarah.

“Sarah, I’m at the rehab centre with Charlie Chase and Dr. Tuscana who is filling us in on blood alcohol concentration, BACs. Do you have Mickey Pearson’s BACs?”

“Testing blood for alcohol is tricky, it doesn’t remain in the blood for long and a blood test can only detect alcohol in the blood stream for up to 12 hours after the last drink. So if the EMS boys didn’t check it when they picked up Mickey, we could be out of luck.  I’ve been concentrating on identifying obscure toxins. I’ll call around and get back to you.”

“When do you get out Charlie.”

“When I dry out,” came the smile.

---

Chapter six

“Rupert? Sarah, when the EMS boys knew Mickey’d been drinking they took a blood sample and the lab later confirmed the numbers were off the chart. You’ve got your answer.”

---

Chapter seven

“Charlie,” came the surprised greeting from J.J. as Charlie and I walked into the squad room. “What a great surprise to have you back so soon.”

          “Well, I’m not really back, just wanted to pop by with Rupert and update the chief on the Mickey Pearson case.”

The chief waved them into his office.

          “Hi chief.”

          “Have a seat Charlie, good to see you,” came the sincere welcome.

          “I’ll let Rupert take over,” cameCharlie’s opening remarks, “he did all the leg work, I just provided the live data.”

Rupert could hardly suppress a smile.

          “Mickey Pearson died of alcohol poisoning, chief.”

Rupert let that sink in. You could see the light bulb over the chief’s head slowly go from a warm glow to a full 100 watt shine.

          “You mean, you mean …”

          “Yes, Mickey Pearson poisoned himself.”

J. J. wondered what all the laughter was about, the chief never found anything funny.