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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

Chapter five

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

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?”

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.

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.

Your boy is at it again, I see,” J.J., aka Jim Jenkins, the senior detective at 5^th division, announces from across the squad room; you could almost taste the smirk. He obviously wanted to rub it in and make sure everyone got to enjoy my pain.

‘My boy’, is none other than Mr. James Moriarty, yes, that Mr. Holmes’ Moriarty. I label him that because I’ve never been able to apprehend him. He’s evaded me every time. And what hurts, really hurts, is I think I’m pretty clever. At least clever enough to know when I’m outsmarted. But I persevere; I’m a detective after all.

“What manner of mischief is so important to interrupt the challenge of your crossword J. J. – recognizing the demand it puts on your limited powers of concentration?” I dart the question back in an italicized voice telling everyone within hearing distance that I can give as good as I get.

Now the squad room is on high alert; nothing like a verbal tennis match to brighten up the day.

“He robbed a bank,” relished J, J.,”and it took two days before anyone discovered it.” A not too subtle laugh poisoned his barb. “Shouldn’t take you more than a week to give up on this one,” came the shot heard round the room.

I should explain that J. J. isn’t biting the hand that feeds him, mocking the constabulary, because Mr. Moriarty is sort of a celebrity in so far as he’s taken on a Robin Hood patina that has endeared him to the public.  Mr. Moriarty commits crimes that aren’t too serious, white collar crimes where nobody gets hurt and not much money nor trouble changes hands. Worse, the police never catch him and that puts the public on his side.

I’m Rupert Tillinghast, detective of long standing and longer suffering, and somehow, over time, I’ve become the fall guy to Mr. Moriarty’s shenanigans. I represent the police to his world and I’m good press cause I volunteer to face the faces of the bemused scrum of reporters.

“So Tillinghast, Rupert,” is typically how the wiseacre press starts,”what ingenious plan do you have to bell our cat this time?”

I play along, I’m up to the challenge; I have semi-thick skin and a combative sense of humour that is bullet proof to most diatribe that’s fired my way.

“Slow news day, boys?” I zing. “Speaking of cats, none up a tree today to force you to look up multisyllabic descriptors? What will you computer strained wretches have to write about when we bring this tabby to ground? It’s my humouring this jokester that keeps you getting paid.”

“Oh blather not, Tillinghast,” comes thepseudo Shakespeariancounter, “admit it, Sherlock, he’s got you on the run.”

I conjure up a response, “Mark my words thee distemperate fooleth, tis he who’ll soon be hot footing it to the cooler, to use an oft-saith phrase. See you anon.”

I always try to leave them with a quote they have to look up. I exit, buying time and wondering what I’ll have to do to close the story on Mr. Moriarty.

(Next day)

“Welcome to our branch, Mr. Tillinghast, I’m Jessica Lin,” comes the warm, wondrous greeting from this vision from the financial world. Bank managers have changed for the better over the years.

“Thank you Ms. Lin,” is the only witty thing I can think of blinded as I am by her perfect teeth, perfect hair and perfect form. What can I say? Words failed me.

“I’m here about the robbery.”

“Yes, let me get Melissa, our senior teller, she was the one who’s involved.”

Ms. Lin leaves for a moment and I scope her office. No picture of hubby and children to ruin my day but a diploma on the wall that emphasizes her ability to glamourize the wonders of debt and a bronze star congratulating her on at least five years of sticking it out.

“Mr. Tillinghast, this is Melissa LaLiberté, pronounced La – Lee – ber – tay, like the French, the teller who was involved.”

Ms. LaLiberté is a well-rounded mademoiselle of indeterminate years who probably saw herself as ahead on the experience curve and ready for promotion until she ran into our Mr. Moriarty.

“Please tell me what happened,” I start,professionally taking the chill off the room.

“This man introduced himself as bank security and showed me some identification.”

“Do you recall his name?” I professionally enquire.

“Yes, Roberto Throgmorten, I remembered it because it was such as unusual last name.”

It’s my Moriarty, all right, loves to use my initials to create his noms-de-plume and give me a shot. He’s been Roger Trainwhistle; Reggie Transponder; Rufus Tutu and so on. I hate him.

“Yes, go on Ms. LaLiberté,” swallowing the bad taste in my mouth.

“Well, he said the bank was being plagued by bogus $100 bills and wanted to give our branch a heads up. He then showed me a bogus $100 bill and asked me to get a real $100 from the cash to show the differences.”

I could see this coming; well, I’m a detective.

“Let me save you the pain, Ms. LaLiberté, he left with the real $100 bill and you returned the bogus to cash.”

“How did you know?” putting her hand to her mouth in awe.

I was sorely tempted to say, “I’m a detective, a highly skilled detective, with an IQ in the far right region of the bell curve, excessively trained to handle complex matters, master in hand-to-hand physicality, borderline genius etc. etc.” but I demurred.

“We’ve seen this before.”

Ms. Lin interrupted. “Don’t be upset, Melissa, it’s difficult to recognize these situations.”

I interrupted Ms. Lin’s interruption. “What can you tell me about this individual … apart from his unusual last name? Twinturbo, I believe?”

“Throgmorten,” she corrected. “Well, he wore a hat.”

“She means a fedora,” Ms. Lin contributed.

The old hide the face trick, I calculated.

“And he was nice,” Melissa creatively remembered.

Ms. Lin figured things out. “Thank you Melissa, you’ve been very helpful.”

“So,” I summarized once Melissa had left, “you’ve been robbed of $100.”

“It seems so,” agreed Ms. Lin.

“I’d like that bogus bill and a copy of your security tape, please Ms. Lin.”

“Certainly, I’ll send them over to your office right away. And thank you for coming.”

Wait’ll J.J. gets a hold of this one, I ruminate ruefully, making my way out of the bank.

And the press!

Bank robbed of $100, massive man hunt under way. Downtown metropolis cordoned off. Military on stand by. Rupert Tilliinghast, master detective, enemy-to-those-who-make-him-an-enemy heading up investigation. Again

(Day three)

The entertainment world has made the viewing public aware of ‘cold cases’; situations that didn’t get solved but should get looked into when things warm up and/or cool down. This $100 robbery qualifies for ‘frozen, never to be thawed, cases’. What are you supposed to do? Moriarty is playing with us, he’s the Scarlet Pimpernel of the 21^st century, throwing multiple metaphors into the mix.

And what if I did, somehow, apprehend him? The judge would probably charge him with, “Well done. Now, off you go.”

But there was some pressure to do something, while the police hierarchy would like me to spend all my time catching every flavour of bad people, it was forced to encourage me to give some token effort in apprehending this nuisance. The police chief, with the skill to suppress a smile while mouthing serious syllogisms, would say, sounding like my Mother, that ‘this kind of behaviour was not to be tolerated; It gave the wrong impression to the susceptible youth of today’ and so on and so on.

I reviewed the bogus bill. Our Melissa must have had a touch of the vapours that day. Or had been overcome by Moriarty’s nicety as this bogus bill wouldn’t have passed muster by anyone with a modicum of sensory sensitivity. He got the colour right but that was about it. The paper was somewhere on the spectrum between household wax paper and tin foil. The number 100 was Times New Roman on one side and Bodini Bold on the other. And you’d think even our Melissa would have puzzled over the picture of Brian Mulroney.

Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt, she doesn’t get to handle $100 bills that often.

The tapes didn’t shed any light either. Our Mr. Moriarty’s back isn’t distinguished and that fedora covered the rest. All I could take away from this evidence was our Mr. Moriarty was about 6 feet tall. I stretched that to two paragraphs in my report. “He was, one would say, tallish. Tallish for a man with an undistinguished back …”

I’m knee deep in high dudgeon.

So, back to basics, who is this guy?  I dug up my police academy profiling lecture notes complete with marginal question marks. Moriarty doesn’t need money; probably picked up a PhD along the way; retired maybe; lives in town and just loves to put it to me; Roberto Throgmorten indeed. But he doesn’t want to get caught because then what would he do? So he’s risk averse, picking on the gullible. His psychological chart? An introvert, obviously. Gets great pleasure out of outsmarting his opponent.

OK Randy Thingamjig, enough Freud, game on.

(Day four)

I decided to play, ‘to catch a thief’. I am going to be Mr. Moriarty for a day. ‘Smoke him out,’ as the dime novels would say. So I put a call into Ms. Lin. My perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect form Ms. Lin. Still at a loss for words.

“Mr. Tillinghast, how nice to hear from you, have you caught him?” I bet J.J. put her up to that.

“Love your sense of humour, no, but I’d like your help in catching him.”

“Sounds like fun, what can I do?”

“Well, if you get robbed again, in a similar fashion to the previous time, ‘Robin Hood strikes again sort of thing’, but it’s the unknown me that robs you, I think we can get our man to bristle a bit because someone’s trespassing on his territory and hopefully this will force him to show his face.”

“Wonderful, how exciting, what do I do?”

“What could be set up so that the bank gets robbed but nobody gets hurt?”

“Let me think …. I know, I could give you a line of credit that you could draw down on and then I could claim that there was fraud. What do you think?”

“I like it, what’s involved on my part?”

“Not much, I’ll do the paper work and create an account for you. Once you sign the papers I’ll transfer the line of credit, let’s say $5,000, to your account and you can make a withdrawal whenever you like. How’s that?”

I was going to say, ‘perfect’ but that would dilute my expansive description of her teeth, hair and form so I went for a simple unpretentious, ‘preternaturally fabulous!’

“How if you drop by at 3 o’clock this afternoon?”

“I’ll be there and thank you.”

“You’re welcome, see you then.”

A few hours to kill, just time enough to clear my desk and make sure everyone’s on side. Get those wordsmiths lined up in time for the 5 o’clock news and sit back for the roosting of the pigeon.

“Miss Lin, please, she’s expecting me, I have a 3 o’clock appointment. It’s detective Tillinghast.”

“One moment, please.”

Out of the perfect mists of the manager’s office emerges the perfect bank manager probably on the verge of giving me a hug.

“What are you doing here?” she utters in a less than perfect timbre.

“Our appointment?” I gawped not understanding her understanding.

“But the call.”

“What call?”

“Your buddy, at headquarters.”

This wasn’t sounding perfect. Not even close to fabulous.

“A buddy? Do you recall his name?”

“Ringo. Ringo Tympani.”

“Ringo Tympani?” I chewed on this for all of 3 seconds,”An unusual name.”

“I thought so, too; he called to say you’d been pulled off this case and that he’d stand in for you. He arrived around 2 and signed all the papers and left.”

“Ms. Lin, can we go into your office for a minute? (Sound of quickening footsteps and a door rapidly closing.) Thank you. Now, would you open up, er, Ringo Tympani’s account, please? (Sound of computer keys clicking) Good, now how much is in his account? (Sound of someone thinking, ‘This isn’t happening.’) $4,900? (Sound of detective dying) Would you now please permanently close that account?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ms. Lin, would you be free, now, for a drink. Or two?”

(Day five)

I’ve got to hand it to J. J., his sarcasm was more muted than expected.

“I liked your idea, while it lasted. Kinda neat, though, same bank being held up twice in the same week each time for $100.”

“How did Moriarty know?”

“Well, you’re not exactly invisible. Every press conference seems to have your mug grinning at the camera. You’re thinking he doesn’t have TV or the Internet?”

“No, it’s just that …”

“… this place leaks like a sieve, you know that; it would only take a phone call or two to find out your schedule … and… how ‘bout he followed you into the bank a couple of days ago? Did a stake out, if you need a bit of visualizing, saw you go into Ms. Lin’s office, what’s she like by the way?”

“… perfect, bloody perfect.”

“Tillinghast”

“Captain”

“Got a call from the mayor.”

Finally, recognition for my enormous contribution to the city. I can only wonder at the accolades. The key to the city I can do without but the black- tie, invitation-only official presentation should get me to share a table with the tart, as in tangy, Mlle Canneberge, the mayor’s delectable secretary.

“Seems someone has been stealing flowers.”

(sound of dreams shattering . ….. after a suitable pause) “I’m in serious crimes, Captain.”

“Yes, I know. The mayor’s neighbour, nice little old lady I understand, has had her posies picked and she complained to the mayor.”

“And …”

“J J thinks it might be your guy.” (J J, Jim Jenkins, the poster boy if you didn’t want female recruits. I confess to working with him in number 5 division.)

“And why did the master sergeant of crowd control at mall openings think it was ‘My guy’?”

“The posie picker left a thank you note signed Rosebud Thistle, unusual name.”

“Oh, I’ve known a few thistles in my time,” I gamely volunteered.

“Rosebud.”

Two can play at this word association game. “Citizen Kane.”

“No, Rosebud, are you hard of hearing Tillinghast? Maybe you should stay away from the shooting range for a while.”

“Right and yes, unfortunately, he sounds like ‘My guy’. Any details?”

“Well, he just took her zinnias. Note said a friend of his was in hospital and zinnias were her favourite.”

“And why can’t we just leafblow this one under the astroturf, Captain?”

“The mayor said we’d look into it and report back.”

(next day)

“Thanks, J J, for fingering me for the floral finagler.”

“Wouldn’t sleep at night if I didn’t, Rupert, crime must not go unpunished,” his grin outshone the fluorescent fixtures, “and who, better than you, to dig up the dirt?”

Two officers, enjoying the exchange, couldn’t suppress a snort.

Good old Moriarty, at it again. The guy won’t leave me alone. Fortunately the press won’t hear about this or I’ll never live it down.

(telephone rings)

“Tillinghast, serious crimes.”

“Oh good, I was afraid I’d be put onto a junior patrolman to handle the mayor’s latest threat to winning the next election.”

Rats, Eustace Panama of the Times, how did he get wind of this stinker?

“Morning Eustace, always a pleasure to talk to those less fortunate. How goes the welfare beat?”

“My spies at City Hall tell me you’ve been assigned to capture the flower filcher, should make a great headline: Bobbies baffled by Begonia Bandit.”

“It’s zinnias, Eustace, get your botanicals in line. You’ll be the first to know if anything blooms.”

Now what? Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot on my plate so I might as well try to put Moriarty, excuse the pun, to bed. But how? He always snookers me. At least I have something to start on: zinnias, hospital, female patient. That should knock it down to a couple of hundred but the zinnias might be a game changer.

If I could find the zinnias then I have the patient and then I have Moriarty’s name. Worth a shot.

“Zelda, when we send out an alert, we automatically notify all the hospitals, right?”

Zelda Zalinski, Z Z, top notch, our lovely director of communications knows everybody of any importance in town both to defend the police force and to get invited to every function where buffets are de rigueur. Not that Zelda is heavyset, let’s just say that Zelda, in her lifetime, has never been known to push herself away from a table that had potato in one appetizing form or another remaining on a plate. But Zelda’s my kinda gal, always open minded and welcoming.

“What’s the bribe for this time, Tillinghast?

“Zelda, you misunderstand me, it’s not a bribe, I know you like potato latkes for breakfast.”

Examining the offering, “It must be a doozie: applesauce, sour cream and even chopped green onions.”

“The hospitals should be on the lookout for zinnias.”

“That’s a flower, not a disease.”

“Very perceptive, but this year’s crop is a killer for those with an allergy.”

“Clarify my fuzzification.”

“If you’re allergic to zinnias, and your corsage is loaded with these deadly dandelions, this year you’re going to cry your eyes out even while watching late night television. Not for the teary eyed.”

“So …”

“… so alert the hospitals and get back to me with the names of all the patients who were blessed with these beastly bouquets.”

“Is this on the up and up?”

“Zelda, do you want to be the one accused of bringing tears to the eyes of so many when you could be garnering tears of joy of at least a few? You’ll be sainted.”

“You really can ladle it, you know Tillinghast, but it should be fun. I’ll let you know.”

(next day)

“Tillinghast, start peeling those spuds, I got it down to three.”

“Zelda, my tasty tater, I’m on my way.”

“Mmm, French fries, but they look a little soggy.”

“I had to add the salt and vinegar at the truck, they don’t have those little packets, someone keeps stealing them.”

“I’ll force them down anyway, thanks. Here you go:

         Marci Mathers at the General

         Joan Green at Our Lady

         Heather Hamhurst again at the General”

“Sweet Z Z, you’re the best.”

“Potato salad’s in season.”

Two out of three at the General saves me a lot of time; I’ll start with Joan Green at Our Lady.

“And who the hell are you? (This didn’t sound like a warm lead.)

“I’m a detective with number 5 division, just want to ask you a few questions.”

“What the (bleep) about?” (You could feel my charm working.)

“The one who brought you the flowers?”

“So?”

“Just following up on a serious situation, would you tell me who that was?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me, it’s important police business.”

(pause) “Fred Withers.”

“Thank you, and can you tell me where Fred Withers lives?”

“Well you can ask him yourself, he’s right behind you.”

(Sure enough, Dr. Fred Withers is standing there in his scrubs, name tag and all.)

“May I help you?” intones all 6’ 4” of this medical muscle raising a brow of suspicion.

“Dr. Withers, I’m a detective (flashing my badge) with number 5 division, serious crimes, and we’re following up on the possibility that flowers guests drop off could carry a nasty bit of pollen.”

“And this is a serious crime? Shouldn’t you be chasing bad guys? Aren’t you guys looking for a raise? I brought those flowers for my sister.”

(pressing myself against the wall and slowly edging my way towards the door) “Yes, well, thank you, that’s fine. And they’re lovely. All the best Ms. Green.”

“Bugger off.”

Oh man, give me a murder any day. On to Marcie Mathers.

“Ms. Mathers, I’m a detective (flashing my badge) with number 5 division, would mind telling me who brought you those flowers?”

“No, I don’t mind, my Mother. What’s this all about?”

“It’s a secret investigation, sorry, very hush hush. You’ve been very helpful. They’re zinnias, right? Lovely in this light. Thank you.”

If Heather Hamhurst doesn’t pan out, Z Z’s potato salad’s getting rotten eggs.

“Ms. Hamhurst, I’m a detective (flashing my badge) with number 5 division doing a routine check on flowers that might be harmful to patients and would you mind telling me who brought you these flowers.?”

“No, not at all, Arty.”

(Relief at last) “Can you describe Arty?”

“Tall, good looking, undistinguished back, likes to wear a fedora.”

(Be still my heart) “And … could … you … please … give … me … Arty’s … last … name?

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re just casual friends. We met when I was walking my dog, Magwood. We’d chat, he’d scratch Magwood’s ears. That sort of thing and I told him I wouldn’t be seeing him for a few days as I was going in for minor surgery and, bless his heart, he dropped by today and left these flowers, zinnias, my favourite. So sweet.”

“Yes, zinnias, your favourite, so wonderful that he picked them. Thank you.”

(nurses’ station)

“Excuse me, I’m a detective (flashing my badge; I wonder if this could be automated?) with number 5 division, do you happen to know the gentleman who visited Ms. Hamhurst earlier today?”

“No, but I can look it up in the visitor’s book.”

(Moriarty, your days of smelling like a rose are over.)

“Oh, yes, here it is, I do remember now, so unusual.”

(gulping) “Unusual?”

“Yes, he underlines the first letter of his first and last name. Here it is.”

Rupert Tillinghast

“So how did you figure me out?”

“It wasn’t easy and there was a bit of luck but we’re not supposed to admit that.”

(flashback)

“Rupert, your close personal friend at the Times, one Eustace Panama on line 3 for you, probably wants to write you up as the Detective of the Year.” Good old J J, couldn’t help but elevate his voice so everyone could get in on the nonsense and punctuate it at the end with a resounding belly laugh. The squad room was definitely on his side with supporting howls.

“What deathly prose does the obit editor need my help with,” I imagined?

“Eustace, always a pleasure to help anyone with their English, which euphemism for dearly departed can I proffer?”

“Feet off the desk detective, I’m actually helping you do your job. I think your guy is about to strike and I might be able to give you a head’s up.”

“Interesting, I’ve had you wrong all along, Eustace. Pray tell, which gems of detecting are you willing to share?

“Our food editor, who is welsh, is planning to celebrate the up coming St. David’s day with traditional welsh recipes and has asked our loyal subscribers for submissions and sweetened it as a contest.”

“And all this will be cleared up in your next few sentences?”

“Well, Rupert the sleuth, it’s taken you several months of wilderness wandering on this guy without success so you can afford me a few minutes of your plentiful head scratching time.”

“I’m properly put in my place, please continue.”

“So our food editor gets a recipe for welsh rarebit and it’s signed Randy Trollop. She thought that was pretty unusual so she showed it to me and that’s why I called you. Isn’t that ‘your guy’? Always coming up with weird names and first name last name starting like yours,  with an R and a T?

“I bow in your presence, Eustace, I think you’re on to something. Let me get back to you.”

So, without any wise cracks from J J, a spirited plan distills.

“Eustace, when can we three: you, the food editor and I get together?”

(next day)

“Rupert, this is Beti Thomas, our food editor; Beti this is Rupert Tillinghast a detective at number 5 division. Show her your badge, Rupert.”

(Beti breaks into an embarrassed giggle)  “It’s for my grandson, Mr. Tillinghast, when I said I had a meeting with a real detective he asked me to see your badge so I could describe it to him.”

“My pleasure Beti, I thought for a moment Eustace was making sure I was still gainfully employed by the department. Beti, I understand Eustace has explained the situation. Would you and the paper have any objection to setting a trap and awarding our RandyTrollop a prize?”

“Heavens no, it’s very exciting. And I like your suggestion that it be third prize. I doubt if anyone will suspect anything. His recipe, while dated, works by the way.”

“Good and thanks for your help. And to you, too, Eustace; should be a fun story, ‘Paper holds recipe for catching the c(r)ook.”

“Don’t give up your day job, Tillinghast.”

(Back to the present at division headquarters)

“So you won third prize and you weren’t suspicious?”

“A bit of a surprise, granted, but not totally unexpected; that recipe’s been in the family for generations.”

“But you didn’t pick up the cheque.”

“Just in case you somehow were aware of the contest and put two and two together, that would be too easy for you.”

“Well done. And then you had your ‘courier’ mail you the cheque.”

“Yes, I thought, again, if you were on to me, it would be too easy for you to follow the courier to my place.”“Well done again. But you didn’t realize that we could, once the cheque was deposited and cleared back to the paper, trace the account where it was deposited.”

“I was tempted not to cash it, just for that reason, but maybe you weren’t on to me and the $50 prize was always planned to pay for the courier. By the way, that was a nice touch, having the bank call me in because they had credited my account with $500 and needed my signature on the correction.“

“Had you thought of signing the cheque over to the courier and letting him take the fall?”

“That would have been interesting, and not that nice, but it would just have delayed the inevitable. So, what are you going to do with me?”

“Wish you well.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, once we found out who you were, it would be hard for you to continue with the fun wouldn’t it?”

“True. Anything else?”

“You might want to give the bank back its $200 and Ms. Lin and Ms. Laliberté some roses. And maybe a potted plant to the mayor’s neighbour.”

“Yes, I can handle that. And to thank you, because you and the force have been such good sports about all this, what do you think of this note I plan to send to the Times?”

Dear Eustace Panama:

I’m the one who has been infuriating the police and giving you good copy these last few months. But now it’s over. You’ll be surprised to hear, but also pleased, I’m sure, that Rupert Tillinghast got the better of me. The police, to their credit, have written off my shenanigans on my promise to take the straight and narrow path from now on.

Whether you acknowledge this or not in your paper, it’s of no mind to me but that’s something that you and Rupert might want to thrash out over a beer.

No, I won’t give you my name; I’ll leave that up to you to discuss with the police.

“Thank you, very nice. Just curious, what is your name? Not Rebus!”

(Laughing) “No, that would be too much, it’s Rhys. Rhys Trahern, welsh ancestry through and through.”

“So you actually do have a first name starting with R and a last name starting with T?”

“Yes, and since my friends were never sure how to pronounce my name, they’ve always called me Arty.”