Margo Wishart had made a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving from scratch. She and Sasha Rosenberg had driven to a farmer’s market out on a farm road north of Cullen Village on Saturday to stock up on fresh fall produce before they closed for the season. After this weekend, the stalls would all be boarded up, and if the weather forecast was right, buried in snow by the middle of the week. Margo had found a round, dark orange sugar pumpkin, just right for making pie, and so she had baked on Sunday. Now it was Monday and time for Thanksgiving lunch at Roberta’s house.
“The guests of honour are here already,” she said as she pulled up alongside a shiny light-blue Prius, its glossy surface dusted with dirt. Budgie Torrance had trusted her GPS to lead her to Roberta’s house. She had gone astray only once, found herself cruising down a gravel road, but Sadie Williams was a decent navigator. She had consulted an on-line map and got them back on track, no trouble at all.
Margo raised the hatch on her Honda. She lifted out a box containing the pie and a container of whipped cream. Sasha picked up a large pan wrapped in towels to keep the contents warm. They opened Roberta’s front door and walked in, smelling roasted chicken and sage.
Budgie Torrance was standing in Roberta’s porch, looking out across a grassy field to a stand of spruce. A few brown hens pecked in the dirt.
“You kill them yourself?” she said.
“Sure do.” Roberta was hauling boxes of dyed yarn out of a closet. “Don’t like it, but how else are we going to eat them?”
Sasha paused en route to the kitchen. “I’ve brought vegetables,” she said to Budgie. “You can fill up on those if you’d rather.” The pan contained root vegetables, beets, carrots, parsnips mixed with chunks of squash and dotted with garlic cloves, corn kernels, thyme and rosemary, roasted in oil and butter. Sasha didn’t cook often, but for this traditional feast she had made an effort.
“That’s okay,” said Budgie. “Smells good.” She had dressed for a day in the country, her style. Designer jeans, a fitted silk shirt, a leather belt with an ornate metal buckle and brown leather shoes with heels that were not too high. Golden hoops swung at her ears. A large diamond set in sculptured gold was on her finger. She was polished and shiny, incongruous in Roberta’s shabby little house.
Jazz and Sadie were delving into heaps of yarn while Roberta explained how she created colour using local plants, like goldenrod or birchbark. Sadie had opted to wear tweeds, a skirt and tailored jacket. She had even found a pair of brogues that fit. Jazz wore her usual bright sweater, a mohair effort in fuchsia, green and purple this time. Roberta held up a dark brown skein.
“Dyed with black walnut,” she said. “My neighbour has five trees growing in his yard. And the wool’s alpaca.”
Jazz reached out and took it from her hand. “I want,” she said. “How many of those have you got?”
“Is that my cat out there?” Budgie pointed to a clump of rhubarb leaves. A large furry plume waved above them. Roberta glanced over, more interested in talking about her yarn.
“That’s Tarquin,” she said. “He’s hopeless. Keeps trying to catch a bird but he’s too fat and slow. Delilah’s great though. She’s a good mouser.”
Budgie placed a hand on each hip. The diamond on her finger caught the light. “Those cats are pedigree Persians. They’re supposed to be kept indoors. Have you any idea what they’re worth?”
“Yeah,” said Roberta, “but they’re still cats.” She was rooting around in the closet again, searching for bags. “He’s happy out there.”
Sadie sauntered over and watched the tail switch back and forth. “Bet he thinks he’s gone to heaven after being shut in an apartment most of his life,” she said. “You should let them stay, Budgie.”
“Didn’t your husband leave money for them to be cared for?” Margo stood in the door to the kitchen, a tea towel tied around her waist.
“How do you know that?” Two blue eyes, sharp as lasers, swept around to focus on her.
“Margo works for the RCMP sometimes as a consultant,” Roberta remarked casually. She started to tally up how much wool Jazz had bought. Math wasn’t her strong point. Two full bags added up to a tidy sum.
“Geez, Budgie,” said Jazz. “Give the woman the cats. You can afford it.”
“You need to pay her for taking them off your hands,” Margo insisted. “There’ll be costs. Grooming. Vet bills. Cat food.”
“Okay, okay.” Budgie turned her back to the window. “I’ll get the accountant onto it. Aren’t you going to put these in water?”
She had brought a bunch of fall flowers, big chrysanthemums, Shasta daisies, dahlias, shopped for her by her PA, Marla Caplan. They still sat in their wrapper on a sideboard. Soon they stood, resplendent, in a vase.
They all took their places at Roberta’s long kitchen table and watched her cut up the chickens. She had roasted two of them, to be sure there was plenty and to compensate for the fact that this wasn’t the traditional turkey. Budgie had also brought three bottles of wine. “They should be good,” she said. “Gerald was picky about the wine that he bought.”
“Those came from Gerald’s wine rack?” asked Margo, passing a gravy boat.
“Someone’s got to drink the stuff,” said Budgie. “I’m not shipping all those bottles back to Ontario.”
“You’re definitely moving?”
“To Stratford.” Budgie helped herself to a chicken thigh. “There’s an old guy living there, was a set designer, retired years ago. His house is great and it’s getting to be way too much for him. He needs to move into a care home.”
“Is he going to oblige?” Jazz was sitting beside Sadie. She knew who Budgie was talking about.
“If he doesn’t, it’ll be okay. I can park the stuff in storage for a while. Once Macbeth closes I’m going to be in Toronto at the Tarragon.”
“You do work a lot!” said Roberta with her mouth full. She liked her own leisurely life out in the country. “How do you cope with it and everything else that needs to be done?”
“She’s got a PA,” said Sadie.
“A minder.” Jazz grinned. “Great stuffing.” She waved her fork at Roberta.
“If I can get the condo sold I could get it all packed up while I’ve got Marla to help me. But first there’s the cremation on Wednesday. And the funeral next Monday,” Budgie reminded them. They chewed, not sure what to say about that. None of them wanted to talk about Gerald’s death at what was supposed to be a celebratory meal. “You know, I’m not sure I want that girl sleeping in my apartment.”
“Thought you didn’t like being alone?” said Jazz.
“Yeah, but she does want to talk all the time,” said Budgie. “And I’ve got good pills now to make me sleep. Maybe I’ll tell her just to work days. She needs to get that art collection shipped to Toronto.”
“So it’s true you’re going to sell all of it?” asked Margo.
“I am. Do you know if the RCMP still have that book where he wrote down the names of all the paintings he had? I need to get it back. Did you figure out how much it’s all worth?” Budgie inquired. Margo lifted her glass and sipped. It was an excellent French Bordeaux.
“Maxwell Fergusson will price it for you, won’t he?” she said.
“Oh, Maxwell.” Budgie sighed theatrically. “Have you any idea how much that guy charges?”
“I can imagine,” said Sasha. She occasionally sold sculptures in a Toronto gallery. “He’s going to make a killing.” Several eyebrows shot up at her use of the word. “Hey!” She was unapologetic, and the thought triggered an idea. “Maybe he did it! Killed off Gerald so he could sell off all that art.”
“He lives in Toronto,” said Margo.
“There’s planes.” Budgie’s head tipped to one side as she thought about that. “The RCMP had this crazy idea I’d driven all the way from Regina overnight so I could murder Gerald myself.” They all stopped eating. She looked around the table, knowing she had their full attention. “It’s not so far-fetched, is it? Maxwell could have flown in, booked himself into a hotel, met up with Gerald, murdered him and shipped out back to Toronto.” She reached for the nearest wine bottle and topped up her glass.
“You’ve got a great imagination, Budgie.” Sadie pointed as the glass filled. “Aren’t you driving?”
“Last one.” Budgie put down the bottle, raised the glass and swallowed a defiant mouthful. “It’s not a bad idea, though, is it?”
“Maybe not.” Margo began to collect the plates. “How would he have known that you would sell all that art once you inherited it?”
“Because I told him so.” Budgie smirked, triumphant. “Eons ago.” She watched Roberta bring the pie to the table. “I can’t eat that. I don’t do dessert. Where’s the cheese?” Sadie and Jazz had splurged on cheese and crackers at a deli near the theatre. “Someone should talk to that RCMP sergeant and tell her. You know her, right?” she asked Margo, who had deposited the used dishes and returned with a cake knife in her hand.
“They think they’ve got the killer. That Tamsin did it. Stupid idea.” Jazz glared around the table, defying anyone to contradict her.
“Wonder what the hospital serves up for Thanksgiving?” Sadie watched the pie being cut.
“You could take her some of this,” Roberta said. “There’s plenty left over. And you’ll be back in the city before visiting hours are done.” They were eating lunch rather than dinner so that the guests could leave to drive back to the city in daylight.
“Can’t.” Budgie cut herself a wedge of ripe Gorgonzola. “She’s locked up in the psych ward.”
“We could try!” Sadie accepted a wedge of pie and dolloped cream on top.
“We could,” Jazz agreed. “I wish we could have Tamsin back. That Alison Beck is cutting costs like mad. I got a warning against overspending yesterday, like I’m blowing the budget, which I’m not. She’s trying to save money so she can impress the board.”
“She really wants to be GM. All the techies say that’s why Tamsin got rid of her.”
“Won’t happen,” said Budgie. “I told her so yesterday. Frank Moran, the board chair, is a lawyer. He’ll make sure that Tamsin comes back soon. And he’ll get the police off her back, double quick.” She lifted a cracker and cast a significant look across the table to where Jazz and Sadie sat. “Do you know that Alison’s been talking to Maggie Soames in the U.K. about replacing me? Maggie emailed me, wanted to know what was going on. I’m going to have to have a word with her.”
“Is this pie homemade?” asked Sadie. Margo smiled, pleased that she had noticed. “Yum,” said Sadie.
They headed off before four. The sun hung, pale gold, in the west and the sky was already turning orange and pink.
“That Budgie’s a case,” said Sasha as she watched them drive off.
“Yes. But talented.” Margo waved as the taillights turned onto the road.
“Gets away with blue murder,” said Sasha. “Let’s go help Roberta clean up, then we need to go home and let the dogs out.”
Budgie was persuaded to stop at the hospital. She, Jazz and Sadie trooped into the reception area carrying a container of chicken, vegetables, potatoes and gravy, and another of pie and cream. Roberta had insisted they bring some of the flowers, too. They found their way to the correct floor, but there they were stopped.
“Ms. Longstaff is doing well,” a polite but firm nurse informed them. “She’ll be seeing the doctor tomorrow. Perhaps she’ll be allowed visitors after that.” She took the flowers. “I’ll make sure she gets them,” but rejected the offering of food. “Our patients have already eaten.”
“Poor Tamsin,” said Sadie as they walked away. “What will we do with it?”
“Give it to Marla,” said Jazz. Marla Caplan had the evening off but would be back to sleep in Budgie’s apartment. She’d said she was meeting friends at a restaurant. Italian. She wouldn’t have had a real Thanksgiving dinner. They all piled back into the blue Prius and Budgie dropped Sadie and Jazz off in front of the grand old hotel where Jazz was still staying.
“I’ll walk.” Since Sadie had been supposed to stay in Winnipeg for three months, the theatre had found her a suite with a kitchen in a cheaper hotel a couple of streets over.
Budgie drove her car towards the condo. She cut down the lane between it and the theatre. At the far end, near the loading dock, was a BFI bin. She stopped, got out and dumped the food containers into it. Then she unlocked the door to the underground garage and drove her new car inside.
Roxanne Calloway sat at her kitchen table while her son slept and wrote down the names of all the people who had a reason to want Gerald Blaise dead on a large sheet of paper. She drew three columns: motive, means and opportunity, that old mantra known to investigative police worldwide.
Budgie Torrance had the strongest motive. She would have saved herself the embarrassment caused by being left by her husband of thirty years and dumped in favour of a handsome young man. She’d have pocketed his substantial fortune. Opportunity was possible, but weak, and where was the means? Could she have used a kitchen knife, taken from the apartment? Or one brought from Regina, in a car? And why would she have killed Gerald in the parking lot? Had she connived with someone to do the killings for her? She could be charming and persuasive. And she would have the money to pay well, if that was necessary. She had no apparent reason to kill Thomas Dyck, though. Gerald’s old friend might have known something that he shouldn’t, but if he had they had yet to find out what.
Tamsin Longstaff was a more promising candidate. Her motive was less obvious, but Gerald’s plan to leave could have alarmed her. She did have plenty of opportunity and there was no lack of sharp knives at the theatre. She was volatile, as Coop Jenkins had discovered to his cost. And she had reason to dislike Thom Dyck. Was it strong enough to kill him? Roxanne drew a red star beside the name. It was too bad Tamsin was in the hospital, out of reach, but that would not last. Soon she could talk to her again.
Jem Sinclair was trouble, but his only reason to kill Gerald would have been to rob him. That death wouldn’t have been premeditated, but Thomas Dyck’s certainly had been. Someone had waited for Thom at the park, had known that he ran there most mornings, had taken along a sharp blade. Could Jem have been hired to do the job? By Budgie? She shook her head. She didn’t think so. Jem aspired to lead his gang, was cultivating his own pack of hounds, he wouldn’t want to act on someone else’s bidding. Unless he’d been paid very well. She ran a red arrow up to Budgie’s name and marked it with a question mark.
Maxwell Fergusson stood to profit from Gerald’s death, if Budgie sold the art collection, as rumour said she would. But how would he have known that would happen? He had as little opportunity and means as Budgie. There was a plane that flew into Winnipeg from Toronto late at night and another flew out in the morning, just after nine. It would be easy to check the flight lists. But did Maxwell Fergusson even know that Thom Dyck existed?
Alison Beck had benefitted from Tamsin’s sudden absence at the theatre, but no one could have predicted that that would happen. Alison had known both Gerald and Thom Dyck, but so did all the administrative staff at PTC and the members of the board, including Frank Moran.
Madeleine Bissett, the theatre prof, had despised Thomas Dyck and wanted him gone. Her ambition gave her a motive, but why would she have wanted to get rid of Gerald? Apart from her, the only link they had found between the two dead men was the girl Chloe Delaney. But Gerald had only been a temporary inconvenience for her and she had barely known Professor Dyck.
Then there was the question of the missing daughter, the one who would have inherited the Balfour fortune if she had stayed home. What had happened to her?
Roxanne sighed and stretched. There were so many leads, going nowhere. It was getting late. She had arranged to drive over to Coop Jenkins’ place first thing tomorrow, after she dropped Finn at her sister’s, as she usually did. The truck had been a big hit with the boys. She had had to tell her sister why she was driving it.
“Finn’s lost one parent already,” Susan had said. “You shouldn’t be putting yourself at risk. Why are you in the Major Crimes Unit? Can’t you get yourself a safer job?”
“This is what I do,” she had retorted. “I’m careful.” It wasn’t the first time Susan had mentioned that. Roxanne didn’t like to be reminded. She’d messaged the carpool. She could swap the Focus for another car. They’d have several to choose from Tuesday morning after the long weekend. Her own car was still in the shop, waiting for delivery of the new tires.
Brian Donohue had left a message. When could they get together? They needed to talk. She had no idea when that could happen. She’d reply to him tomorrow. It was after midnight. Time for bed.
She woke, hearing her phone. 2:12 am, the screen said.
“Dawes here,” boomed a loud voice. “Got called to that condo where your victim lived. Girl that lives there said his wife was missing.”
“Budgie Torrance?” She was suddenly wide awake.
“Yeah, her. We found her. At the theatre. You need to get down here and see this.”