The head office of Isbister Homes lay in the south end of Winnipeg. Roxanne pulled into an industrial park where a two-storey, glass-fronted building dominated a row of windowless grey warehouses with loading docks at the front. The parking lot was full of cars. She found the only remaining space in the visitors’ parking area. J.L. Isbister, otherwise known as Leo, would have a half hour available at 4:30, his office assistant had conceded on the phone, only after the words “murder inquiry” had been mentioned. It was exactly 4:28 when Roxanne announced her arrival at the front desk. A well-groomed receptionist directed her to the waiting area. Brochures proliferated on countertops and tables, displaying glossy photographs of Isbister houses and their floor plans. They promoted the company’s latest suburban development. Isbister Homes seemed to be thriving.
At 4:45 the same brisk young woman ushered Roxanne into a large office. The man who greeted her was sleek, well-fed and tanned. His hair was thick and brown, impeccably cut, his suit tailored to fit, the shirt perfectly collared and cuffed, the shoes burnished to a dark gloss. The only indication that Leo Isbister had once enjoyed life as an on-stage performer was a red silk tie with streaks of orange and purple and the flash of a gold cufflink as he shook Roxanne’s hand.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Corporal.” He appeared more satisfied than sorry. He did not invite her to sit at his walnut desk, but indicated a leather chair beside a low table. The pictures on the walls were all of buildings his company had built. A formal portrait of a smiling dark-haired woman and two young men who resembled him sat on his desk. It was all conventionally corporate and told Roxanne very little about Leo himself.
“We are investigating the death of Stella Magnusson,” she said, getting straight to the point since time was limited.
“Ah, yes.” Isbister sat facing her, folding his brows into an expression of concern. Roxanne noticed that his socks had specks of orange and purple to match his tie. “Sad business. I heard about it yesterday. My wife and I have been at our house in Costa Rica the past two weeks. We just got back.”
So he would have been away at the time of the murder. Was that the point he was making? That he had an alibi? “We understand that you knew her,” she said.
“Well, yes.” He relaxed back in his chair and spread himself, a man used to occupying a lot of space. “We were in a band. She sang and I played bass. It only lasted a couple of years and that was a long time ago. Almost thirty years. Why would you want to ask me about that?”
“We’re trying to build a picture of Stella Magnusson’s life,” Roxanne replied, equally smoothly. She smiled. “We hoped you could help us.”
“Well, of course, Corporal. Ask away.” He steepled his fingers in front of him and regarded her speculatively.
“You have a house in the Interlake. Have you talked to Stella in the years since she moved back there?”
“Sure.” He drawled out the word, taking his time. “But not recently. My company sponsors her music festival. Three thousand dollars a year, for old times’ sake, that’s all. She got in touch with me to set it up but my assistant handles all that now. I just sign the cheque.”
“You don’t run into her when you’re out at the lake?”
“Hey, Corporal, I’m a busy guy. I live a different life from Stella. We didn’t move in the same circles any more. Sure, she used to be a girlfriend, but that was back when we were kids. Back when we thought we had talent, we’d hit the big time, make a lot of money, be famous. Didn’t happen. So we went our separate ways. Did somebody really cut her up?” He didn’t miss a beat as he said it.
“Afraid so,” Roxanne responded. “We found body parts at the dump.”
“Shocking. Stella was a bit wild back when I knew her, but she didn’t deserve that. She was great looking, you know. Stunning.” He smiled at the memory.
“How did you meet her?”
“At the lake. Our cottage has been in the family for years, we used to spend our summers out there when I was a kid. Stella was in a group that played the bandstand at Cullen Village one year. She must have still been in school. I was in university and had my own group together by then, so when she showed up in the city a year or so after I knew who she was. She was okay as a singer but nothing great. Looked fantastic, though. All that blonde hair and black leather. People came just to look at her.”
“You don’t have anything to do with music anymore?”
“Came to my senses. Got a boy though, plays the sax in a jazz band.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the family photo. “He just needs a bit of time, then he’ll come round. Join me and his brother in the business.” He sounded like he had no doubt this would happen, a man used to getting his way. He leaned forward in his seat. “You going to interview all the guys Stella shacked up with, Corporal? It’s got to be quite a list.”
“Anyone you would suggest?” she countered.
“Don’t really know. Used to hear about her on the grapevine for a while after we split so I only know the old stuff. She had something going with a guy at the children’s festival, that’s where she worked after the band broke up, but he’s dead. She only married once that I know of. To Freddie Santana. You know about him?”
“The filmmaker? In L.A.?”
“Stella got into managing bands. She always had a good head for being an agent, that kind of thing. She did a lot of our bookings when we were together. Bet she married Freddie so she could work in the States. She probably wanted to get into Nashville. Or New York. Heard it didn’t last long though. Nothing ever did with Stella. I can’t believe she’s was still doing this StarFest thing. She should have been bored with it long ago.” He glanced at his watch. Rolex. “Got to wrap this up, Corporal. I’m due at a meeting downtown at half five.” He stood up, reached for a business card from a silver box on his desk and passed it to Roxanne.
“You know, I can’t think why she moved back to the Interlake. Stella always sounded like she wanted to play the big time.” He shook his head. “Call me if you think I can help you, but frankly, I don’t know much. My direct line’s on my card. Good luck with your investigation.”
She was dismissed. Roxanne didn’t mind. She was finished in time to get to her sister’s house for supper with Finn.
Over at Cullen Village, Margo and Sasha were ringing the Smedleys’ doorbell. George opened the door.
“Why hello!” he said. “This is a surprise!”
“We just thought we’d stop by,” said Sasha.
“To visit Phyllis and see if she’s feeling any better.” Margo stepped up beside her. They both smiled hopeful smiles.
“You’d better come in then.” George opened the door wider. Just at that moment, Phyllis appeared at the end of the hallway.
“Margo and Sasha!” she chirruped. “Do come in. I’m afraid we don’t have very long. We’re driving into Winnipeg to catch a movie and we’re going to have a bite to eat first. But we have time for a quick visit, don’t we, George?”
George did not appear enthusiastic, Margo thought. Perhaps they should have called ahead. But Sasha had pointed out that if George answered the phone, he might put them off. Margo wondered if Sasha was being unnecessarily negative. George had never shown any signs of being inhospitable. Even now, he had fixed a look of welcome onto his face.
“I’ll make a nice pot of rooibos,” he said, “Come along in.”
“I brought you some homemade chicken soup, Phyllis.” Margo pulled a jar from a bag she was carrying. “And Sasha made oatmeal muffins. We thought you might still be sick.”
“How lovely!” exclaimed Phyllis. “But I’m so much better. George is such a good cook. He takes very good care of me. I can’t eat the soup today. Maybe you should take it home.”
Margo felt foolish. Phyllis had obviously recovered, their gifts were unwanted, their visit badly timed.
“We should really go,” she said. “Let you get on your way. Keep the soup. You can always freeze it for another time.” Sasha gave her a nudge.
“Just what was it that made you sick, Phyllis?” she asked. Phyllis perched on the edge of an armchair.
“Well it’s just so strange. I got sick, nauseous, not really throwing up, but queasy. And then there’s the palpitations.”
Margo and Sasha parked themselves, simultaneously, side by side, on a sofa. George could be heard fussing around in the kitchen.
“Palpitations? You have heart arrhythmia?” Margo leaned forward. “Does this happen often?”
“Only once or twice. Yes, twice, isn’t it, George?” George had appeared with a tray. “My silly heart thing. Doesn’t hurt or anything, and if I just keep quiet it soon goes away.”
“Have you had that checked out?” Margo inquired.
“Phyllis is just fine,” her husband responded, laying the tray on a coffee table. “Look at her. The picture of health.” He poured the red brew into small china cups. “This is so good for you. Full of anti-oxidants and it will give your immune system a boost.”
Sasha rolled her eyes. “You know a lot about that stuff, don’t you, George?” she asked innocently.
“’Course he does. George is a brilliant herbalist,” said Phyllis. “He knows exactly what to give me when I get sick. Look how quickly I recovered!”
“I do have a degree in naturopathy,” George added, sounding knowledgeable. “And I have made a special study of herbs and their healing properties.”
“Right,” said Sasha.
“How do you qualify as a naturopath?” asked Margo. She was genuinely curious.
“I have a degree from Toronto. It’s rigorous training. You have to have seven years of post-secondary education to qualify as a naturopathic doctor.”
“You should really be calling him Dr. Smedley.” Phyllis beamed at her husband.
“I don’t insist.” He smiled back at his wife. Sasha and Panda are right, Margo thought. He really is creepy.
“Haven’t you seen George’s herb garden in the summer!” Phyllis enthused. “So amazing. And many of the plants have beautiful flowers, blue ones, white ones.”
“What do you do with them, George?” asked Margo.
“Well, that would be telling,” he said. This time his smile was close-lipped.
“I think we should let you get going,” said Margo, putting down her cup.
George did not argue with that. In no time at all they found themselves walking back down the Smedleys’ path.
“Want to come back to my place?” asked Margo. “I’ve got faster Internet than you. Let’s check out George Smedley. I think you’re right. There’s something going on here that doesn’t quite add up.”
Roxanne wished she was wearing her parka. A smart wool coat didn’t keep out the cold when you were watching four-year-olds practise hockey at an outdoor rink in a Winnipeg suburb on a freezing February night. She stood at the edge of the floodlit oval watching them stagger and slide over the ice, big-headed in their helmets, like overgrown ants. Finn was doing okay, staying upright, occasionally managing to get up some speed. He whacked a passing puck. It spun off his stick and bounced off the boards. He waved to her, delighted with himself. Sometimes he looked so like Jake she could cry. She waved right back.
Her sister Susan had persuaded her to stay the night with them. Finn had nursery school tomorrow, first thing, and Roxanne would need to get back to Fiskar Bay. It made sense, but she would have loved to scoop him up and have him all to herself, at home, for this one night. Next time she’d try for two consecutive nights off. Would that be possible?
Susan and her husband, Roy, were the reason Roxanne had transferred to Manitoba. Susan had offered to take care of Finn, any time. She had a boy the same age and two older kids, so Finn got to spend time with his cousins. His uncle was good with him, next best thing to a dad. Roxanne didn’t know how she’d manage to stay in this job without them. The two cousins were out there now, high-fiving each other. Roy had come along too. He stood at her side.
“Is it that Magnusson murder you’re working on?”
“Yeah. Double murder now. It’s a big case.” Roy was a doctor with a family practice. “Can I run something by you? Professional question?”
“Sure,” he said. She watched Finn trip and fall. One of the teenagers who helped the coach swooped by and lifted him back onto his feet. He skated off again, perfectly fine.
“The victim in this case was hit first and smothered after. The autopsy report says the impact to her skull was right on the back, where the occipital bone meets the parietal, so she wasn’t hit from above. It looks more like a sideways blow.”
“Maybe she fell,” said Roy. “She could have hit her head against something hard. In which case it might have been an accident.”
“But not when someone makes sure she’s dead by smothering her after. That makes it murder, for sure. But why would someone do that?”
“The blow probably knocked her out.” Roy considered this while still keeping an eye on the rink.
“There’s a skull fracture and extensive brain trauma.”
“Then she could have gone into a coma. The person often makes a snoring sound with that kind of injury. Still breathing, you know, in and out. Could be that the killer just wanted to stop her making that noise. Maybe it happened in the heat of the moment.”
Roxanne tried to remember if she had seen any cushions in the Magnusson house. Of course someone could have used a pillow. The report also said that Stella had eaten dinner. She had died shortly afterwards. Their assumption that the murder had occurred on Friday, January 19, had been right, and now they knew it had happened in the evening. Angus Smith had eaten dinner too, lasagne, so his death had happened at night, too. The knife had gone straight into his heart. There was nothing ambivalent about how he had died.
A whistle blew. Break time, so the kids could go inside for a few minutes and warm up.
“Come on,” Roy said. “Let’s get you inside. You look frozen.”
There was a wooden clubhouse opposite with changing rooms and a cafeteria. She’d go have some hot chocolate with her boy.
Izzy and Matt were in the Pizza Place at Fiskar Bay, just finishing eating an extra-large pizza, loaded, when Izzy’s phone rang.
“Geez, really?” She hung up. “Erik Axelsson showed up at the Andreychuk place not long ago. Got into a fight with Brad. He’s badly hurt. An ambulance is on its way. We’d better go.”