By the time Roxanne and Izzy reached Angus Smith’s house, Matt had wrangled the men into order. He had them sitting around a table on an enclosed porch while he took down contact information, then sent them on their way, one by one. It was where they smoked when they visited Angus. The large ashtray in the middle of the table filled as they waited. At least four of them had puffed nonstop. There had been eight in all. Worried, they had run all over the house, the barn, the workshop, the yard, looking for Angus. If this was a crime scene, it was hopelessly contaminated.
Roxanne walked over to a fairly new outbuilding, which housed the workshop. It was large. A work table in the middle had stools around it and workbenches on the side. Angus kept the place tidy. Tools hung on hooks. Boxes of nails and screws were ranged on shelves. There was a table saw and a band saw. She called Sergeant Donohue in Winnipeg. He would send someone from the Forensic Identification Unit out first thing in the morning to examine the saws for any sign of bone. He might try to make it out himself.
In the house, Angus’s favourite coat hung on a hook by the door, his key ring on another. His winter boots sat side by side at the front door. His truck was parked beside the workshop, an ice auger in the back. Paths had been cleared to the house, to the barn and the workshop. A large snowblower stood alongside the truck.
One of the men was George Smedley. He was listed as the treasurer for the StarFest board of directors. Roxanne turned to Izzy. “Tell him to send us everything he’s got, would you? Board minutes. Financial statements.” She noticed him looking at them nervously through brown-rimmed glasses before he scurried off to his car. Did he have anything in particular to be nervous about?
Soon, only Jack Sawatsky remained. He put the keys he had to Angus’s house on the table. He had been looking after the place while Angus was gone—in the city, he said, staying at his daughter’s. Millie, Angus’s wife, was in the hospital. She’d fallen and broken her hip just after Christmas. Angus had only come home last weekend, right before they found Stella Magnusson’s head and foot at the dump. Jack rattled on, like he couldn’t stop talking.
“Angus wants the doctors to send his wife to Fiskar Bay Hospital ’til she gets better, but her daughter wants her to stay in the city. She really wants Angus to sell up, move into an apartment. Like living in a box, Angus says. He’d sooner be dead.” Jack’s voice petered out as he realized what he had said. Roxanne took the seat opposite him.
Were there other keys? There were. The spare key to the workshop lay under the garbage can outside the door. Any of the guys could go in and finish working on something if they needed to, any time. There was also a key to the house in a drawer in the workshop, in case they needed to use the washroom. Who would know about this? All of the men in the group would.
“We trust each other around here, Corporal,” Jack said defensively. “Look, shouldn’t we be out there looking for him? We’re all willing to come and help. Why are you wasting time sitting around here talking?”
“We need to know where to start looking,” Roxanne replied, “if he really is missing.” But Jack Sawatsky knew very little that would help them.
“Angus is a great guy,” he said before he left. “Nobody ever has a bad word to say about him.”
Izzy had called the hospital. Mr. Smith had visited his wife the day before, Sunday, in the early afternoon. They hadn’t seen him since.
At 10:00 the following morning, Margo Wishart went skating. The Cullen Village skating trail was new. It ran across the surface of the frozen lake from a point north of the village to Cullen Point, at the south end. Two and a half kilometres of pristine ice, a ribbon of aqua blue, gleamed in the winter sunlight.
Sasha had phoned her first thing. She had an unexpected deadline to meet. She’d sold a sculpture. She had to figure out the best way to ship it to Toronto. She sounded too excited to think about anything else. Margo told her to forget about a dog walk, then she looked out at the perfect day and went to find her skates.
Bob, her big, black dog, loped beside her. He stayed alongside where the lake surface had not been cleared and a thin layer of snow gave him some traction. Margo loved to skate, the easy rhythm, the swing and glide, the sound of her blades swishing as they cut across the hard surface. It was so clear that she could see right down into the water, through several feet of ice to the rocks on the lake bottom. The occasional fish swam underneath her. The sky was a cool, pale yellow fading to pink, then to a band of azure. The sun lay to her left, a lemon-coloured ball casting blue shadows. Individual ice crystals on the snow sparkled with rainbow light.
The temperature had risen twenty degrees. Minus ten felt positively balmy after the bitter cold, and she felt warm from the exercise. The shore was to her right. The wooden houses of Cullen Village were painted different colours, tucked among tall green conifers. Look at this, she thought, and we have it all to ourselves right now, me and my dog. That was when she realized Bob was no longer running beside her and glanced back over her shoulder. There he was, way back, standing stock still on the ice. Reluctantly, she dug in her blades and came to a halt.
“Hey, Bob! Come on!” she called. He didn’t budge. That was not like him. Like many rescue dogs, he was usually eager to please.
“Bob! Come here, boy!” But he remained still, all four feet planted. He had to have heard her. He pawed at the snowy surface of the ice in front of him. She heard him whine. Slowly, she skated back. He pawed some more, looked straight at her, then lowered his head to the ice once more. He scratched at the surface with both paws like he was trying to dig through. She heard him whimper. She wasn’t worried. He had probably just seen a fish under the ice. She speeded up, drew level with him, then skated slowly over the rougher, ungroomed surface.
“What is it Bob? What’s up?”
As she got close he came to meet her with a slow wag of his long tail. She reached the place where he had been. He followed beside her, stopped and looked down, where he had scraped a patch clean. Below, through the ice, she could see what appeared to be a large pink fish lying in the water. The pale, dead face of Angus Smith stared back up at her.
Police cars converged on the spot where Margo stood, her dog at her side, marking the spot where Angus Smith lay. Izzy McBain got there first. “I know how to handle a car on ice,” she bragged to Matt Stavros, as she drove out onto the frozen lake. “Did it first when I was fifteen. Used to race with my brothers.” Sergeant Gilchrist followed close behind with Constable Roach at his side.
Cullen Village had been alerted by the sound of sirens. The villagers watched from cottage windows along the shore as the RCMP clustered on the ice. Margo and her dog were loaded into a car and Izzy drove her back toward her house. Phones rang throughout the village. Photographs appeared on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. Worst suspicions were confirmed when old Doctor Gaul’s car crawled out onto the lake.
Doc Gaul was old and stooped. Two unusual deaths in less than two weeks had him confounded, but all he had to do was pronounce death. Stavros and Roach cleared away enough of the snow cover to expose the whole body. Angus was naked. There was an obvious wound to his chest.
“It looks like he’s been stabbed,” said the doctor, “but you’ll need to get him out before you know.” They called the provincial medical examiner’s office. Someone from Winnipeg would be on their way soon, with a refrigerated van.
“He has a lot of body hair. It’s snagged on the underside of the ice. That’s what’s stopping him from drifting away.” Angus had a beard, a mat on his chest, and pubic hair. He was entirely exposed. Sergeant Donohue stood beside Roxanne and looked down at the body. They had both been at the Smith house when the call came in. Two members of the Ident team were still there, examining Angus’s workshop, including the saws.
“How many men can you spare?” Brian asked Gilchrist. “We need to secure this area as well as the house.” The constables were taping off the stretch of land along the shore. Roxanne escorted Doctor Gaul to his car and returned to the others.
“Are those ice-fishing shacks?” Donohue asked. “He could have gone into the water from there.” Over to the south at the far side of the point, they could see small rectangular shapes far out on the ice.
“They’ll be fishing today,” said Izzy.
“We need to get that area cleared too.” Roxanne flipped through her phone contacts seeking Jack Sawatsky’s number. She remembered the ice auger in Angus Smith’s truck. Jack would know if Angus had an ice shack.
“I know who you need to get him out of this.” Gilchrist was still looking down at the dead body under the ice. “Peter Flett. Champion ice carver. Lives just north of here. He’ll know how to do it. And he’s got the gear.”
“Call him,” said Donohue.
Roxanne got off the phone. “Jack Sawatsky says he’ll get a squad from the fishing association to clear everybody off the ice. And he’ll show us Angus’s shack. Izzy, you’re coming with me.”
Margo made herself a mug of strong coffee and called Sasha.
“Gee, are you okay? I’ll come over.”
“No,” said Margo. “You get on with what you’re doing.”
“With this going on? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m fine but I could probably use some company,” Margo admitted. “Stay where you are and I’ll walk over in a bit.”
First she’d drink her coffee, then she’d take a hot, hot shower.
Roxanne and Izzy found Jack Sawatsky waiting at the end of the Smith driveway. Police tape surrounded the place. Izzy walked to the house to get Angus’s keys.
“How could this happen?” Jack said. “Who would do a thing like that to a good guy like Angus? Does his family know?”
“Someone from headquarters is going to speak to his wife,” Roxanne said, glad that she didn’t have to do that particular job.
“You follow me.” Jack got into a truck parked nearby and led them along the lakeshore to a ramp that accessed the lake. There were only six or seven trucks and a couple of snowmobiles out by the shacks. Jack pulled up alongside one of them and talked to a couple of fishermen, then they drove on. Far over, Roxanne recognized Brad Andreychuk, watching.
Angus’s shack was out beyond Cullen Point. The snow around the door had been cleared away.
Izzy unlocked the door. Roxanne had never been inside a fishing shack. There was a single window, which let in some light. She scanned the room. Outside, the shack had had a coat of green paint but inside it was unpainted. A rectangle about fifteen inches by four feet had been cut out of the wooden floor close to one wall to expose the ice underneath. Two large ice holes had been sunk into it. Angus must have enjoyed company while he fished. Four wooden folding chairs were stacked against a wall, cushions heaped beside them. There was a propane heater and a camping stove. A shelving unit held a kettle and a pot, jars of milk powder, sugar and instant coffee. There were mugs, a few plates, and a tray of cutlery including a long, sharp knife. Fishing rods were propped in a corner, a tackle box beside them.
“Someone’s been here,” said Jack. “The chairs are always left out, not stacked like that. And he’d never chuck the cushions on the floor.”
Izzy was crouching down by one of the ice holes. They were big, about fifteen inches wide, with plastic lids. Jack bent down beside her. “No!” she said and reached out a hand to stop him from lifting the lid. Roxanne pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and passed another pair to Izzy. Underneath the lid was a rim of plastic, framing the hole. Its edge extended down about three inches. It was frozen to the ice.
“It’s been melted, recently.” Izzy examined it. “Looks like someone used hot water to get it off, but it’s frozen on again.”
The hole must have been widened after the rim was removed. On either side the ice had been drilled away, probably using Angus’s ice auger, widening it by about four inches, each side. Izzy shone a flashlight into the hole. The ice went down more than four feet, maybe five.
“Angus was such a skinny little guy,” Jack said. Roxanne studied the exposed edges of the ice hole.
“They still had to widen it to squeeze him through.” Would traces of skin or hair remain, stuck to the edges? She went outside the shack to phone Sergeant Donohue again. She could see Sawatsky’s friends shepherding people off the ice. They were almost all gone.
She left Izzy to keep watch at the shack and got a ride with Jack back to where Angus’s body had been found. Vehicles were parked beside the trees at the top of the ramp. A clutch of men stood talking, Archie Huminski among them. There was no sign of Brad Andreychuk any more. Jack slowed down, wound down the window and introduced her.
“We’ll keep an eye on things until you’re done,” one of them said. “Make sure no one gets out there.” She thanked him. “We’re doing it for Angus,” he said and turned back to his friends as if she didn’t exist. Archie came over.
“You’re going to get the bastard that did this, right, milady?”
“I sure hope so.” He reached into the cab and squeezed her hand.
“You come talk to me. Any time.”
Jack drove along the road by the lake. The temperature was now minus five with no wind. People were outside, walking dogs on long leashes, stopping to talk and look out over the lake to see what was going on.
Peter Flett, champion carver, was out on the ice. He had brought saws, an auger, a chain saw, ice knives, ropes and poles. He drilled down and started to carve out chunks of ice, which Matt Stavros and Ken Roach lifted and stacked. It was different work than what Peter usually did, carving eagles and polar bears out of giant slabs, but he obviously knew how ice behaved, how to cut it away from the body below without causing further damage.
Margo and Sasha were among those who watched as the day wore on. Peter was at least four feet down by now, a rope tied around his waist. Every now and then, the silence was shattered by the buzz of a chain saw. A large white van had been driven out onto the lake. Two police cars were already there, and the carver’s old Ford Ranger.
Margo had recovered from her initial shock. She wanted to see what was happening. She and Sasha had walked to a spot on the shore where they could get a clear view. Their dogs lay at their feet.
“They must be getting close to him,” Margo said. “How much ice do you need to still be able to stand on it?”
“Three or four inches would do it.”
They watched the ice carver reach down and pass up a large piece. It shone blue and clear in the sunlight. The pile of ice was aquamarine, the surface that had been thinned around the hole slightly translucent.
A big red Sierra truck pulled up on the road behind them. Panda Stavros walked over and patted the dogs. Annie ignored them. All her attention was on the scene on the lake.
“Angus Smith, eh? You’re the one that found him, Margo? You okay?” News had travelled fast. Annie walked closer to the shore.
Panda didn’t wait for answers. “Nice guy. He was there when we found Stella, you know? People are really pissed off about this. See that Annie? Hope she’s not planning to paint this one. She’s got that look about her.” Another car drove up. George and Phyllis Smedley. “Can’t be long until they get him out.”
Two of the police walked to the back of the van, opened the doors and lowered a gurney. Ropes were passed to the carver. He fastened them down in the hole and climbed out, then picked up a long pole with a spike on the end. Onlookers could see him reaching down and hear the sound of him chipping at what was left of the ice.
“What is happening?” asked Phyllis. “Two murders in two weeks, right here in Cullen Village?” A truck drove away, off the ice.
“That’s Jack Sawatsky’s truck,” George said. “He and I were there when Angus went missing. I’ve been asked to help the police with their inquiries,” he added, puffing out his chest.
“Angus was there with us at the dump.” Panda said, one-upping him. “He’s the one who found Stella’s head.”
Annie had squatted down and taken a pair of binoculars from her pocket. The police were pulling on the ropes. Slowly, carefully, they lifted a sheet of ice up and out of the hole. Under it was Angus Smith, the front of his body still encased in two or three inches of what looked like blue glass. The ice carver chipped around it. What he left was the size of a coffin lid. They laid Angus Smith onto the gurney, lifted him into the back of the white van and closed the door.
They all took a deep breath, almost in unison.
“George made a pot of veggie chili. Why don’t you all come over for supper?” said Phyllis.
“Sure.” Margo still didn’t want to be home alone. “I just need to go put Bob in the house and get the car. Are you coming?” Sasha nodded. Annie had turned back from the scene on the ice. She put the binoculars away.
“We’ve got leftovers that need eating,” said Panda. “Another time, maybe?” She and Annie got into the big red truck and drove away.
“Panda can’t stand the stuff that George cooks,” said Sasha as she and Margo walked back to their houses, the dogs trotting at their heels. George was a naturopath and a vegan. “She says he’s creepy.”
Out on the lake, Roxanne talked with the medic from the chief medical examiner’s office before he drove off with Angus’s frozen body.
“It’ll take a while to get a time of death on this one, Corporal,” he said, “but we’ve got other information for you. Stella Magnusson was hit on the head, hard enough to fracture her skull, but it didn’t kill her. Afterwards, she was smothered.”
Stella had definitely been murdered.