[ONE HOUR EARLIER]
It was another hazy Wednesday morning in Kitchener-Waterloo. Hazy because of the forest fires up north, and Wednesday because yesterday was Tuesday. I’d been working on a painting, but I wasn’t sure where it was going. It was supposed to be something like Vermeer meets Rothko, but I may as well have been trying to paint the Sistine Chapel with my ass. I’d been at it for almost a full week now, and was no closer to merging the two styles together. I still wasn’t sure why I was doing this, but I think it was the result of a bet. Regardless, when the call came in, I jumped at the chance to stop working on this hopeless project. I placed my third cup of cold coffee down on a nearby table and fumbled with my cell phone.
“Zack Virtue.”
A troubled old voice mumbled through the phone’s speaker. “Mr. Virtue? Is this Zack Virtue, the famous detective?”
I looked quizzically at my phone. “No ma’am, this is Zack Virtue, the artist.”
“But you’re a detective, right?”
“Well, yes and no. Let’s say yes. What can I do for you?” I could do a little paid work, even if it didn’t come from Vijay, my boss.
“Oh, thank God! I was hoping for someone of your caliber.”
“Caliber?”
Her confusion dissipated and her voice took on a more frantic tone. “My name is Beverly Jenkins. I need you to come quickly. Something terrible has happened!”
My mind started racing with possibilities. A cheating spouse? A burglary? Some kind of international conspiracy to steal the U.S. Bill of Rights? The prospect of not having to murder Mark Rothko with a pearl earring?
“Don’t worry, Ms. Jenkins. I want you to take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”
The voice quieted to a whisper. “It’s my neighbor, Mr. Peabody. He’s dead.”
I paused, surprised. “Your neighbor died? Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. But I’m afraid that’s not something I can investigate.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she insisted. “I think he died under … suspicious circumstances.”
“Doesn’t matter. The police should handle this. I can’t even—wait, suspicious how?”
“Well, yesterday I heard loud arguing coming from his house. A lot of banging noises too. And this morning when I went to check on him … he didn’t answer his door. I entered the house with the spare key, and … oh, it’s awful! Come see for yourself, please!”
“Look, Ms. Jenkins, I really can’t get involved. Wait, did you say his name was Peabody?”
“Yes! Please, you’ve got to help!”
“I mean, you should really be calling the police.”
“Please, Mr. Virtue!”
Huh, yeah, okay. Something was definitely wrong. “I’ll leave immediately. Give me your address. And call 9-1-1 right away. Tell them you have an unresponsive neighbor, and to send police and an ambulance.”
I looked down at my paint-stained hands, deciding that I probably didn’t have time to wash them thoroughly. Instead, I dialed Lacroix, left him a voicemail, and called a cab.
The address she gave me was somewhere just off Lexington in Waterloo, in a small development with mid-century homes. Not the most expensive part of town, but certainly middle-class. Beverly Jenkins, a frail-looking woman in her 70s, let me into her neighbor’s bungalow via the front door. “He’s in the living room,” she whispered.
I walked in to find Peabody, a white-haired old man, slumped over in his armchair. There were no obvious signs of foul play—no blood, no bruises. His skin looked a little blue.
Beverly Jenkins crept up behind me. “He seems so peaceful, but when I found him an hour ago, he looked terrified! His eyes were wide open. And he was clutching his chest!”
I leaned down to examine the body. The man’s eyes were now closed. His right hand was on his chest, but his fingers were relaxed. I felt for a pulse to confirm what I already knew. “I’m sorry, Ms. Jenkins, but it looks like a heart attack. I’m no doctor, but there don’t seem to be any signs of foul play.”
“No, that can’t be!” she exclaimed. “I know what I saw. Someone must have broken in and killed him, then staged it to look natural!” She seemed oddly insistent about this.
“Again, not a doctor, but it looks like death by natural causes. I mean, he’s an older guy. He’s living alone. Sometimes this is how it happens.” I paused, thinking about how to convey this tactfully. “I know it’s frightening to be confronted with death, especially a neighbor’s. But we have to accept there may not always be someone to blame.”
“Have you seen a lot of death, Mr. Virtue?”
“Me? I guess. Probably more than is normal for a healthy psyche.”
Her face slackened as the realization sank in. She slumped onto the couch opposite Peabody’s chair, sobbing. “And here, I’ve wasted your time with silly ideas of murder! I feel like such an idiot. Can you hand me that glass?” She gestured at a half-empty glass on the coffee table between her and the corpse.
I laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I think we should leave things for the police when they get here. You called them, right?”
“Yes. Could … could you please get me a glass of water?”
I looked around. “Sure. I suppose it’s okay. And don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s a natural reaction to assume the worst.” I stepped in front of her and took the glass into the kitchen. I returned with a clean glass with some water in it.
“Just put it there,” she said, gesturing at the table in front of her. She reached for the glass, then stopped and started sobbing. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “Nothing exciting like that ever happens. I let my imagination run away with me.” I had a white studio rag in my hand which was mostly clean. I handed it to her like it was a handkerchief.
“Oh, I’ve seen the exciting stuff. Just not as often as you’d think. You said he lived alone. With most murders, the victim knows the killer. A family member, or a lover, or something like that.”
“You must think I’m crazy,” she said.
I smiled. “Well, at the very least, you’ve provided me with the most excitement I’ve had in months. And you got me away from a stupid painting challenge.”
“What kind of challenge?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I was just trying to merge the styles of Vermeer and Rothko. You may not know this, but—”
“You mean the Dutch master and the abstract painter?”
“Er, yeah.” I stood up, surprised by this woman’s knowledge of art history. “I’ve no proper way to integrate the two styles together, but Rothko did some extensive studies in color. I was thinking I might be able to incorporate Vermeer’s famous use of Ultramarine to combine their color theories together.”
“Ultramarine? Like blue?”
“Yes, well, sure. It’s pretty common these days, but in the time of the Dutch master, it was super rare. It was a really expensive mineral blue pigment that was extracted from lapis lazuli, a semi-precious stone. It’s lighter in color than Prussian—” I broke off, realizing two things. First, I was breaking into my lecturing voice, and no one likes when I do that. Second … something clicked in my head, and I glanced over at the victim, Mr. Peabody.
Yes, victim.
Ms. Jenkins looked up at me. “I suppose a private detective rarely gets called out for innocent misunderstandings like this. Have you ever had a case that turned out to be something other than what it seemed?”
I eased my furrowed brow and turned back to her. “More often than you’d think. A couple of months back, a company hired me to investigate one of their employees who was supposedly embezzling funds. I trailed him for weeks, waiting for him to slip up. I even brought in outside financial help.”
“And did you catch him red-handed?” she asked.
“Nope. After dressing like a janitor and staking out his office one night, I witnessed something unexpected. Turned out he was planning to propose to his girlfriend. He had been staying late at the office to plan the details with a colleague. They were going to rent out a restaurant and pretend it was just a normal night. They’d fill the whole place with co-workers when he proposed to her.”
Beverly smiled. “How wonderfully romantic! I bet you felt rather silly for doubting him after that.”
“Not really. He’d murdered his wife so he could propose to his girlfriend. I learned an important lesson from that case.”
“What was that?”
“I’ll tell you later. The police are here.”
Several cars pulled up, two in the driveway, one on the street. Dome lights were flashing, causing an eerie red and blue glow on the ceiling.
“Oh, thank God they’re here,” said Ms. Jenkins.
Four patrol officers came in the open front door. A couple of detectives accompanied them. One of them I knew.
Lacroix gave me a dirty look.
“Well, well, well,” he said with a snarky smile. “Zack Virtue, local bumbling private eye. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here at Ms. Jenkins’ request. She said her neighbor, Mr. Peabody, was dead. Under ‘suspicious circumstances.’ She asked me to come by right away.”
“Peabody?” asked Lacroix, raising an eyebrow.
“This guy, right here.” I pointed at the corpse in the chair.
Ms. Jenkins waved her hand. “I’m sorry, officer. I think there’s some kind of misunderstanding,” she said, stepping away from me. “I don’t know this man. We’ve never met before today.”
“It’s true. She just called me this morning.”
“No, I mean, I never called him.”
I turned to her, and all the puzzle pieces started falling into place. I glanced back at Lacroix, who was giving me an angry look.
“That’s not true. I received her call this morning. You’ll be able to see it on my cell phone.”
Ms. Jenkins shook her head. “Mr. Peabody told me he was receiving death threats from some local private investigator. I’m sure you’ll see calls between this house and this man’s phone.”
“Oh, clever. You called me from here. Well done.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Officers, I saw this man come in here and I confronted him. He took a glass into the kitchen. If you check the glass, it’ll probably show traces of poison. I think he wanted it to look like a heart attack.”
Lacroix glared at me, then shook his head. “Constable, please handcuff this asshole. Mrs. Jenkins? These two patrol officers will escort you back to your house.
“Thank you, sir. If you have questions, I’ll be glad to answer anything related to this incident. I’ll tell you all about Mr. Peabody’s feud with this … gentleman.”
Lacroix gave her a syrupy-sweet smile as he led her to the door, where the two uniformed officers took her away. His facade cracked when he turned his head to me and stuck his tongue out.
“You are in so much trouble right now, making me come all the way out here,” he said, closing the front door. Then he smiled.
“I’m glad you got my message before she called. I figured I’d be spending at least a day or two explaining myself. She did a fair job at staging the scene and setting this whole thing up.”
“So what’s really going on here, Virtue?”
“Well, look at the guy. Died of cardiac arrest from all the cyanide she fed him.”
“Cyanide?”
“Yeah, the moment I said Prussian blue, I thought cyanide.”
“Ah, but he’s an old guy, so maybe we all think it’s a heart attack, and no one does a post-mortem?”
“That’s it, but just in case anyone gets too nosy, or they see his blueish features and flushed hands and arms, she sets me up as a poisoner.”
“The glass in the kitchen?”
“She asked me to get her a glass of water. I think she wanted my fingerprints on the poison glass. Didn’t even touch the glass of water I brought her.”
“You moved the evidence?”
“Part of the ruse, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, I used a cloth to keep from getting fingerprints all over it.”
“And she called you from this phone?”
“I didn’t even think to look, but I’ll bet it matches the number that was leaving me threatening messages all week.” I pulled out my phone and compared it to the number displayed on the landline. The call from this morning matched, but the rest of the calls were from a different number. “Oh, for the love of Pete. These had better be from a burner phone. Otherwise, I withdraw all my praise for her. If this is her son’s cell phone—or worse, her own phone—it’s all the evidence you need. Also, I’ve got the threatening guy’s voice on voicemail. He’s younger. Doesn’t sound like an 80-year-old dead guy.”
“We’ll need access to your phone and voicemail, of course. We’ll be able to match it with her son, I’m sure.”
I sighed.
“What’s the matter, Virtue? You actually did some good detectiving today. Hell, you’re making me look good.”
“I know. I’m glad I didn’t fall for any of it.”
“So, what’s bugging you?”
“Well, for one, I’ve got to go back to that painting. I don’t think I can make Rothko and Vermeer work together.”
“You still working on that? Sheesh.”
“Also, I feel like a chump. I can’t believe someone thought they could frame me for murder.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s ’cause you’re semi-famous. And maybe you look a little too naïve for your own good. It’s your superpower.”
“I guess.”
“Hey!” said Lacroix, smiling.
“What?” I said.
“How about I perp-walk you past Mrs. Jenkins out there? It’ll put her off-guard, so maybe she’ll give something away. And it’ll make you feel better … knowing you outsmarted some random person.”
“Well … okay. Thanks Lacroix.”
“No problem, bud.”