3

 

I managed to pry Carrie from her husband’s side and drag her into the kitchen.

In the two or three minutes it took Andrew to arrive, sirens blaring, I plugged in the tea kettle. When Andrew’s car screeched to a halt in front of the house, I let my brother in.

“You?” he shouted over Caber’s mournful howl. Evidently, the dispatcher hadn’t alerted Andrew that I was the one who called.

I led him to the base of the back stairs. Claude Oui was a Goliath of a man. Six-five, two hundred eighty-five pounds. Stretched out on the floor like he was, Claude took up most of the hallway, and apart from being dead, he looked pretty much like he always did. A kind, gentle-faced giant.

“What happened?” asked Andrew.

“I’m not sure. I heard Carrie’s screams, and when I ran in, I found her doing CPR on Claude.”

Andrew crouched beside the body. “Ambulance is on its way, though I guess there’s no need to hurry.”

I wrapped my arms around my waist, warding off a sudden chill. “I’m not sure how much Carrie’ll be able to tell you. I think she’s in shock.”

“You think?” Andrew pushed to his feet.

“Can I cover him with a blanket?”

“Need to check the scene first.” He squared his shoulders. “And talk to Carrie.”

“She’s in the kitchen.”

Andrew had left the front door open, and Geoff—my incredibly handsome fiancé who also happens to be Hum Harbour’s only doctor—wandered in. He wore his jogging duds.

“I heard the sirens, saw Andrew’s car. What’s wrong, Gai?”

I closed and latched the door behind him. We didn’t need a crowd. “It’s Claude.”

“What? I just saw him last night.” Geoff hurried deeper into the house and found Claude, and howling Caber, in the hall. “Dear Lord,” he whispered and made the sign of the cross. It was something he’d picked up during his five years as a missionary in Africa. People found habits like that comforting, and everyone knows those poor people in Somalia needed all the comfort they could get.

Kneeling, Geoff gently closed Claude’s eyes. “This is my fault. I should have taken last night more seriously.”

“What do you mean?”

“I met Claude while he was out walking Caber, and he invited me back to the house to talk. I was still here when Danny-Boy Murdock stopped by.”

Andrew reappeared. “Murdock was here?”

“Came banging on the door around nine-thirty.”

Andrew scribbled in his notepad. “Know what he wanted?”

Geoff brushed his hand across his eyes. The gesture mimicked the way he’d touched Claude, as though closing his own eyes to the terrible scene before him. “He was upset about the Highland Ale endorsement. Murdock never thought much of Claude’s conversion or his plans to go to Ghana, but he was eager to cash in on it. He’d expected Claude to endorse him as Highland Ale’s new spokesman when he withdrew from the contract. So they argued.”

“Punches exchanged?”

“Murdock knocked Claude down.”

I gasped. “He what?”

Danny-Boy Murdock was also a highland heavyweight competitor, but he wasn’t the athlete Claude was. It surprised me he could get the draw on Claude.

“It seemed harmless enough, at the time. I told Murdock to get lost before I called the police, then I checked Claude, as much as he’d let me. I thought he was fine.” Geoff’s worried frown deepened the clefts in his cheeks. “How could I have missed this?”

Pen poised in the air, Andrew focused on Geoff. “You think Claude’s death was Murdock’s fault?”

“I don’t know. But with Claude’s medical history, I should have been more insistent. I knew the punch and the fall could have serious consequences. But he promised to tell Carrie what happened as soon as she got home from her meeting, and she knew what symptoms to watch for. She’d take him to Antigonish at the first sign of trouble.” Antigonish, a college town about a half hour away, had the closest hospital.

Not everyone knew that Claude suffered from PCS. Post Concussion Syndrome. It plagued a lot of big-name athletes, hockey players, football stars, boxers. Over the years Claude had endured his share of head injuries, but the most serious happened a year earlier when Danny-Boy beaned Claude during a hammer toss.

I don’t imagine anyone could forget the incident. The bleachers were full, and more fans were cheering from their lawn chairs or on blankets on the grass. Danny-Boy swung the hammer in an arc above his head, when suddenly the 22-pound ball broke from the handle and hurtled toward the other competitors. Wee Claude saw it coming and shoved two men out of the way. He got hit.

The shocked silence of the watching crowd still rang in my ears.

Everyone thought Claude was finished, and no one had the heart to go on without him, so they cancelled the rest of the competition. Miraculously, Claude rallied. He was out of the hospital within the week and went on to win that year’s International Highland Heavyweight Championship.

Now Claude was dead, and Danny-Boy, once again, was involved. Maybe.

Andrew snapped his little book closed and popped it into his breast pocket. “Well, looks like Carrie must have missed something.”