Chapter 14

Don’t Be Hasty

“Was the party a success?”

“Yes, and I uncovered possible useful information, but you go first. Has Rosemary improved? When do you expect her back?”

Aiden’s groan drifts through the phone line. He sounds tired. Her watch indicates past nine in the evening, and his call is a surprise.

“Mary Jo and Toni will drive her home. Living arrangements are the biggest news. Mary Jo and Rosie are both to move into Toni’s house.” He pauses. “She’s not good.”

Stella doesn’t interrupt.

“They told me to expect to be on my own for at least six months. Mary Jo plans to rent her duplex.”

“Is Rosemary not managed on medication?”

“Not sure. Mary Jo, typically, says the doctors messed with Rosemary’s treatment plan. The primary goal is to bring her home.”

“And Toni’s opinion?” Stella sees Toni as the practical one, whereas Mary Jo, despite her gruff exterior, is the pushover.

“Toni considers Rosemary beyond repair. She maintains she and Mary Jo are obliged to be caretakers because I am, in her words, ‘deeply involved’ in my job.”

“They think you should quit work?”

“Rosemary expected me to retire when we moved back to our original neck of the woods.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, enough of my problems. We’ve been given two weeks by my bosses to figure out what happened to Owen.”

She takes a breath. “Okay. Here’s what I heard last night. First, Trixie and Brigitte were nowhere near the front of Yellow House. They can’t help. Second, Trixie told me Cavelle worked in the real estate office Saturday afternoon. Both Greta and Mayko walked straight past her window if they’ve been truthful. Cavelle should be able to confirm their information. Plus, Mildred said the story Owen read sounded familiar, but she couldn’t recall why.”

“An old lady’s scattered recollections.”

“Well, don’t be hasty. She described the sordid piece to Cloris Kincaid and Duke.” She stops for a brief clarification. “Cloris is Duke’s latest love interest. In any event, Cloris remembered a murder out west which resembles the story, although no girl was involved.”

“We need to go through Owen’s papers. We’re scheduled to meet with his folks again tomorrow. They might recall where he found the idea for that particular piece.”

“Will we interview Frances and Edward in the morning?”

“At ten. Granted, the reading was gruesome, but I’m convinced his death relates to his habit of stealing.”

“Your theory?”

“He stole from Bryce, Mayko, or Greta. One of them argued with him and in the scuffle, they pushed him, and he fell. The guy was anti-social. He took what he wanted. He may well have plagiarized the work of other writers and helped himself to items right out from under their noses. We’ve discovered his bad habits. His parents’ opinions might help.”

By the time she hangs up the phone, Nick has tidied the kitchen. Blackcurrant tea steeps in the brown ceramic pot. She approaches him, admires his grounded steadfastness, and wraps her arms around his waist.

“After a busy day of final check-outs, you didn’t need Aiden North to call.”

“No, but Rosemary’s a mess, the sisters plan to move her in with them, and he seems worn out.” She unwinds her hug and drops into a kitchen chair. “The tea smells heavenly. You read my mind.”

“When does he expect them home?”

“Soon, I guess. Aiden’s sure Owen stole from one of the authors who confronted him. This resulted in an altercation with both accidental and tragic consequences. I’ll meet him in Port Ephron at the Ellis-Thomas’ house at ten, tomorrow. More conclusive evidence he was pushed might be revealed if we discover missing property.”

Nick pours their tea. “I gather you two aren’t on the same wavelength.”

He never asks questions, which avoids issues she can’t discuss. He waits. She appreciates his understanding. “Owen’s story is connected. The pieces don’t fit together yet, but an incident out west more than a decade ago vaguely resembles his reading. I plan to read every newspaper article I can find in the box forensics collected, to try to discover his inspiration.”

“Are you done for the night? Come on. Let’s turn on the news and enjoy our tea. Those Irish hunger strikers finally quit.”

****

Aiden waits in front of Frances and Edward’s bungalow. She pulls into the space behind him. Stella observes Owen’s mother at the picture window. Her hair is braided in her signature halo crown. She might have been in the garden if one considers her baggy denim pants and loose shirt.

“Hi, Aiden.” She waves her hand without lifting her arm, aware of Frances’ watchful eyes.

“Good morning. No telling where this interview leads us, Stella. How much do they know of Owen’s thievery? I’ll ask if we can snoop for stolen items. His papers are in a box back in the evidence room.”

“I want to hear their opinions and observations related to his thefts of other people’s ideas; and what they have to say regarding the influence of various newspaper articles.” Frances remains at the window. “Let’s go inside.”

As they approach, Aiden adds, “And the backgrounds of the other authors? Did Owen possess incriminating information?” He leans closer to her ear. “Should be a morning of enlightenment.”

“Frances, hello. Sorry for the delay. Aiden waited for me to arrive from Shale Cliffs.”

She pushes the aluminum door open. “Welcome to you both. Edward and I are anxious to hear an update on your investigation.”

As they shuffle around the corner from the tiny vestibule, they discover Edward swallowed into a vaguely familiar brown corduroy recliner. “Good morning.” He rises from the nest of folds to shake their hands.

The chair used to be in the basement, in Owen’s room.

They seat themselves on the flowered sofa and Frances delivers coffee cups on a wooden tray.

Aiden clears his throat. “We want to speak with you today regarding the other authors at the retreat and your personal awareness of their backgrounds. Although difficult for you, it’s also necessary to discuss Owen’s habit of helping himself to items which did not belong to him.”

“We’re anxious to hear what you might know of Owen’s story inspirations,” Stella adds.

Edward gasps and meets Frances’ eyes. “He said he stopped, Frances.” He turns toward Aiden. “Detective, was my son stealing again?”

“There are reports of a few incidents, Mr. Thomas. I understand my forensics team packed his papers, research, and manuscripts for analysis, but Stella and I need to check for items reported stolen by various people while he spent time in Shale Harbour and at Stella’s park.”

Frances jumps from her chair. “Certainly. His room sits as your staff left it—except for the chair.”

“We returned the recliner to the living room and tidied, though. There was a cardboard box at the cabin. We brought it home and left it in his room. Your people didn’t seem interested when they were here. I’m not sure what’s in it. We didn’t touch any of Owen’s belongings.” Edward pats the arm. “Just the chair. Owen demanded my Christmas present from Frances last year be his to use downstairs.”

Imagine your son insisting he be given your gift.

Aiden raises his hand to Frances. “We want to discuss additional topics. Let’s drink our coffee and examine your son’s space afterward. Our investigation has revealed Owen collected the secrets of others. As his parents, are you able to tell us any details?”

Frances opens her mouth, but Edward cuts her off. “Be honest with them, Frances. They’re the police, for God’s sake.” He turns to Aiden. “Blackmailing the devil, if given an opportunity, was not out of the realm of possibility for Owen. He could be positively gleeful when he discovered a way to play with people’s emotions. If he considered you vulnerable, he exploited the fact. We lost many friends, and in the last few years, any matters of consequence were never discussed around him.” He shudders. “Owen was my son, but he possessed no moral compass. He hurt people for sport. Remember his fourth-grade teacher, Frances?”

Continuing to sit on the edge of her seat, poised to escort them downstairs, Frances takes a deep breath. “We heard a rumour that Owen’s grade four teacher had relations with a grade twelve student. We discussed the possible affair in front of Owen over dinner—a horrible mistake. Owen confronted the woman and said he expected straight As in exchange for his silence. We were mortified. He was ten.”

“We often wondered to each other if Owen possessed a blackmail gene.” Edward crosses his arms. He no longer resembles a father stricken by grief.

Stella decides to start from the top. “Do you have knowledge of any secrets Mayko Doan might be hiding, and if so, was Owen aware?”

They both shake their heads in unison.

“Elsbeth Strauss?”

“The woman is a crank with a dirty mouth, but her personality is no secret,” Frances huffs.

“Greta Walmsley?”

“We don’t know Greta well, do we Edward?”

He murmurs a negative response.

“We invited her because her publisher knows ours.” Frances leans forward. “I’ve wondered if she wrote those two books herself. She’s not smart enough.”

Edward’s frame moves back and forth in a steady rhythm of full body agreement. Aiden continues to take notes.

“Did you mention your thoughts in front of Owen?”

“My dear, I hope not. Did I Edward? Possibly. Oh, no. I’m sure I didn’t.”

“Were the Whittletons discussed?”

“Not by us, but Owen couldn’t wait to tell me about catching Gregory in the broom closet with a young female attendee. I was horrified and determined to talk with Gregory. He should attempt discretion, at least.”

“You’re aware of no other secrets of the Whittletons’ except for the behaviour he tries to conceal from Naomi?”

“He doesn’t hide them. She knows each move Gregory makes. I don’t understand why she stays with him.”

“Then there’s Bryce. He says you’ve known him for years.”

“Yes. Edward and I both honour his request to maintain his cowboy facade in public.”

“Did Owen consider the information a secret he could exploit?”

“Jeez, I’m doubtful. As much as Owen was perverse, a tangle with Bryce Blanken sounds out of character for him.” Edward sniffs. “Only minor gains for Owen because Bryce wouldn’t care. He’s well known and popular. Any rumour started by the likes of Owen would be disbelieved or ignored.”

“Detective North, are you digging for a motive for one of the retreat authors to kill our son?” Frances’ voice trembles.

“We search to uncover the whys and wherefores. We may never discover the truth of what happened, but we’re working hard to find out.”

“Before we go downstairs, Frances, can I ask you about Owen’s influences. Do you know where he found the idea for the work-in-progress he presented last Friday at my house?” Stella hopes Owen’s parents at least read his work.

“Goodness, me. He never shared his research, but he watched crime fiction like Kojak and Columbo on the television. He consumed detective stories and newspaper articles about murder.” She pats her braid. “I have to be honest. He made me nervous every now and then. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Thank you, Frances. Shall we examine his room?”

“Follow me.” She jumps out of her chair. Edward remains in his.

Their basement has a damp and musty aroma. “Sorry for the smell. Owen used a small heater in the fall before Edward started the furnace. I never turn the contraption on...don’t want to leave an appliance unattended.” She reaches inside the door and flicks the switch. White, fluorescent light fills the space. “We’ll be upstairs if you need us.” She turns on her heel and mounts the steps.

Frances never glanced in the actual direction of the room.

The single mattress now sits on a frame and the bed is made, covered in a hockey quilt with each of the NHL teams listed. The bookshelf is organized. Stella pulls forward a cardboard box tucked away beside the bookcase. When she opens the flaps, she calls Aiden, who has been busy with dresser drawers. “I found his stash.”

Packed inside, she discovers the heart-shaped rock, two metal toy cars small boys play with in the sand, a Beatles T-shirt, a journal full of poetry with the name Connie in the front and dated 1978, and a host of other souvenirs of his thievery.

Aiden rifles through the contents. “I’ll take this back to the station. I hope we find a connection.”

“Or maybe we’ve found a collection of random personal property Owen stole to presume himself powerful.”

As they climb the basement stairs, Aiden carries the box and Stella decides to ask Frances and Edward an opinion question. “Your son took people’s possessions. Did he want to hold power over them or was the behaviour a compulsion he couldn’t control?”

“Neither,” Edward replied. “He stole because he could. Stealing was fun for him.”

****

“Cloris should be here anytime. We’re takin’ her truck to go back to Port Ephron RV to load her barbecue and outdoor furniture.” He sips coffee and feeds bites of toast to Kiki, whose waistline shows his indulgence.

“Kiki looks as if she’s puffy, Duke. Two pounds amounts to one-quarter of her body weight. Be careful.”

Duke regards his little dog with a frown. “Are you gettin’ portly, honey? You need to spend more time runnin’ around in Stella’s big house.”

“Can’t babysit today, my friend. Want to try to organize a lunch with Trixie and Cavelle, and I’m off to the Painter farm with Aiden afterward.”

“Okay. No harm done. She can stay at my trailer. Cloris is not too keen on havin’ Kiki in the truck. Says she makes the cab smell doggy. And my old ‘68 Beetle ain’t gonna carry a barbecue.”

“Knock, knock.”

Nick, already in reception because two seasonals will leave in a matter of minutes, dashes for the veranda door. “On my way.”

“Good morning, everyone.”

Stella peeks out from the kitchen and lifts the coffee pot in Cloris’ general direction.

“I’m pleased to tell you I availed myself of breakfast before I drove over here,” she says, as she shakes her head. “John and I decided to move my outdoor paraphernalia before I haul my rig out of Port Ephron RV Park. The temporary site you’ve provided will be perfect for the winter—sheltered near the house and out of the way of your contractors. Once I pull it over, we’ll load my extra gear inside.”

“Works for me, Cloris. I wrote the contract yesterday. Let’s go through the details while you’re here and you can settle in when it’s convenient.”

“Shall I pay you now for next season?”

“No need,” Nick adds, while he pours another coffee. “Fees are due in May, right Stella?”

She nods agreement. “A good faith deposit is sufficient, Cloris. We don’t stand on too much formality around here.”

“These guys are way nicer than the folks at Port Ephron, eh Cloris?” Duke continues to munch and ignores Kiki, who stamps her little feet. “They want your seasonal money at the end of the old year, not the start of the new—and they charge storage if you leave your rig for the winter. What a rip-off,” he mutters, mouth full.

Cloris is indulgent. She directs her attention toward Stella. “John is protective. Shall we do our paperwork and then John and I will let you get on with your day?”

Nick sits at the table with Duke while Stella and Cloris make their way to reception. “Here you go. Straightforward. I’m not fond of complicated legal documents.”

Duke’s new flame digs for her cheque book and perches on the bench near the window to review the seasonal conditions. “I appreciate the permanent lot you’ve assigned for me in the spring, Stella. The spot has a passable view and isn’t too close to John.”

“You asked for a site on the other side of the park, and I tried to accommodate, Cloris.”

“What I wanted.” She signs the document with a flourish and completes her payment. “If John and I don’t work out, I need to be able to come here and not run into him every five minutes.”

“Not to change the subject, but did you happen to give more thought to the story our victim wrote?”

“I admit, Mildred’s words bothered me. The tale rings true, although she mentioned ghoulish details related to the young daughter of the family. In the news item I remember, the boyfriend never implicated a girl, and he went to jail for the crime.” She glances from her purse where she’s stowed her cheque book. “I guess the writer’s prerogative is to take an existing circumstance and change the particulars to suit their imagination. I must say, Mildred was incensed by the reading, and she doesn’t strike me as a woman put off by much.”

After they leave, Nick and Stella tidy the kitchen before they begin their daily duties. Stella plans to manage the office for the morning while Nick checks pumps and completes maintenance on one of the mowers. She wants to call Cavelle to see if she’ll take a break for lunch. Since the tourist season has slowed, she hopes Trixie can join them. And she must confirm with Hester. She and Jewel are no doubt busy with preserves. A confirmation will be required.

****

“Meet you at the café? Business or pleasure?”

“Both,” Stella answers Cavelle’s upbeat voice in her ear. “I want to ask you what you observed on the sidewalk while you manned the office a week ago Saturday. Trixie told me you worked in the afternoon. Besides, I haven’t seen you since the day the retreat began.”

“Will Trixie be there, too?”

“If I can talk her into coming.”

“Perfect. We speak on the phone, but she’s been unavailable most days because of babysitting Mia.”

“Right. Significant effort was required on my part to convince her to come to the year-end potluck, but I’ll try today. The tourists are mostly gone. She should be able to break away for a bite to eat. By the way, are Hester and Jewel busy with canning?”

“Oh yes,” she grumbles. “Be aware. The place smells like pickles. They said you might be over this afternoon. Make a list of what you want. Besides the time Hester set aside for the writers retreat, she and Jewel have run an assembly line in the kitchen.”

“See you at noon, Cavelle.”

On to the next call.

“Jewel, Stella here. Does Hester still expect Detective North and myself today?”

“Yes, she does. And I don’t mind sayin’, I’ll be happy to get the dining room back. Bottles are piled on every counter and table, and folks comin’ to the door in a steady stream to buy jam and pickles, not to mention herbs—Hester’s department.”

Stella remains silent. Is Jewel becoming chatty?

She continues. “When the men come in for lunch, I give them their food and send them off to the front porch because Hester has a map laid out on the big table and no place for them to sit.” She pauses for a breath. “When will you be here?”

“We decided on two o’clock, if the time works for you, Jewel.”

“Great. Don’t mind me. I’ll tell Hester you called. Can I put anythin’ aside for you?”

“Yes—a dozen bottles of jam, six strawberry and six raspberry, and four jars of bread and butter pickles. They’re Nick’s favourite. Did Hester create those variety packs of herbs she does every fall?”

“She did and tells me they sell out.”

“Okay, three of those as well. Thanks Jewel. We’ll be there at two.”