Death of a Highland Heavyweight Page 10

  “Does it sound too unprofessional?”

  “It sounds like you care. Isn’t that the message you’re trying to get across?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then send it, and see what kind of response you get.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, I said, “We haven’t got a lot of time to haggle over this. The parade’s in”—I glanced at the calendar on the wall—”six days. And we still need to publicize the change.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about the publicity angle. Word will pass like wildfire as soon as you’ve decided.”

  “Especially if it’s Danny-Boy Murdock.”

  He scratched between Sheba’s ears, and her purr hiked up a few decibels.

  “I can’t help wondering if there’s more between Danny-Boy and Carrie than Claude’s head injury. Though, I suppose, when the person you love’s been hurt…” I shook my head. “You and Claude were close. What do you think?”

  “They’ve been rivals for years, but it’s been mostly friendly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “Guys, testosterone, and beer are an aggressive mix.”

  “I thought Claude quit drinking.”

  Sheba rotated her head so Geoff could scratch under her chin.

  “He did. But Claude’s sobriety made Murdock uncomfortable. And the money Claude made off of the Highland Ale endorsement—well, Murdock didn’t hide his opinions. He accused Claude of hypocrisy.”

  My computer chirped. The first return email popped into my inbox.

  “And Claude agreed with Murdock. The Highland Ale contract contradicted his new life. For a while, he rationalized it by setting the money aside to pay for his upcoming mission trip.”

  Dissatisfied with only one person’s attention, Sheba pulled my hand close. Automatically, I petted her.

  “What did Carrie think of that?”

  “He never came right out and said, but I think it caused problems. Hunter Monuments and Toys is in survival mode. It doesn’t do much more than put food on their table. Losing the endorsement income was significant.”

  A second message notification chirped. Sheba rolled onto her back.

  “So Carrie blames Danny-Boy for Claude’s head injury and losing the Highland Brewery’s money?”

  “It’s probable.” He shifted to see my face.

  “Last night, when Danny-Boy stopped us on the street and offered to fill in as Claude’s replacement, do you think he was being genuinely kind or maneuvering his way closer to the Highland Brewery endorsement?” I shied away from introducing my mom’s theory that Danny-Boy might harbor lingering feelings for Carrie.

  “The beer endorsement? That’s a pretty cynical suggestion.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “I don’t know him well enough to know what really motivates him. Greed? I suppose it’s possible. And remorse, and grief.”

  “He was Claude’s closest rival. I mean, with Claude gone, Danny-Boy’s number one.”

  “Only in Canada. He has a long way to go to become the International Champion.”

  “But, if you add the fact he punched Claude the night he died, it starts to look pretty incriminating. Don’t you think?”

  The third message alert sounded. Sheba responded by exposing her belly.

  “I don’t see how we can ask Danny-Boy to be parade marshal.”

  “See what the others say.”

  “What if they don’t care about Carrie’s feelings?”

  “No one is that heartless, Gai. They were just looking for the easy way out of an awkward situation, and choosing Murdock as parade marshal probably looked like a quick fix.”

  “You think?”

  “Open them up and see.”

  I checked the messages.

  I suggested Danny-Boy Murdock as parade marshal because he approached me outside Claude’s memorial service and offered himself. He wanted to make things a little easier for Carrie. He seemed sincere. But you’re right. Danny-Boy sitting in Claude’s seat will only make it harder for Carrie. I’m sorry. I should not have let Danny-Boy’s tears sway me.—Vi Murray

  It’s too late to keep haggling about this. If you don’t want our opinions then why did you ask? Have no parade marshal. It makes no difference to me.—Sam

  Murdock approached me. He said he’d already talked to the other committee members. I assumed Murdock being the new parade marshal was a done deal.—Ross Murray

  Reverend Innes’s was the last message to pop up. Geoff squeezed my hand, and I opened the final email.

  Grief is a complicated emotion, and perhaps we’ve been wrong to accept the seemingly simple solution Danny-Boy Murdock offered. In light of Gailynn’s email, leaving the position vacant might be the wisest option at this point. It honors Claude’s memory among us, and it respects Carrie’s wishes.—Reverend Innes

  Geoff and I silently reread Reverend Innes’s email.

  “Who has the authority to make the final decision?” he asked.

  I thought back over Carrie’s original dictum, her sitting in the car outside of the police station, dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose and asking me to chair the discussion. “Me, I think.”

  “Then what do you want to do?”

  I snapped the laptop closed and set it on the coffee table. Sheba rolled over and eyed me suspiciously. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’d like to know what you want to do.”

  I could hear Ash downstairs. Apparently she was talking to someone—probably Josh—and I strained to hear what she was saying. It was a good way to avoid answering Geoff.

  Until he poked me in the ribs.

  “What I want is for this whole thing to go away. I want to have never told Mimi I’d take her place on the Steering Committee. I want Claude to be alive, and Josh to give back all those stolen frogs, and Carrie—I want Carrie Hunter to go back to ignoring me.”

  Geoff pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “But, since none of those are going to happen, I guess I’ll have to settle for calling Carrie and telling her we are going without a parade marshal this year because Claude is irreplaceable.”

  Geoff let go of his nose.

  “Does that sound reasonable to you?”

  He kissed me. “Infinitely.”

  Feeling warm, wise, and content—a pleasant side effect of Geoff’s kisses—I dialed Carrie’s number. It rang through to her machine. She could have been screening her callers. She could have been asleep. She could have been crying out in her garden. I debated whether to leave a message outlining the committee’s decision—well, my decision. I settled for, “Call me when you get this.”

  I guess she didn’t get it for a while.

  ****

  Sundays were routine. I didn’t see that as a negative thing. Predictability was comforting. I knew what to expect. With me ignoring the complications of Carrie and Hum Harbour Daze, that Sunday started out like any other.

  First: church, which most folks avoided in summer, even if they were home. I personally enjoyed the informality of our summer services, when Reverend Innes forgot his clerical gown and showed off his tartan vests, instead. Summer worship music changed too, as our organist and choir stepped aside, allowing different members of the congregation to share their musical gifts. My favorite Sundays were the ones when the MacKay family brought their fiddles. This wasn’t one of those Sundays, however. Today we had off-tune, bluegrass worship with a backdrop of fading funeral bouquets left over from Claude’s memorial service.

  Reverend Innes’s sermon was about finding God’s grace in the midst of grief, and in a strange way, the music and flowers fit the message. I wasn’t surprised that Carrie didn’t attend.

  Following service there was the usual post-service coffee time—well, iced tea time—on the church lawn. Geoff and I stood to the side, Geoff’s hand on my waist as I fielded the reverend’s questions about the Hum Harbour Daze parade marshal. I kept my voice down and explained I’d yet to talk with Carrie about the final decision. But I was fol
lowing his advice. I would recommend we leave the parade marshal position vacant this year. Until Carrie Hunter concurred, however, I didn’t want the news made public. I promised as soon as Carrie gave her OK, I’d notify Vi Murray, and Vi could notify the local papers and radio station.

  Mid-afternoon, we MacDonalds began congregating at my parents’ house for the weekly family dinner. During the winter, it was roast beef and mashed potatoes. In summer, it was BBQ ribs and potato salad. You’d think as a family of fisherman, we would favor seafood at all family gatherings. But the truth was we avoided it.

  Dad said it went back to the days when kids like him were the poorest of the poor. Taking seafood lunches to school—not peanut butter or bologna like the other kids—made them a laughingstock. I guessed he’d never outgrown that feeling. So Sundays we ate beef.

  We filled the yard with people and webbed lawn chairs. Because Hum Harbour was built on a hillside, backyards sloped precariously. Unless one added a deck onto one’s house—which my folks hadn’t—tipping lawn chairs were part of every summer gathering. Over the years, we’d each marked out a spot where our chair wobbled the least.

  Geoff was a welcome part of the family gatherings long before we became engaged.

  He was Sam’s brother-in-law and Andrew’s best friend. So, besides my parents, Andrew, Geoff, and me, there were Sam, Sasha, and my new niece. Sam and Sasha adopted three-year-old Mara at Easter. She was absolutely adorable, and the main attraction at any gathering. There were also Ash’s family—her parents, brother, sisters—and Josh, of course. And cousin Mimi, her husband, Mike, and their two boys. That made nineteen of us. Usually there were more, but two other families were away at a softball tournament, and another aunt and uncle had decided to go RVing every weekend in August.

  The afternoon progressed in the usual fashion, hardly worth mentioning, except for a brief conversation I overheard—quite by accident—between Andrew and Geoff. They were standing under the apple tree at the bottom of the yard, gazing toward the harbor, and I thought, considering the direction they were staring and the way they were pointing, that whatever they were talking about had something to do with the water. Which had nothing to do with me.

  Until I caught the words “head injury.” The only important head injury I knew anything about was Claude Oui’s so I inched closer and listened.

  23

  “LeClerc’s shown me the preliminary report,” said Andrew. “I’ve gotta tell you, it has me concerned.”

  “What’s the problem?” asked Geoff.

  “For you—great news. No way Murdock’s punch had anything to do with Claude’s death. His T.O.D., time of death, has been set between midnight and one. You were both long gone by then. Right?”

  Geoff nodded.

  “We’re working on the theory Claude surprised a burglar.”

  “Carrie’s missing collectables?” Geoff asked.

  “LeClerc had me contact the Ouis insurance broker. Who would think those frog doo-hickeys of hers were worth more than a buck-a-dozen at the dollar store?”

  “They’re valuable?”

  “A small fortune.”

  I watched Ash and Josh chase Mara between the lawn chairs.

  Andrew continued. “We’re trying to trace them. Can’t be many frog collectors out there. Most likely scenario, whoever took Carrie’s frogs will try and dump them at pawn shops or sell them online.”

  “What if they just hang onto them until the heat’s off?”

  “Always a possibility. But we’re going with the theory our thief wasn’t the brightest amphibian in the pond.” Andrew chortled when he said amphibian. “He’ll likely make another mistake that’ll help us identify him.”

  I had two questions. He? As in Josh? They’d focused on him? And what did Andrew mean, another mistake? OK, that was four questions. Of course, I couldn’t ask any questions of my own without alerting Geoff and Andrew that I’d been eavesdropping.

  As though sensing my thoughts, Josh slowly turned. Our gazes met, held, and I was the first to look away. My stomach ached with concern. If the frog thief murdered Claude…

  Somehow, I had to get into Ash’s room and search her frog collection. I had a copy of Carrie’s list, the one I’d downloaded the night I slept over. If I took it with me and checked Ash’s frogs against the list and confirmed she didn’t have any, it would go a long way toward proving she and Josh weren’t involved. Wouldn’t it?

  But what if I found something of Carrie’s hidden amongst Ash’s things? What would I do then? Tell Andrew? Convince Ash to tell him? Would she betray Josh? Or would she cover for him, even if it meant he was a murderer?

  Twenty feet away, they stood with heads together, whispering. If only I could read lips.

  I was so consumed with my thoughts and so oblivious to everything else, I didn’t hear Geoff come up behind me. I jumped when he slid his arm around my waist.

  He grinned, ignoring Andrew’s quip, which I had also missed. “Where were you just now?”

  “Lost in space.”

  He kissed the tip of my nose. “Well come on back or you’re going to miss dessert. Mimi brought cheesecake.”

  “Only one?” One cake would never feed all of us.

  “You’re right. She must have brought two. Let’s check the kitchen.”

  We found three cakes in the fridge. Geoff and I sampled one and took our plates to the front step where we could sit and talk uninterrupted. He let me get a forkful of rich, creamy cake into my mouth before he asked, “What were you thinking about, really?”

  I took my time swallowing. “When?”

  “Out back when I startled you. You were staring at Ash and Josh.”

  My cheeks warmed with guilt. “If you must know, I was trying to decide how I could get into Ash’s bedroom.”

  “And what?”

  “See if she had any of Carrie Hunter’s missing frogs.”

  “Do you really think that’s possible?”

  I poked my fork into the raspberry swirls in my cake. The very thought of Josh’s guilt almost killed my appetite. “I hope not.”

  “But, you can’t stop wondering?”

  “Am I wrong to wonder? To be afraid she might be involved?”

  “Josh’s already stolen frogs for her. True, they’re only kitchen frogs, but maybe, like Andrew and the rest of us, he didn’t realize Carrie’s collection was worth so much.” He poked at his cake, apparently suffering the same malaise I had. “He thought they were trinkets.”

  I nodded. “How could he know they were anything more than cheap, ceramic figurines?”

  “But we can’t break into your uncle’s house to check our theory.”

  “It wouldn’t be breaking in. They never lock their doors, and I’m always welcome, any time. So are you.”

  “Not once they realized what we’ve done.”

  “What do you suggest? Wait until Andrew turns up with a search warrant? That would be even worse.” I could tell, by the tensing muscles in his jaw, Geoff agreed.

  “Everyone will be hanging around here for another hour, at least. What if we say we’re going for a walk, and we’ll be back in a little while?”

  “What if someone wants to come along?”

  “My family? Walk?” My family considered exercise to be grueling work and never attempted it on a Sunday. “We’ll have to be quick. I’ve a copy of Carrie’s insurance list at home. Can we get that, check Ash’s stuff, and be back here in an hour?”

  “We’ll have to.”

  I scraped the last streaks of cheesecake off my plate and licked the fork. I guess I hadn’t lost my appetite after all. “You tell Dad we’re going for a walk, and I’ll stick our plates in the dishwasher. Meet back here in five minutes.”

  ****

  Ash’s room was full of frogs. I mean full. She made Carrie Hunter’s collection look like the dabbling of an amateur. Stuffed toys. Posters. Sketches. Dresser-top containers. Books and bookends. Even her wallpaper. Frogs everywhere. But wer
e any Carrie Hunter’s?

  I went first. Geoff hovered in Ash’s open bedroom door, apparently uncertain whether to risk entering.

  Doofus, the family dog, had no such hesitation. He pushed past Geoff, jumped on her bed, and promptly fell asleep.

  Under Ash’s bed, I found plastic containers. I dragged them out and pried off the lids. Inside them we discovered enough Kermits to sink the navy. Frog slippers in sizes she’d outgrown. Frog-faced tea plates wrapped in bubble wrap. When Ash was eleven, she bought them with the money she’d been saving to get her ears pierced. If only we’d known where Ash’s frog obsession would lead.

  Doofus rolled onto his back, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and started snoring.

  I felt immensely relieved we’d found nothing incriminating. We re-stowed the plastic containers under the bed, snapped off the light, shut the door, and hustled back to my parents’ house.

  Just in time, too. Everyone was gathering their kids and empty dishes to head home for the evening. Had we been five minutes longer, Ash’s parents would have caught us in their house.

  That’s when I remembered Doofus was locked in Ash’s bedroom where he was never allowed.

  24

  I tried to intercept Ash. She and Josh always left at a more leisurely pace than her parents. Maybe they would’ve moved faster if Ash realized I’d left Doofus shedding allergens all over her room.

  Andrew leaned against his pickup, looking as if he had nothing more pressing than a burp on his agenda. But I recognized the keen light in his eyes, and I watched him watching them. Something was up.

  Freeing Doofus would have to wait.

  “Hey, buddy,” he chin waved to Josh. “Gotta minute?”

  Josh straightened. Did he sense danger? Tugging Geoff’s hand, I maneuvered us within hearing distance.

  Andrew said, “Gotta question for you, buddy. A favor to ask.”

  “A favor?”

  “Question. Favor.” Andrew shrugged. “Maybe answering my question’s the favor.”