Death of a Highland Heavyweight Read online

  “Andrew’ll be up to his ears today interviewing whoever else he thinks might know something. He kept me for almost two hours yesterday.”

  “You?” Visions of Geoff handcuffed to a steel chair in a skuzzy interrogation room filled my head, even though I knew Hum Harbour’s miniscule police station didn’t have an interrogation room. Or a jail cell. It was basically a one-room cottage divided into an outer office and closet-sized inner office.

  “Yes, me. Then Danny-Boy Murdock. He’ll probably want to see you, today.”

  “Me?”

  “You were with Carrie from the moment she found Claude. You could have heard or noticed something that seemed insignificant at the time.” He set down his mug with a clunk. “Wipe the stars out of your eyes, Gai.”

  I tried. Really I did. “When am I supposed to be questioned?”

  “We’ll open the clinic this morning as usual. I’ve only got a couple of appointments booked so it shouldn’t be busy. Whenever he does call, you can slip away.”

  I sipped my coffee.

  Andrew’s interviews could drag on and on, as Geoff’s two-hour chat confirmed. Surely, at some point during our conversation I’d be able to milk my brother for information on the investigation’s progress. “Then I’ll tell Andrew about Josh. And the guy I saw watching Hunter Hall.”

  ****

  Geoff had two booked appointments, but he was always available for minor emergencies—such as Elliot Macintosh. The seven-year-old one-man-disaster-master and his mom arrived while Geoff was seeing his first patient. She’d already stabilized Elliot’s injured arm in a sling. I checked his fingers as Geoff had taught me; they were warm to the touch and moved easily despite their shocking black-and-purple coloration. He could wait a few minutes for treatment—sort of.

  The last time Elliot had been stuck in the waiting room for more than ten minutes, he’d tried scaling the magazine rack, and, by the time he actually saw Geoff, he was in worse shape than when he arrived. So was Kimmy Thomlinson, whom Elliot—and the rack—had fallen on.

  I fit Elliot into the next time slot and explained to Geoff’s second appointment that the doctor was running a little behind schedule. Knowing Elliot, as everyone does, Geoff’s second appointment approved the shift.

  Sissy Sinclair and babies Bobby and Becky arrived as I ushered Elliot and his mom into Geoff’s examination room. Sissy’s six-month-old twins required more paraphernalia than a professional hockey team, so her mom accompanied them everywhere. The babies slumbered silently in their double stroller, belying Sissy’s claim they’d come down with a severe case of whooping cough overnight.

  The digital ear thermometer indicated neither babe was fevered, so I let them wait, too. Sissy and her mom sank into the waiting room’s padded chairs, and the next time I looked up Sissy was sound asleep, her head against her mom’s shoulder. I guess she needed a good sleep as much as her kids.

  The clock on the wall ticked softly.

  Sissy’s mom flipped pages of a magazine.

  Geoff’s second appointment angled his chair so he could watch the sleeping babies.

  Andrew did not call.

  I looked up Post Concussion Syndrome on the Internet. I wanted to know the signs, symptoms, and treatments, so the next time Geoff said he’d not done enough for Claude, I could point out what the experts said and how he’d followed all of their recommendations to a T. I didn’t have to check Claude’s medical records to confirm that. I knew Geoff, and I knew he’d leave nothing to chance with Claude. Or any other patient. That’s the way Geoff is.

  If necessary, of course, I’d have Claude’s chart on hand to prove this fact to Geoff and whoever else might ask. Like Andrew.

  I’d gotten as far as symptoms: headaches, irritability, noise and light sensitivity, when the mail arrived. Regretfully, I set aside my research and went back to work. I never did get back to it.

  ****

  Andrew sat behind the desk in the police station’s closet-like inner office, looking all spit-and-polish and official. For the past few years, he’d been working his way through the RCMP’s entrance requirements, and this chance to work with their Serious Crime Unit was a big deal for him. He wanted all Inspector LeClerc’s impressions—first, last, and in between—to be favorable.

  Being the loving sister I was, I wanted to do my best to facilitate the process—as long as it coincided with my own agenda, which was protecting Geoff. I figured informing on Josh Pry fell within that category, too.

  As best I could, I answered questions like, “Where were you when you first heard Carrie Hunter call for help? What did you see when you entered the house? How would you describe Carrie’s frame of mind?” I wavered a bit at, “While you spent the evening and night with Carrie, did you, or she, notice anything else missing?”

  “No, but I did see—”

  Andrew raised his hand. “Don’t volunteer irrelevant theories I don’t need. Don’t tell me anything I haven’t specifically asked about.”

  “But—”

  “Do you understand?”

  One of the things that annoyed me most about Andrew was me. The way I folded whenever he challenged me. So he was older. So he had a college degree. So he’d become a successful police officer with commendations under his belt.

  I was successful, too.

  I stood, bracing my hands on the edge of his desk and leaned in. LeClerc, who was working in the outer office, didn’t need to hear what I had to say, just Andrew.

  Sucking in a deep breath for courage—I’d never stood up to my brother before—I said through gritted teeth, “Do you understand? Because that’s the bigger question.”

  “Keep out of this, Gai.”

  “Only after I tell you Josh Pry steals kitchen frogs.”

  “He what?”

  “I don’t care what you do with that information, but you need to know.” I turned on my heels, and, chin held high, walked out.

  I felt so proud I almost high-fived myself.

  Outside the station, Carrie Hunter sat in her SUV. She’d cranked the windows down to catch the breeze blowing off the water. We might be four blocks uphill from the shore but the wind was strong enough to lift my ponytail and tug at my skirt.

  It’d been over twenty-four hours since I’d last seen her, and it didn’t look like she’d slept a wink in the interim. Big, dark glasses hid half her face. The parts I could see sagged with weariness.

  I rested my elbows on the car’s open window, not sure what to say that didn’t sound corny, and winged a silent prayer heavenward. Lord, strengthen her.

  “I’m glad I found you,” Carrie said. “I drove by the clinic. Geoff told me you’d be here.”

  She came looking for me?

  “Your brother grilled me for over an hour.” She pushed up her glasses and dabbed her eyes with tissue. “I guess he didn’t really grill me. I’m just so tired, it felt like a grilling.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Claude’s memorial service is tomorrow. They told me I couldn’t have his body until the police are done with it, but…” She blew her nose. I noticed the wad of used tissues on the seat beside her. “I need to do this now. I can’t wait on the police.”

  I reached in the window and squeezed her hand.

  “The thing is, we have another meeting tonight.” She meant the Hum Harbour Daze Steering Committee. “And I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it.”

  “Why don’t you get someone else to chair?”

  “Oh, would you, Gailynn? I don’t know if I’ll be in any condition to decide who’ll take Claude’s place as parade marshal.”

  International Highland Heavyweight Champion Wee Claude was supposed to preside over Hum Harbour Daze’s big parade, and ride the lobster float with the festival queen. It had been planned for months. I had no idea who’d be considered an acceptable alternative.

  “Carrie, this is my first year on the committee. I don’t think I’d be very goo
d at chairing.”

  “Of course you would. You don’t have an agenda like most of the other committee members. I can trust you to handle the discussion fairly.”

  Summer weather in Nova Scotia is known for its changeability, and the wind took on a sudden chill. Or maybe it was just me feeling chilled at the thought of what she asked. But I couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse for saying no when I’d just offered to do anything I could.

  “You’ll be there?”

  She patted my hand, as if I was the one who needed consoling. I took that to mean no. “You have to promise me one thing. Danny Murdock must not, under any circumstances, take Claude’s place. No matter what the committee members say. Do you understand?”

  15

  Hum Harbour Daze’s Steering Committee met in the curling club’s boardroom. Boardroom was a grandiose description for the cramped, grey paneled room with orange plastic stacking chairs and scarred folding tables inherited from the Junior High that closed a few years back. There was a glassed trophy case with four top-heavy trophies and a single piece of art on the wall—a framed 1950’s print of Her Majesty the Queen. Four venetian-blind covered windows faced the parking lot. When the meetings got boring, you could watch kids skateboarding across the cracked pavement.

  The committee normally included Carrie Hunter, (chairperson)—who was glaringly absent—Ross Murray, (committee treasurer), and Vi Murray, (Hum Harbour Daze publicity secretary and Ross’s second ex-wife.) Vi and Ross came to verbal blows at least once every meeting.

  Reverend Innes was our events coordinator. My oldest brother, Sam, was in charge of fireworks and lobster boat races. And there was me. I represented the Downtown Business Association, and until tonight, I was in charge of nothing.

  We sat around the long table sipping take-out coffee while Vi read the minutes of our last meeting and Ross read his treasurer’s report. I had a hard time focusing. My mind kept drifting towards my unwanted assignment: ensuring the choice of a new parade marshal went smoothly.

  After Ross and Vi, Reverend Innes, resplendent in his rainbow-bright Innes tartan vest, stood and updated us on his progress. Rusty’s midway would begin setting up Wednesday. A record forty-three entries were expected in this year’s parade; as usual, a local radio personality would be parade judge. Buddy’s Dilemma, a popular Celtic rock band, was confirmed for the dance that followed the crowning of the festival queen. Sixty-seven vendors had purchased table-space at the farmers’ market/craft sale.

  Reverend Innes tugged his vest. “There’s a slight complication with the venue, however.”

  Only half listening, I stared out the window. A man I didn’t recognize strolled across the parking lot. Normally, I wouldn’t have registered his existence, but these weren’t normal days. Claude Oui was dead. Before the man climbed into the pickup parked by the dumpster, he whipped off his cap to rub his forehead. His hair was blue-black—like mine. Apart from his hair, though, he was perhaps the most un-noteworthy person I’d ever noted. I turned back to the meeting.

  “We can’t use the curling club for the craft sale like we’ve always done.” Reverend Innes rocked up and down on his toes.

  Vi continued tapping on her laptop. “Where will it be, then?”

  “I’m checking into other options,” Reverend Innes said, “but time’s running out. If anyone has any suggestions?”

  We all stared at the table, afraid if we made eye contact we might inherit the job.

  He heaved a weighty sigh and sat.

  Sam reported on the lobster boat races: how many registrants they had so far, how many heats required to name a winner, the details of the trophy ceremony—which included a piper, speeches by several politicians, and trophy presentation by Wee Claude, our beloved Highland Heavyweight Champion.

  Which brought us to the issue Carrie’d asked me to oversee. Selecting a new parade marshal.

  “So who’s gonna do it now?” asked Sam. “‘Cause if I’ve gotta ask the mayor or old Bill MacSween, our member of Parliament, I’m gonna have to get on it right away. And then there’s the programs. I’m thanking my lucky stars I never got into town to get them printed because I’d just have to do it again on account of what happened.”

  “Tragedy.” Reverend Inness straightened his vest as he stood. “Such a tragedy. Tomorrow is Claude’s memorial service, but perhaps we could honor him with a minute of silence during the festival’s opening ceremony?”

  Vi sniffled.

  Ross leaned forward. “Sure, Reverend, but right now we’ve got a more pressing concern.”

  Vi gasped. “More pressing? How can you be so callous?” She slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Oh wait, I forgot. Callous is your middle name.”

  Reverend Innes cleared his throat. “People, please.”

  Ross ignored him. “Come off it, Vi. It’s not like you’re any more busted up than the rest of us.”

  I recoiled at the implication. This might not be the place for tears, but was he actually suggesting we didn’t care? That we weren’t grieving? If I looked at him, I knew I’d either start calling him callous along with Vi, or start crying. I said to the group at large, “Have we any suggestions as to who might take Claude’s place as parade marshal?”

  Ross ignored me, too. “I mean, we’re all sorry about what’s happened. Claude was a fine man, an asset to the community, and we’re all going to miss him equally.”

  That made me feel a little better. Louder, I repeated, “Have we any suggestions as to who might take Claude’s place as parade marshal?”

  Ross continued, “But this isn’t the time or the place to let our emotions get carried away.” He finally managed to look sheepish—hard for such a big man.

  Following Reverend Innes’s example, I stood. “Any suggestions?” I asked for the third time.

  “We could invite Bill MacSween,” said Sam. “I mean, if the man’s coming anyway for our lobster boat races.”

  “He’s done it for the last three years,” Ross said. “I thought the whole point of asking Claude was to get away from the political overtones of having our MP presiding over the parade.”

  Reverend Innes’s chair scraped the cement floor when he stood. “Let’s not get off track.” It scraped again when he sat.

  “We wanted Claude because we wanted an athlete. Someone who could appeal to the young people. They’re happy to drink at the dance, but they don’t care about the rest of the festival.”

  Reverend Innes frowned, as did I. “I don’t think you can make such a generalization,” he said. “I know several young people who are happily engaged in the festival. Take our Gailynn, for example.”

  Still standing, I bowed slightly to acknowledge my status as resident young person. “Does anyone else have a suggestion for parade marshal?”

  Ross rested his folded arms on his ample girth. “Well, if we’re looking for a local athlete with a good name, then I think we need to consider Danny-Boy Murdock.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Ross swiveled in his chair. “Why?”

  “Because,” I said, “It would hurt Carrie. She’d think we thought Danny-Boy could replace her husband. And she specifically asked that it not be Danny-Boy. To go against her wishes would be too cruel.”

  “Carrie’s got to get over that accident, especially now that Claude’s gone.”

  “How can you say that?” I asked.

  Vi looked up from her laptop, her eyes misty. “We’re not suggesting Danny-Boy could fill Claude’s shoes. When you love someone and then you lose them—”

  Ross muttered, “Good grief.”

  “—there’s no one who can replace them.”

  Ross glared at his ex-wife. “How would you know about loving and losing?”

  Vi burst into tears.

  I rifled through my purse and pulled out enough tissues for both of us. We blew our noses in unison.

  “If Bill MacSween and Danny-Boy Murdock are both unacceptable,” I said,
trying to get the meeting back on track, “have we any other suggestions? Could we make the festival queen our parade marshal?”

  Reverend Innes hooked his thumbs in the arm holes of his vest. “Maybe we don’t need a parade marshal this year.”

  “Hum Harbour Daze has always had a parade marshal.”

  On and on it went, Ross’s words growing harsher by the minute. It made me wonder if his gout was acting up, because there was no excuse for that kind of insensitivity. And as the former queen of full-steam-ahead insensitivity, I should know.

  Order became impossible. Ross and Vi faced off with another argument.

  Sam pounded the table. “Why not Danny-Boy?”

  Reverend Innes wrung his hands. “People, please.”

  The curling club manager stuck his head in to see what all the ruckus was about. One look and he withdrew.

  Finally I climbed on my chair and shouted, “I call this meeting to a close! I’ll email each of you. You can propose names for parade marshal and email them back to me! Whoever gets the most nominations wins! Thank you!”

  Is a meeting considered a success when the women cry?

  16

  I escaped to the beach. It was dark, and the moon on the waves made the water look like liquid mercury. I sat hugging my knees to my chest and asked God why people were so heartless. I now understood why Carrie felt ill equipped to handle the discussion—or should I call it argument?—about who could replace Claude. I wished I’d run for cover when I saw Carrie sitting outside the police station, because I wasn’t equipped for this. I felt like someone had dragged my insides across gravel.

  I picked up a handful of beach pebbles, rubbing my thumb over the sea-tumbled stones, and found a piece of glass among them. I held it up to the moon. It was violet, like the earrings I wore. Closing my fingers around the sea glass, I rested my forehead against my knees.

  “Are you OK?” It was Geoff. He knew I found solace in the sound of the sea.

  “That was probably the most horrific meeting I have ever had the pleasure to be part of.”