Roxanne watched out the car window while Izzy McBain drove towards the Andreychuk farm. The road followed the lakeshore, then turned inland, where it ran straight, crossing snow-covered farmland. They passed farmhouses surrounded by trees, stands of spruce and willow planted to break the prairie wind, silos, grain bins, a tiny Ukrainian church with an onion dome, disused and dilapidated, the occasional old barn falling into ruin. There were no signs of life apart from a pair of ravens devouring a bloody, grey-furred mess in the middle of the road. The birds flew up into the trees and watched as they drove by. A sign appeared at the side of the road. Cullen Village Environmental Waste Disposal. The dump. “Want to have a look?” Izzy swung left through a gate and stopped beside Archie Huminski’s shack.
Smoke rose vertically from the chimney but there was no sign of Archie. Izzy drove up the hill to the top and parked the car. Fat gulls strutted around, then soared to hover overhead as Roxanne and Izzy got out. Roxanne looked over the edge of the hill. To the right, a green and white tanker truck was discharging waste through a long hose into a sewage lagoon. At the bottom of the hill was the usual debris and white grocery bags flapped everywhere, snagged on twigs, on protruding posts, on scraps of metal. Izzy joined her. She looked down at the heap of waste below.
“Pretty sick, isn’t it, sending someone’s body off to a place like this,” she said.
Roxanne was wishing she’d changed into a winter parka. Her city coat wasn’t warm enough out here. “Whoever did it planned it carefully. It’s smart. It took a complicated mind to dream it up, don’t you think?”
Izzy kicked a stray can over the edge. It bounced to the bottom. “Yes, but it didn’t work, did it? We found the body. Maybe whoever did it isn’t as smart as they think they are.”
“We hope. You’re right about it being a bleak place to bury someone, though. Whoever did it must have hated her.” Roxanne pulled her collar up, then shoved her gloved hands deep into her pockets. “Let’s go.”
By the time they climbed back into the car, a truck had pulled in. Archie Huminski got out.
“Hey, Izzy McBain, where’s the uniform?” He was a gnome of a man with a weathered, wrinkled face. He reached in the window to shake Roxanne’s hand. His was large and firm.
“Major Crimes, eh? Tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on and you ladies can come have a cup of coffee. Get warmed up.”
Izzy turned off the engine. Roxanne realized that refusing wasn’t going to be an option. She followed Izzy into the shack. A wood stove in the corner kept it warm. They loosened their coats. Roxanne made a point of not removing hers. She didn’t intend to stay long.
“You can have tea or instant.” Archie lifted mugs down from a shelf. They didn’t look too clean. Roxanne pretended not to notice. The kettle simmered on the stove.
“You girls going to visit the Andreychuks next?”
“Maybe,” said Izzy.
So, Roxanne wondered, did the locals, like the police at the detachment, have Brad Andreychuk pegged as the most likely suspect? Archie’s next words confirmed it.
“That Bradley’s a bad one. Has been ever since he was a kid. Used to see him out there on the farm, riding around on a quad taking pot shots at squirrels when he can’t have been more than twelve.”
“Did he know Stella Magnusson?” Roxanne asked.
“Sure. His dad tried to get her to sell up and move. You guys know all about that, right? Stella didn’t leave though. Toughed it out, gotta say that for her. Have a cookie. Chocolate chip. The missus makes them.” He opened a tin and passed it to them. Roxanne thought she’d better take one. They looked okay. Izzy took two.
“Did you know her?”
“Knew who she was. Used to drive in here in that big yellow Toyota like she owned the place. Never stopped to say hello. Thought she was too cool for the likes of me. She didn’t come by much these days. Jeremy Andreychuk, Brad’s brother, he usually brought her garbage over in the summer. He worked for her at her StarFest thing. Jeremy’s not like his brother. He’s at the university. Going to be an engineer. Nice lad, Jeremy, always stops and says hello.
“Now, you know George Smedley? He used to hang around Stella’s place. You could talk to him. And Angus, him that was here when they found the body, he could maybe tell you something. George’ll be at his place this afternoon. Men’s group. You could catch him there.”
Roxanne made a mental note of that. She finished her coffee as soon as she could and stood up to go. Archie walked them out to the car.
“Stop by, lady. Anytime.”
“We got to go inside the dump shack!” Izzy crowed as she drove away. “My mom will be so impressed! It’s a guy place. Women never get through the door.”
Roxanne pulled out her phone. Matt Stavros could head over to Cullen Village this afternoon and check out this men’s group.
It didn’t take long to reach the Andreychuk farm. Izzy drove into a driveway surrounded by buildings and trees. There was a large barn, a garage, a Quonset hut, outbuildings, grain bins. The house was single storey, a simple bungalow. Prairie farmers liked to spend their money on their farms, not their houses. And vehicles. Izzy pulled in beside two shiny new trucks and a late-model car. A couple of snowmobiles stood near the house.
The door was opened by a tall, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties. He wore jeans, an old sweater, socks, no shoes.
“Corporal Calloway of the RCMP and Constable McBain,” Roxanne announced, flashing her ID. “We need to ask you some questions regarding the remains that were found at the dump.”
“Mom!” he hollered. “Police, back again. Hi, Izzy. How come you’re not wearing the suit?”
“Hey, Bradley.” Izzy looked uncomfortable. Roxanne wondered if she wished that she was back in uniform, with the authority it brought. Brad didn’t invite them in. The woman who appeared behind him was large, very large, so wide that Roxanne wondered how she could walk. She appeared no more pleased to see them than her son had been.
“You police have been here already,” she said. “We’ve told you everything we know.”
“I’m heading out, Ma,” said her son, turning back into the house.
“You need to stay for now.” Roxanne put her foot inside the door. She could smell meat cooking, and vegetables. Cabbage.
“It’s Mrs. Andreychuk, isn’t it?” The woman did not smile. She stood there like a mountain, immoveable. Her husband appeared in the corridor behind her. He was taller and lean, wearing work clothes.
“Better let them in, Maggie.”
He led the way into a living room. It was tidy and brown. The furniture was large and rust coloured, the rug in varying shades of taupe, the walls, beige. A large television set occupied a corner. The ceiling was stained nicotine yellow with a large chandelier at the centre. Under the smell of the food there was a whiff of stale cigarette smoke. A few framed family photographs decorated the walls, some black and white, others old, sepia ones.
“Brad, you stick around!” Andreychuk yelled. The son came out of another door that seemed to lead from the kitchen, his jacket already slung on his back. He flopped down into a large armchair and swung one leg over the arm. His father pulled a chair out from below a rectangular wooden table and sat, indicating that Roxanne and Izzy could take the chairs opposite. His wife lowered her gargantuan size onto the sofa. She took up more than half of its width. Roxanne wondered if she could get out of it without help.
“Isabel, how’s your mom?” asked the woman on the sofa.
“Doing well, thanks.” Izzy remained standing, close to the door. Roxanne took a chair.
“You in charge of this now?” asked John Andreychuk. He reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and pulled an ashtray towards himself, then lit one and tossed the pack to his son. He didn’t take his eyes off Roxanne. Bradley lit up too.
“I’m leading local investigations, Mr. Andreychuk. Corporal Roxanne Calloway.” She heard Brad half humming, whistling through his teeth, “Roxaaaaane.” That song, by the Police. She’d heard it before, many times. She ignored him. Izzy didn’t.
“Shut it, Brad.”
Bradley laughed. Gotya, his eyes said. He drew on his cigarette. Roxanne carried on regardless. She was formal. Official. Polite.
“The officers who were here before asked if you had seen anything or anyone suspicious in the days before we discovered Ms. Magnusson’s body. I wanted to find out what you knew about her, since you were such close neighbours.”
“Did you now. Well, we didn’t see much of her. We keep ourselves to ourselves around here.” John Andreychuk sat back and folded his arms.
“She wasn’t a farmer, like her uncles. They kept cattle like you, didn’t they? Did it bother you that she let the farm go? Didn’t even rent out her pasture?”
“Nope. Bought her uncles’ stock. Got them for a good price. Suited me fine.”
Brad and his mother were listening to every word but avoiding looking directly at her or Izzy.
“Would you have liked to buy the land?” Roxanne continued.
“Got plenty of our own, Miss. Ain’t we, Bradley.”
“But StarFest caused problems for you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Nothing new about that, is there? It’s been going on for years now. We learned to live with it.” He blew a puff of smoke up towards the ceiling.
“Your other son, Jeremy, he worked there last summer?”
“And the one before. Might as well make a buck out of it.” He grinned at her. A look passed between Brad and his mother. They both appeared more alert. The question about Jeremy had caught their attention.
“Does he live in the city?”
“That’s right.”
“But he was here over Christmas? When, exactly, did he go back?”
“What’s this to do with our Jeremy?” The mother interrupted her.
“Just checking, Mrs. Andreychuk. No one mentioned him when the police were here previously.” Roxanne kept her voice low. Nonconfrontational. “When did you say he went back to Winnipeg?”
“We didn’t. Right after New Year it was, though.” Andreychuk answered, stubbing out his cigarette. He peered at her through a smoky haze.
“Did anything unusual happen here around January 19?
“Can’t remember. We got asked this already.”
“I’d like to hear it for myself.”
“That was Friday. We went to Winnipeg,” said Maggie emphatically.
“Any special reason?”
“No. The usual. Needed to buy some stuff.”
“You could show us some receipts to prove you were there?”
“Look here, what are you doing, checking us out? We’ve done nothing wrong. If someone had it in for her, it wasn’t us. Who’s been telling you lies, putting the blame on me and my boys?” Andreychuk got to his feet. His son clambered out of his chair too.
“And you, Bradley, where were you on that day?” Roxanne turned her head but stayed seated.
“Out fishing.” It was his turn to grin. He looked a lot like his dad when he did. “The guys will tell you. Got there in the morning, stayed all afternoon. And that night I was in the bar, in Fiskar Bay. Plenty of guys’ll tell you about that too, if you ask.” Both men loomed over Roxanne. She noticed Izzy’s eyebrows rise.
“We’ll check for sure,” she said, and stood up. They both took their time stepping back. “We’ll be going for now. Thanks for your help.”
“That’s it?” Andreychuk said.
“If there’s anything else we’ll be in touch.” She turned to go. Brad’s voice stopped her.
“Hey, missus,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe opposite, his hands in his pockets. “Tell you who you should be talking to instead of us. Erik Axelsson.”
“Erik?” said Izzy, stopping in the middle of pulling on her mitts. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“You don’t know nothin’, Izzy McBain.” He zipped up his jacket. “He’s been hanging around the Magnusson place a lot lately. I’ve seen his truck parked there, often. Sometimes he’s there at night, for hours. Why don’t you go and bug him about where he was that Friday?” He turned towards his father. “Reckon I can go now.” He slunk off into the kitchen. His father showed Roxanne and Izzy to the door. Maggie remained, huge and still, on her seat.
As they drove away, Roxanne noticed a red glow in the wood beside the barn. Smoke belched up above the treetops.
“Slow down, Izzy.” She looked towards a small, metal, domed structure, red light glowing out of the cracks around a small door. Cordwood was stacked beside it.
“An outdoor furnace,” said Izzy. “They’re using it to heat the barn.”
“Don’t those things get hot enough to incinerate bone? If Brad and his father had needed to dispose of body parts, wouldn’t they have used that, instead of sending them to the dump?”
“Guess so. You can’t tell with Brad, though. He’s a head case. Always has been.”
“You’ve known him long?”
“Since junior high. He was mean, even then. Used to walk the hallways with his two buddies, Mitch and Billy, like they owned the place. They still hang out together. If that’s who’s giving him an alibi, ma’am, don’t believe a word of it.”
“And who is Erik Axelsson?”
“He lives on a farm near Fiskar Bay. Near my parents. His wife’s called Roberta. She’s his second wife. They’re a great couple. They do organic farming, kind of.” They were already pulling into Stella Magnusson’s driveway. “She’s a bit artsy. Erik used to fix cars. Still does sometimes to make ends meet. He’s a pretty laid-back kind of guy. I can’t see him killing anybody.”
Roxanne looked at Stella’s house. She saw a restored farmhouse with a peaked roof and a wraparound veranda painted a vibrant teal blue with purple trim. A rectangular building at one side had a sign on the front. The Stargazer Music Festival, Artistic Director: Stella Magnusson. The paint was fresh, the windows appeared new.
“Erik used to sing at StarFest,” said Izzy. “But not for years. Him and his pal Mike Little still do a set in the bars sometimes. They’re not bad.”
“Why did they stop singing here?”
“Dunno. You can ask him. Roberta Axelsson’s going to have a fit if he’s been messing around with Stella, but I think Brad’s just trying to put you off the scent.” She got out the car. “Hey, Corporal, I’ve seen inside the house. How about you go have a look and I’ll go for a walk around. Can I have the garage keys? I’ll open up the office building for you.”
Roxanne unlocked the front door to the house. There were two deadbolts. The shiny silver doorknocker had a star etched into it. Starry wind chimes tinkled softly from the corner of the veranda. She handed the keys to Izzy and watched her head towards the double garage.
Inside, Stella Magnusson’s house looked new. Hardwood floors gleamed with polish. Large windows shone. They let in light from the west, facing across the field to woodlands beyond. Walls had been knocked out to open up the space. A black grand piano dominated one corner. The wood stove was a contemporary Norwegian one, tall and tubular with brass fire irons on the hearthstone including a poker, all clean as a whistle, she knew. She’d read the report.
The kitchen had been rebuilt. It was immaculate. Dishes and glasses were neatly stacked in cupboards behind glass doors. The stove and fridge were high-quality stainless steel, as was the dishwasher. The countertops were granite. An espresso maker sat near the sink, the wine rack was well stocked. Stella had hired a cleaning service. They had come in the Saturday after she was supposed to have left on her trip and done a good job. Any evidence of possible wrongdoing was gone, but the cleaners said that they had seen nothing unusual.
Roxanne walked through the bedroom, the bathroom, a home office. Why had Stella kept an office in the house when her business was literally on her doorstep? The star theme was reflected in sparkly light fitments. A dark blue bedcover had a moon at its centre. There were framed pictures on the walls of galaxies and constellations. Books on shelves were about music, travel, biographies of famous singers. A filing cabinet was full of music sheets, systematically filed, alphabetically and by genre. On the walls were signed shots of musicians who had appeared at StarFest. Several were of Stella, one of the earliest a black and white shot of her fronting a band. She looked strikingly beautiful, with a mass of fair hair, big eyes, smiling for the crowd, ridiculously young.
Roxanne went to the window. She could see Izzy crossing the field behind the house towards the woodlands on the far side. She’d found a pair of snowshoes and was lifting her knees as she walked on the surface of the snow, going further afield than Roxanne had expected.
The house had been thoroughly searched by the Ident team. Computers and a personal safe had been taken into Winnipeg. They had obtained warrants to access Stella’s email and banking. It must have cost a lot to renovate this house. Where had the money come from? If Stella had a will, it had not turned up yet. Who stood to inherit this place and all the land that went with it?
There were more photographs on the walls throughout the house, most from StarFest. Roxanne could see no family photographs, no shots taken with friends out for dinner, having a good time, on holiday. Had Stella always travelled alone? Everything here related to Stella’s professional life. Nothing at all spoke of relationships other than work. The house was beautiful, perfect and silent, unnervingly impersonal.
Roxanne left the house and waded through knee-high snowdrifts to the office building. She could see Izzy returning across the field, the wide, webbed prints of the snowshoes stamped on the surface of the snow. They would soon be blown over. A wind was getting up. Izzy had wrapped a scarf around her face for protection.
Roxanne entered the offices, which had been converted from a large outbuilding. There was a small kitchen and a washroom, but otherwise it was given over to work space. The only sign of unusual activity was the occasional gap where a computer had been removed for examination. It wasn’t as tidy or as spotlessly clean as the house, but the Ident technicians had found nothing suspicious. There was a contact list of board members and another of volunteers on a bulletin board. That information would be available to her already, but Roxanne took a photograph anyway. She found a box of old StarFest brochures in a cupboard and helped herself to some. She was flipping through them when she heard banging outside the door. Izzy had removed the snowshoes and was whacking them against the wall to remove the snow.
“I found something. Come see.” She led the way over to the garage at the other side of the house. Roxanne followed in her footprints. “There’s been a skidoo here. Look, there’s a bit of track.”
The snow had blown away from the side of the garage. Marks were indented in the snowy ground, largely covered by the recent snowfall but visible in patches where they had blown clear. Izzy pointed to the wood. “See?” she said. “There’s a break in the trees.”
Roxanne peered across the field. It looked like solid bush on the far side. The sun was sinking towards it, throwing the trees into silhouette, but if she followed the faint line drawn by Izzy’s footprints and squinted against the fading sunlight she could see a spot that was darker than the rest.
“A trail?”
“Yup. Probably been there since the days that the old guys lived here, but it’s been maintained. There’s not much new growth, and the trees are thick enough that the snow hasn’t drifted in too much. There are tracks there, Corporal. Someone’s been visiting Stella on a skidoo. And guess where it comes from?”
“Andreychuk’s farm?”
“Comes out right behind their barn. I tell you, you can’t trust a word that Bradley says.”
Roxanne’s cellphone rang. It was Matt, calling from Cullen Village.
“Hey, Corporal, I’m at Angus Smith’s house. There’s a bunch of old guys running all over the place saying they can’t find Angus Smith. He’s supposed to be here. They can’t find him anywhere. They say he’s gone missing.”