The people of Cullen Village made sure their doors were locked when they went to bed that night. One by one, the house lights went out, apart from coloured bulbs that wound around conifers, making them look Christmassy and bright. Others fringed eavestroughs or twinkled along veranda railings, some blue, some white. Solar lamps capped with snow glowed greenly on driveway posts. The village appeared idyllic, picture perfect.
Bright lamps shone out on the lake, at the place where Angus Smith had been consigned to a cold and watery grave. Figures dressed in white padded in and out of his shack. Two vans stood waiting. The RCMP had sent powerful beams down through the ice hole and spotted a plastic bag resting on the lakebed. A diver had been lowered into the frigid water to retrieve it. He had brought up not one, but two bags.
Over at the Smith house the Ident team worked deep into the night, looking for traces of blood, signs of a scuffle, a knife. They examined Angus’s truck minutely, the cab, the wheels, the open bed and everything lying in it, especially the auger. At the workshop, the saws got special attention. They were clean, too clean, said a technician, but still they found what they were looking for, tiny fragments of bone embedded in the teeth of the band saw. They wrapped the saw in plastic and carried it carefully out to their van. In the lab, in Winnipeg, they would seek a DNA match to Stella Magnusson.
By 3:00 am, they were gone. Yellow tape remained around the house and the ice shack. The hole in the surface of the lake had started to freeze over. The pile of ice beside it glowed in the light of a huge full moon, a blue moon in its perigee. Moonlight shone in the windows of the villagers, keeping them awake as they lay in their beds.
Roxanne Calloway also found it hard to sleep. She tossed and turned, thinking about the case. She’d worked the drug unit in Saskatchewan. Murder was a new field for her, one she had wanted. The time she had taken off work to have Finn had slowed her promotion and now she needed to make up for the year she had lost. And she wanted to do well, to make her mark. But she was confronted with what was probably a double murder. Would her bosses want to replace her with someone with more experience? Would she lose this opportunity?
At 6:00 am she gave up on sleep. The temperature outside, according to her phone, had dropped to minus twenty-two. There was hardly any wind. She rose from bed, put on winter running gear, glad she had thought to pack it. She needed to get outdoors, to clear her head. She donned thin wool clothing that would wick moisture away from her body, thermal leggings, wool socks, a cap. She added an outer, windproof layer and winter running shoes. Once she left the side door of the hotel, she pulled on a facemask that allowed her to breathe through her nose and mouth and keep her eyes clear. She didn’t get much time to run these days. There was work and there was Finn. But on a job away from home, one where she had time alone to fill, she could maybe get herself back into shape.
The town was deserted. She could run down the centre of the streets, which were unimpeded by piles of snow. Twelve blocks in one direction, six the other, was more than a kilometre, less than a mile. She would run until 7:00 am, then go back to the hotel for a shower and breakfast. A police car crossed an intersection ahead of her. It slowed down. She waved and watched it drive off. She focused on her breathing, her pace, listened to the sound of her feet as they hit tarmac covered with a smooth layer of packed snow. There was a big moon between the houses and the trees, outshining the orange street lamps. She ran from one grey shadow to the next. She could almost sense Jake running beside her, keeping pace with her like he used to. Back before she had Finn they had run together whenever they could. She shook that memory. She didn’t believe in ghosts, did she?
By 6:30, cars started to emerge from garages. She had to move onto the sidewalk, where the shovelled surface was less even. There were snowbanks to avoid, and roadside curbs. She jogged on the spot at a corner waiting for a car to pass. She was going to have to rise earlier to do this. Five-thirty would do it. Or she could run later, after midnight.
Brian Donohue had called a meeting for 9:00 am. She had avoided him last night at the hotel. Brian had black Irish good looks. Dark wavy hair, blue eyes, even features. He was cute. The women’s washroom rumour mill at headquarters said he was recently divorced, available. There had been envious comments when the word got out that she’d be working this case with him. But Roxanne wasn’t going to get herself involved with another RCMP member. Never again. It was too difficult, too painful. Next time, she’d marry a guy with a good, safe desk job. If there ever was a next time.
When she arrived at work, Donohue was standing examining the whiteboard, Sergeant Gilchrist at his side. Annie Chan’s drawing of Stella Magnusson’s face stared out, joined now by other photos, including one of Angus Smith shrouded in ice. Roxanne joined them. There was a mug shot of Brad Andreychuk, a bruise swelling his cheekbone, a thick and bloody lip.
“We thought we’d got him that time but the other guy wouldn’t press charges, even though he landed in hospital,” Gilchrist said. “Chickened out.”
Izzy walked in carrying a tray of coffees in paper cups and a box of doughnuts. She placed them on the table.
“You do this, Izzy?” asked Gilchrist, pointing a thumb at the board. The Andreychuks’ names were stuck up on sticky notes, as were the members of the StarFest board of directors. “You watch too much TV, girl.”
“Brought you a coffee, Sarge. Be nice.” She grinned at him. He grinned back. “Sugar and cream’s in the bag.” He helped himself.
“Double double, just how I like it.” Gilchrist turned his attention to Roxanne. “You know they’re calling you Spiderwoman downstairs? Scared the shit out of Sam Mendes this morning, running down Sixth in the dark with a balaclava over your face.”
“You training?” Donohue was searching though the doughnut box.
“Yep,” said Roxanne. “If I get in good enough shape I’ll try for a half marathon in June.” The Manitoba Marathon was run through the streets of Winnipeg each year, on Father’s Day. Brian took a chocolate doughnut, with icing, out of the bag. Izzy pulled her phone out of her pocket to read a text.
“Matt’s on his way. Might be a bit late.”
Gilchrist helped himself to a couple of doughnuts. “One’s for Kathy,” he said, waving them under Izzy’s nose, and clattered downstairs. They found seats around the table.
“Okay,” said Brian, taking the lead. “We found blood in the Smith kitchen. It had been cleaned up but there were still traces where the cupboards meet the floor. There were dishes, not many, in the dishwasher, including a sharp kitchen knife from a rack on the counter. The killer may have run the washer to clean the knife. We won’t know if it’s the weapon until we get the autopsy results for Angus Smith but it’s a possibility.”
“So this probably wasn’t a premeditated murder?” Roxanne asked.
“Maybe. Too early to tell. The bags we fished out of the lake contained indoor clothes, a kitchen towel with traces of blood still on it, and a large bedcover, also stained. We think he was stabbed in the kitchen, rolled in the bedcover and taken out to the lake in the back of his own truck.”
The door opened. Matt came in, three or four large books under his arm.
“You’re late, Constable,” said Brian.
“Sorry, sir.”
“I’ll catch you up, Matt,” said Izzy and passed him a coffee. She flashed him a sympathetic glance. Those two were close, Roxanne thought. If they were a couple, she should have known before they were assigned to this team. Why had Gilchrist not mentioned it? She pulled her attention back to the meeting.
“Are we looking at more than one killer?” asked Matt, sitting down at the table. “That’s a lot of lifting for one person.”
“Same with Stella Magnusson,” said Izzy. “She wasn’t big, but she’d be way over a hundred pounds, dead weight.”
“And there’s also Stella’s car,” Matt continued. “One person dropped it off at the airport, but how would they get back here without an accomplice? There’s no bus service from Winnipeg to the Interlake anymore.”
“Assuming it was someone from here.” Roxanne sipped her coffee. As usual, she drank it black, no sugar, and she didn’t touch the doughnuts. She liked to watch what she ate.
“Had to be someone who knows the village really well.” Matt pulled a sugary cruller apart. “Do we know that it’s the same killer?”
“If the bone particles we found on the saw are a match to Stella, yes. There’s venison in the Smiths’ freezer. It’s possible Angus used the saw to cut up a deer that he’d hunted. We can’t assume he used it to dismember Stella Magnusson’s body.
“It’s the same kind of mentality, though,” Roxanne reasoned.
“How come?” Brian asked. “He was stabbed. She was hit on the head. Now the medical examiner’s office is saying she was smothered.”
“The disposal of the bodies—it’s so complicated,” she explained. “Planned. Carefully executed. Difficult. Either of these bodies could have been left out in the woods somewhere and we might not have found them until the spring. Why go to all that trouble?”
“It’s smart, but it failed, both times,” said Matt.
Roxanne remembered Izzy making the same point at the dump. “Yes, but only through bad luck. If the bag with Stella’s foot in it hadn’t ruptured she would have been buried in the landfill and we’d be none the wiser. And Angus could have drifted for miles. He’d have been under the ice until the spring.”
“He’d have been missed right away, though. He was, already.”
Constable Roach appeared at the door. He dropped two large binders on the table.
“For you, McBain. Guy called Smedley left them for you.” He glanced around the room, at the whiteboard, the group seated at the table, taking it all in. Roxanne turned to him.
“One of the Andreychuks is supposed to stop by with receipts for us. If he does, let me know. I need to ask him something.”
“Brad or the dad?”
“Either.”
“Right, ma’am.” He looked around the room once more, turned on his heel and left.
“Brad Andreychuk’s story about being in the bar the night that Stella died holds,” said Matt. “The bartender remembers him being there.”
“But it doesn’t let him off the hook,” Izzy countered. “He could have been out on the ice fishing with his friends all afternoon but he’d still have had to go home before he went to the pub, if his mom and dad were in town. Those beasts of theirs would have had to be fed. He could have taken a skidoo over to Stella’s in no time.” She described how she had found the path through the woods.
“Has anyone talked to Jeremy Andreychuk?” asked Roxanne. Someone in the city had, Brian reported. Jeremy had been visibly upset to hear about Stella. No one from the family had told him. He’d been in class on Friday, January 19, the day that they believed Stella had been murdered. And he’d worked in a restaurant that evening. Nevertheless, Izzy got to her feet and added his name to the board. She glanced out the window.
“John Andreychuk just pulled up.”
Roxanne excused herself and went downstairs. Izzy followed. Andreychuk pushed his way through the front door, stalked to the desk and slapped an envelope down on the counter.
“Corporal wants to see you, John,” said the constable on duty. Kathy Isfeld stopped tallying up figures and watched over the top of her reading glasses.
“Does she now.” Andreychuk swivelled round to look at Roxanne. “I need those receipts back when you’re done with them.”
Izzy picked up the envelope. Roxanne opened a door that led into a side office. “In here, Mr. Andreychuk. I need to ask you a question. Won’t take long.”
He sloped past her and stood waiting, weight balanced on both feet, arms loose by his sides. Izzy stood inside the door and listened.
“What’s it about this time?”
“There’s a trail runs from behind your barn to Stella Magnusson’s place,” said Roxanne. His only reaction was to narrow his eyes.
“So? Been there since her uncles lived there. Nobody uses it these days.”
“Nobody?”
“You heard me.”
“There are snowmobile tracks. Recent ones.”
“That right?” He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t move a muscle. “Must have been folks from her end then. She gets visitors. Why don’t you ask them? That all?”
“We’re fine for now.” He turned to go and saw Izzy.
“Bad business that, about Angus Smith. He was a good guy, Angus.”
“I’ll copy those receipts and get them back to you,” Izzy said. Kathy Isfeld waited until the front door had closed behind him.
“All bark and no bite, John Andreychuk,” she said. Her voice scarcely rose above a whisper. “It’s his wife, Maggie, that you need to look out for. Bad blood, Maggie. Her and her dad before her. That’s where Bradley gets it from.” Kathy returned her attention to her ledger. Izzy turned to Roxanne at the foot of the stairs.
“Don’t care what Kathy says. John Andreychuk’s lying.”
“All the Andreychuks are lying. We just need to figure out why. But still. It’s too easy, isn’t it, to think Brad did it? Too obvious?”
“Suppose so. The guys would love to pin this on him and put him away for once, though.” Izzy ran up the stairs, ponytail swinging. And this would all be over and they could get us out of their hair, Roxanne thought as she followed her.
Back up in their office, Donohue was putting his phone back in his pocket.
“I have to get back to the city,” he said. “The bosses want a meeting. They’re getting a lot of media pressure to get the Magnusson murder solved. Stella’s photo’s been everywhere. Now that there’s another killing it’s going to be worse. I’ll get back here as soon as I can. Meantime, Roxanne, you’re to carry on.”
Roxanne breathed a sigh of relief. The investigation was still hers.
“We need to focus on finding Stella Magnusson’s killer,” Donohue continued. “Assume until we hear otherwise that the bone in the saws from Angus Smith’s place is hers. Two murders out here are too much of a coincidence for them not to be linked. If we get Stella’s killer, we’ll probably have Angus Smith’s too.”
“Everything we know about Stella so far is related to her work,” said Roxanne once Brian had left. She turned to the whiteboard. “We need to interview the board members. Three of them live at Cullen Village—George Smedley, Sasha Rosenberg and Freya Halliday. The last one’s a village councillor. Who are these other names?”
Matt joined her at the whiteboard. “I got these from my aunt’s friends. Stella was married to Freddie Santana.”
“The filmmaker?”
“Yeah, but he’s in L.A. And Roger Kato’s an old boyfriend, now living in Santa Fe. Leo Isbister’s more interesting. He played in a band with Stella in the late eighties but he’s been around here lately. He’s now a real estate developer and he’s planning a development just south of here.”
“Really?”
“And he’s got a summer cottage between Cullen Village and Fiskar Bay,” Izzy said. “On the lakeshore. It’s humongous. He must be worth a fortune.”
“Okay, we’ll check him out too. There’s also that guy called Erik Axelsson that Brad Andreychuk says she’s been seeing.”
“I’ve got something on him.” Matt reached for the books he had brought in with him. They were school yearbooks. “These are from Fiskar Bay High, from the mid-eighties, when Stella Magnusson was a student. That’s why I was late. The school secretary took her time.” Izzy reached out and touched his back with an easy intimacy that answered Roxanne’s question. These two were more than friends.
“But see what she showed me.” Matt opened the book for 1987, the year Stella Magnusson would have graduated. One page was marked with a sticky note. “Stella was in a band. There’s a photograph.”
They examined the shot of four students with guitars. Stella was laughing, big eighties hair, lots of makeup, eyes outlined in black. Behind the group stood a man with shoulder-length blond hair and a beard. Izzy peered closer.
“That’s Erik Axelsson,” she said. “Geez. He really did look like a Viking back then.”
“The secretary’s been there for years. She says he used to come in every week. Taught them to play guitar.”
“So he knew her back then? We need to talk to him,” said Roxanne. “Today.”