Death of a Highland Heavyweight Read online

  “What about his hair?”

  “It was black.”

  LeClerc glanced to Andrew for clarification.

  “You’ve met our family,” said Andrew. “Gai’s a might sensitive about hair color.” As if the years of hurtful teasing were irrelevant.

  I felt Geoff’s hand on my shoulder. “Don’t bait her, Andrew.”

  My brother looked at Geoff in surprise. The two had known each other since babyhood, and except for the years Geoff went to medical school and then Somalia, they’d been inseparable best friends. Geoff’s return to Hum Harbour rekindled that friendship.

  Andrew nodded his head almost imperceptibly. When next he looked at me, there was something different in his eyes, as though he was seeing me—perhaps for the very first time—as something other than an irrelevant little sister. And that that might actually be positive.

  “Where else have you seen him?”

  I ticked them off on my fingers. “Upstairs at Hunter Hall looking for the bathroom. That was during the reception. Piteaux Jewelers. He left when he saw Geoff and me.”

  “Any more?”

  I glanced at Geoff.

  “You need to tell them, especially in light of everything else you know.”

  Andrew’s feet hit the floor, and he leaned closer. “What else do you know?”

  “I saw Carrie and Black Hair arguing in her kitchen. I was walking on the beach—I couldn’t sleep—and I happened to look up and see them. I wasn’t spying. I didn’t go that way with any intention of checking up on Carrie. I just looked, the lights were on in her kitchen, and I saw.”

  “Carrie Hunter-Oui and this man argued in her kitchen,” repeated LeClerc. “You know they argued because you heard what they said?”

  “I know they argued because he was waving his hands, then he grabbed her necklace and ripped it from her neck, and she started crying, and he hugged her and patted her back. Maybe, probably, she was still crying when he hugged her.”

  “I recall the necklace,” said LeClerc. “Impressive.”

  Andrew asked, “Was the hug romantic? Brotherly? Reciprocated? Rebuffed?”

  I replayed the scene. “I thought it looked reluctant. Like he felt obliged to hold her. He’d made her cry, but he wasn’t really feeling the love, if you know what I mean.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I didn’t hang around to see.”

  Andrew grunted. “What else do you have for us?”

  Geoff answered for me. “Carrie asked Gai to fix the broken clasp on her necklace.”

  “He broke the clasp when he grabbed it?”

  I nodded. “I couldn’t fix it, though, so I asked Mr. Piteaux.”

  “The jeweler again,” said Andrew. The way he said again stopped me.

  “Do you think he’s involved?”

  “Finish your story, Gai.”

  “He, Mr. Piteaux, replaced the clasp, but—” I glanced at Geoff. “--he said a man had brought the very same necklace in to be appraised, and it’s not real. Well, the necklace is a real necklace, of course, but the stones aren’t. They’re fake.”

  LeClerc tossed the empty pizza box into the trashcan. “It’s not uncommon for wealthy people to own quality copies of their pieces, to wear them instead of the real thing.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed, referring to my comprehensive knowledge of heist movies.

  “And the real necklace?” asked Geoff.

  “In a safe deposit box, perhaps.”

  I felt my pulse quicken. “Do you think the necklace might be important?”

  “There’s no way of knowing. And up to this point, we have been working the theory Claude’s death was connected to the missing frogs. So we had no cause to ask Carrie about a safe deposit box.”

  “Couldn’t you manufacture a cause?”

  “Your sister has an interesting mind,” said LeClerc.

  “Unfortunately.” Andrew glanced sharply at Geoff. “I wasn’t baiting her.”

  “Was Madame Oui aware her necklace is a reproduction?”

  “I sowed some hints. Gave her a chance to respond.”

  “Did she?”

  I looked to Geoff for his thoughts. “Do you think she took the bait?”

  “Not sure.”

  LeClerc grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “Let us go, MacDonald.”

  My brother was on his feet, brushing off his pants, and straightening his tie.

  “You two may as well come along,” said LeClerc. “Unless you have plans?”

  I didn’t give Geoff a chance to answer. “Thank you, we’d be delighted.”

  Geoff held me back, otherwise I’d have beaten Andrew and LeClerc to the door. “Try to sound like it’s a murder investigation, not a tea party,” he whispered.

  I nodded and adjusted my face. I hoped my eyes weren’t shining.

  37

  Geoff and I were climbing into the back seat of the police cruiser when Reverend Innes puffed into the station’s small parking lot. His face was redder than his MacBean tartan vest. (The reverend’s mother was a MacBean.)

  “What’s happened?” asked Andrew.

  Reverend Innes smoothed his vest as he caught his breath.

  “There’s been a terrible disaster.”

  Andrew and LeClerc shifted into emergency-mode. “What happened? Where?”

  I scanned the town spreading down the hillside below us. Did I see smoke? Should we call the volunteer fire department? An ambulance?

  “It’s Sam,” said Reverend Innes.

  We stiffened—Andrew and me because Sam’s our oldest brother, Geoff because his sister, Sasha, is married to Sam.

  Lord, is Sam all right?

  “He’d arranged for a tent for the crafters and farmer’s market folks. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “I’d heard, but—”

  Reverend Innes shook his head emphatically. “I don’t know what we would have done if he hadn’t come forward.”

  LeClerc, cell phone out, was requesting emergency back-up from Antigonish.

  “They dropped it off at the curling rink. We were planning to set it up in the parking lot—”

  Enough with the tent already.

  “What’s wrong?” I practically shouted.

  “He had a crew of guys arranged to help, because we need it up tonight.”

  Andrew grabbed Reverend Innes’s shoulders and shook him. “Do we need emergency responders, man?”

  Reverend Innes pulled back in alarm. “Oh dear me, no. Nothing like that. We need Gailynn.”

  “Gai?” Andrew repeated, incredulously.

  “I don’t know how he did it, but Sam dislocated his shoulder while he was unloading the tent. Sasha’s taken him into Emergency at the hospital—sorry, Geoff, we couldn’t find you at the clinic—but we still need that tent up.”

  LeClerc snapped his phone closed, and Andrew’s shoulders sagged with what I assume was relief.

  I felt equally relieved. “What do you need me for?”

  Reverend Innes tugged his vest. “Well, you’re the chair of the Steering Committee, and whenever we have a problem, the chair’s the one who solves it.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Where do you want the tent?”

  “Wherever the tent’s supposed to go.” That seemed obvious to me.

  “No one knows where the tent’s supposed to go.”

  “And I do?”

  “You’re the chair. You’re in charge of this kind of thing.”

  I felt Geoff’s hand on my shoulder. “Looks like you’re needed somewhere else.”

  ****

  I expected to find the unloaded mega-tent and a dozen fishermen in the curling club’s parking lot, waiting to set up. The tent was there all right, a ten-ton mass of canvas, poles, and rope, but there were only two men.

  “Lodge night,” one said. “We stayed as long as we could but, sorry, we can’t be late for the meeting. We’re putting the final touches on the parade float.” Eve
ry year the lodge glued ten zillion red tissue paper carnations to a giant mechanical lobster that spewed bubbles from its snapping claws. It used to throw out candy until the year my grandmother got hit in the face and her glasses broke.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I asked Reverend Innes. “I can’t set this up by myself.”

  “Since they put the new blacktop down, I don’t think we can set up the tent here, anyway,” said Geoff.

  “Then where do we put it?” I glanced up and down the street.

  There was a vacant lot beyond the Bait ‘n Tackle, overgrown with waist high grass and Queen Anne’s Lace. Fishermen stacked their broken lobster traps at one end and burned them on Guy Fawkes Day.

  Geoff said, “Why not there?”

  A short block from the ball diamonds, where the midway crew was busy setting up, the vacant lot was also an easy walk to the curling club’s parking area and the wharf—lobster boat central. And with a clump of trees at one side, there would even be shade, something the parking lot lacked. We strolled over to investigate.

  The ground seemed flat, the space adequate to the task.

  “Let’s hope this’ll do.” I looked at Reverend Innes. “Do you have a lawn mower we can borrow?”

  “Nothing that will handle this mess. You need a ride on, like Ross Murray has. Why not give him a call?”

  Ross, however, was at the lodge meeting gluing carnations.

  I called Dad. Within minutes, he arrived with Josh, Ash’s dad, and three heavy-duty gas mowers. They spent the next two hours shearing the weeds, while Reverend Innes, Geoff, and I transported tent parts to the new site in the back of Josh’s red hearse.

  It was dark by the time we were ready to set up. Dad called Mom, who called several of my aunts, uncles and cousins. It was the Sunday afternoon clan gathering all over again.

  Everyone parked their vehicles around the field, like circled wagons and flipped on the headlights. Tent assembly began.

  I’d like to have said it went up without a hitch or that the hitches were minimal. Truth was none of us knew what we were doing. By one AM, we were exhausted, frustrated, and still staring at the mess of poles and canvas—the thing had collapsed for the third time. Yes, third.

  I was close to tears. “I give up.”

  Dad hugged me. “Let’s call it a night. Things’ll look better in the morning.”

  I didn’t believe him, but I had no energy to argue. We left everything where it was. If the frog thief, that American jewel thief, or anyone else wanted to steal the stupid tent, they could help themselves. I was too tired to care.

  ****

  My phone rang and my doorbell buzzed.

  Geoff, stuck outside in the rain, rapped loudly on the sliding glass door.

  I let him in. “Tell me this is a dream, and when I wake up it’ll be over?”

  “The delivery folks are downstairs wanting to know where you want the crafters’ tables.”

  “Isn’t that Reverend Innes’s job?”

  “He sent them here because the tent’s not up yet.”

  “It’s not up because he didn’t get people to set it up.”

  “Gai.”

  I hung my head. “I guess they could deliver them to where the tent will be, whenever I get it set up. Unless the rain will ruin them.”

  He wrapped his arms around me. “They’re plastic tables.”

  Therefore, rain-proof?

  “Tell them to give me a minute, and I’ll meet them there to unload.”

  Out of habit, I checked my answering machine. One from Andrew. Argh. I did not have time for him now. I erased the message and jumped into the shower.

  Half an hour later, Geoff was at work, and I was standing under an umbrella, surveying the stack of rain soaked plastic tables and the soggy canvas tent lying on the ground. “What are we supposed to do with these?”

  Brother Sam stood beside me, his arm in a sling. “Doc in Emergency said I shouldn’t use the arm for a few days. Give the tendons and ligaments a chance to recover.” At least he was here.

  “I’m asking for ideas.”

  He rubbed his chin with his good hand. “Well, until you get that tent up…it’s supposed to stop raining sometime this morning, but that sucker’s gonna be heavy as sin now that it’s water-logged. Dunno whose gonna be able to lift it, even if we knew how to set it up.”

  “Didn’t the guy you borrowed it from leave instructions?”

  “It was the wife that let me into the shed to get it, so I never actually talked to him, myself.”

  “It’s supposed to stop raining?”

  Sam grunted. “Just ‘cause the weatherman says it’s gonna be sunny, that don’t mean the sun’s actually gonna shine. But you know that.”

  “Then what we need is for you to get hold of the guy you rented the tent from and ask him, as nicely as you can”—I could hear my voice rising—”to please come down here and show us how to set this stupid thing up!”

  “You don’t have to shout.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

  Sam fisted and unfisted the hand of his injured arm. “I don’t think I can get him.”

  “Why not?”

  “His wife said he was leaving for Halifax this morning.”

  “Call, anyway. Offer to pay him.”

  He glared down at me. “For explaining how to set up his tent?”

  “It’s no good to us lying in a sodden mess in the middle of a field!”

  “It wasn’t me who left it out in the rain!”

  My phone chirped. I whipped it out of my pocket, and without checking to see who it was, shouted, “What?”

  “Aren’t we a little testy this morning.”

  I turned my back on Sam. “Andrew, I haven’t got time for this, this morning.”

  “I know. Dad told us about your situation.”

  Us? Great. Who else was going to phone and gloat?

  “Look, unless you have something constructive to offer, I am up to my eyeballs right now, so I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to look at your pictures.”

  “I’m not calling about that.”

  “Then why?”

  “Raoul has an idea about how we can get your tent up and maybe catch a killer at the same time.”

  My spirit perked. “He could do that?”

  “I don’t know, but if you still need help getting that tent up?”

  “I do!”

  “Give us half an hour. We’ll meet you beside the Bait ‘n Tackle.”

  “Even if it’s still raining?”

  “Do you want our help or not?”

  My annoyance forgotten, I smiled at Sam as I re-stowed my phone in my pocket. “Looks like the cavalry is on the way.”

  38

  Ten a.m. Three dozen men, women, and kids, including one-armed Sam, stood around the tent in the wet mowed grass. It had stopped raining. A tiny streak of blue sky peeked through the clouds. I took that as a sign of God’s blessing.

  Raoul LeClerc rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He’d explained the process. We all had our jobs. So on the count of three, we were going to hoist three sides of the tent until the pooled water ran off.

  One, two, three.

  It weighed a ton, and I didn’t mean that figuratively, but, according to Sam’s shouted progress reports, it was working. Once the water’d drained into the ground we assembled tent poles. Raoul sketched a rough diagram showing us what went where. He’d apparently spent two summers in college working for a party rental company, so tents were second nature to him.

  We arranged the poles around the tent and prepared the ropes and pegs. When Danny-Boy Murdock jumped out of the car, we cheered. Danny-Boy was Raoul’s secret weapon. He figured any man who tossed telephone poles for fun, should be able to erect the tent’s center pole no problem.

  Raoul ran through the instructions one last time. “If the tent was dry this would be easy.” Yeah, right. “Wet canvas is heavier, but the job is the same. We have canvas lifter
s. We have pole lifters. We have tent peggers. Everyone ready?”

  We all shouted, “Ready!”

  “Lift!”

  I slipped on the wet grass, struggled to my feet, and lifted with all my might. Danny-Boy ran from one tent pole lifter to the next, helping each straighten and stabilize their pole, while the peggers pegged the ropes. Then, like a man about to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders, he waddled, stoop-backed under the big top, and hoisted the center pole.

  What a thing to behold. Danny-Boy groaning and straining under the weight of the canvas, as he raised the center pole. He lifted the massive metal mast until it was vertical.

  Raoul slid a weight-bearing cement block underneath—without it, the pole would have sunk deep into the wet ground. Raoul slapped Danny-Boy on the back.

  I rushed forward to give my own thanks.

  “You have no idea how much I appreciate what you’ve done for us.”

  Danny-Boy’s already large grin widened as others playfully punched his shoulder, pumped his arm, squeezed his hand.

  “You’ve saved the day!” said one.

  “You’ve saved the whole festival!” said another.

  Several men hoisted Danny-Boy onto their shoulders and marched him around the tent. Ross Murray appeared beside me. “Well, Gai, looks like you came through after all.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, don’t thank me. I still think it was a mistake to ditch old Danny-Boy as parade marshal. You’re just lucky the man doesn’t hold a grudge.”

  Raoul took Ross’s place when he stamped off to join the hail Danny-Boy parade. “Danny Murdock does not hold a grudge?”

  “That’s how I’d have described Wee Claude. But Danny-Boy? If he turns out to be the killer, I’d say he’s taken grudge-holding to a whole new level.”

  “If he is the killer.”

  We watched Danny-Boy soak up the adulation. “Are you going to tell me what you suspect?”

  He smiled. “Not without proof.”

  I shook his hand. “Well, thanks for saving the tent. I know this had nothing to do with your investigation.”

  He winked. “Your mama bribed me with a peach pie of my very own. How could I resist?”

  There were still issues to be resolved, like setting up tables, stringing lights, and directing the set-up of portable toilets. All the while the folded checklist I’d gotten from Carrie felt stiff in my back pocket. In the midst of the business, I noticed Danny-Boy being loaded into the police cruiser with Andrew and Raoul, and later, a tow truck hauled away Danny-Boy’s car.