Death of a Highland Heavyweight Page 7

  He sat, and slid his arm across my shoulders. “What happened?”

  “People argued.”

  “And that bothered you.”

  I leaned my head against him. “Just because I like to argue doesn’t mean I enjoy it when others do it.” I felt his lips brush my hair.

  “I don’t see why she asked me to do this in the first place. She had to know I couldn’t handle it.”

  “Any bones broken?”

  “No. But it reduced two of us to tears. Three, if you count Reverend Innes.”

  “Do you think Carrie needs you to stop by?”

  I whipped my head up. “Now?”

  “She’ll be waiting to hear what happened.” His hand was cool against my cheek.

  I closed my eyes. “I know, but how can I tell her there’s no place for the craft tables and farmers’ market to set up, Ross Murray’s an insensitive jerk, and we made no decision about Claude?”

  He kissed me. I noticed he didn’t disagree about Ross.

  “Do you think if I just called her instead of going to the house? I could make it sound better if she wasn’t watching my face.”

  “What would you want if you were Carrie?”

  I let my head hang. “Company.”

  “I could go with you,” he offered. “If she still has lights on, we’ll knock at the door, and if the house lights are out, we’ll come home again.”

  That sounded like a tolerable compromise, so I agreed. We walked down the shore until we reached Hunter Hall. It was, unfortunately, ablaze with lights, and we could see Carrie at the kitchen table with my brother, Andrew, and Inspector LeClerc.

  “Do you think they have Claude’s autopsy results already?” I asked.

  “If they do, it’s not a good sign.”

  “Maybe we should leave.”

  Geoff looked down at me with surprise. “Don’t you want to know what they’re telling her?”

  I was being uncharacteristically uncurious. I knew that. But I had a feeling that if the news was bad, and I was there to hear it, I’d end up spending another night keeping Carrie company. And, all churned up as I was, I was in no shape to offer the comfort she’d need. Besides, I still had the meeting’s aftermath to deal with, like emailing the committee members, and tabulating their votes, and—

  “Let’s go around front and knock on the door,” Geoff said.

  I followed obediently, across the expansive lawn and around the house. I hooked my fingers through one of Geoff’s belt loops so I didn’t get lost in the dark along the house’s windowless side, on our way to the front door.

  Geoff rang the bell, but instead of Carrie, Andrew answered the electronic peal and welcomed us inside. “Man, am I glad to see you.” He led the way to the kitchen.

  Caber, who was lying on the mat by the sink, lifted his head.

  There was a low, pink and mauve floral arrangement on the table. Any other time I’d have found it cheerful, mauve being my favorite color, but tonight its lavender scent screamed funeral.

  Inspector LeClerc set a chair for me next to Carrie. Geoff brought another from the dining room.

  We surrounded the antique table, no one wanting to be first to speak.

  I’d come to offer Carrie comfort, I reminded myself, and touched her arm. “Are you OK?”

  She stiffened under my hand but didn’t pull away. “I don’t think OK will ever be possible again. But I’m alive. That’s something.”

  “Why are you here?” I asked my brother. “You have news?”

  Inspector LeClerc answered. “We hoped Madame Oui might remember more about the night her husband died.”

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “Is there any chance you heard a noise, a scuffle, Claude calling out?”

  At the mention of his master’s name, Caber waddled over to Carrie’s chair. Maybe he expected Claude to join us.

  She ignored the dog and twirled her necklace. “Ever since his head injury—I hate calling it an accident because I don’t think it was an accident—he’s struggled. He doesn’t sleep well. Didn’t sleep well. So he’d be up making noise at all hours. He tried to be quiet but, well, big men like Claude don’t do quiet well.”

  We waited for her to say more.

  “So I guess I stopped listening. That makes me such a terrible person.”

  LeClerc assured her it did not.

  “He could be volatile, sometimes. It was hard to live with.”

  “Volatile?” Geoff could barely whisper. “Was he abusive?”

  “Claude?” She laughed. “Claude was so gentle he refused to own a fly swatter. He’d carry moths outside.”

  “Then what do you mean, ‘volatile’?” LeClerc asked.

  “It was part of his Post Concussion Syndrome. One minute he’d be excited, eager, wanting us to move to Africa and change the world, but the next he’d…he’d…” Carrie shook her head, and Caber, apparently giving up on gaining her attention, wriggled closer to me.

  I rubbed his velvety ear.

  “Claude was a strong man,” she continued. “A proud man. I can’t talk about him this way. He would’ve been so humiliated if people realized he wasn’t always strong.”

  LeClerc said, “You’re saying your husband experienced episodes of weakness.”

  Geoff explained. “Symptoms of Post Concussion Syndrome—which Claude suffered—run the gamut, but insomnia, memory issues, mood swings, and depression are common.”

  LeClerc frowned. “Your husband suffered these?”

  Carrie nodded. “It was hard, sometimes, never being sure. One minute he’d be studying Ewe for his trip to Ghana.”

  Ewe, Geoff once told me, was one of Ghana’s numerous tribal languages.

  “The next he could barely remember what day it was. And when he was down, he’d lock himself in his office to holler and pray.”

  Andrew scribbled in his little book.

  “Holler and pray,” LeClerc repeated. “At the same time, or separately?” Clearly he’d decided Claude was a fruitcake. The way Carrie was painting Claude’s recent behavior, I wasn’t sure she’d disagree.

  “I didn’t interrupt, so I don’t know.”

  I decided to get them back on topic. “So the night before you found Claude, he was typically restless?”

  “Yes.”

  Andrew flipped back pages in his book. “Previously, you said you went to bed and to sleep as soon as you got home from your meeting.”

  “Yes.” She sounded a little unsure. “I could see as soon as I walked in the door that he was agitated.”

  LeClerc nodded, evidently pleased with the additional information. “You’d describe his mood as agitated?”

  She wavered visibly. “That sounds too aggressive, too out-of-control. Claude was never either of those.”

  LeClerc said, “Except when he hollered and prayed.”

  “He didn’t consider that was out of control.”

  “The night before he died, did your husband tell you why he was—what word would you prefer to use to describe his mood?”

  “Unsettled, maybe?”

  “Did he tell you why he was unsettled? Or say anything that might have suggested a reason to you?”

  Geoff asked, “Did he tell you about Danny-Boy Murdock?”

  “No. I already told you that. But…” She got that faraway look, as though she was peering back in time. “He wouldn’t look at me. He kept his face turned away. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but if Danny’d hit him, as you said, maybe he was hiding a black eye, or a cut, so I wouldn’t get upset. Because I would have been upset if I’d known Danny forced his way into our home.”

  “He didn’t force his way, Carrie. Claude invited him in,” Geoff said.

  Her red-rimmed eyes widened. “Invited him in?”

  “Claude had forgiven Murdock. You know he could never hold a grudge.”

  She shook her head. “I always told him his kind of Christianity would be the death of him.”

&nbs
p; This was my first inkling—though I can’t say it surprised me—that Carrie didn’t share Claude’s spiritual awakening. At least not to the same degree. He’d often attended church alone, while she spent Sundays with her mom. I’d assumed the women attended the nursing home’s service. But you know what they say about making assumptions.

  On my one side, Caber nuzzled my hand.

  On the other, Geoff shuffled his feet. “Claude’s faith and his willingness to forgive made him a stronger man, not a weaker one.”

  Carrie’s gaze turned challenging. “It made him a poorer man, too.”

  Considering her graciously-appointed kitchen, with its three-hundred year old antiques and high-end appliances, poorer was obviously a relative term.

  I said, “If there’s nothing else, maybe we should leave, and let Carrie have some peace and quiet.” Everyone, except LeClerc, pushed their chairs back from the table.

  “There is one thing,” he said.

  “And that would be, Inspector?”

  “We still await the coroner’s report with your husband’s cause of death. There is no evidence to connect it with the theft of your frogs, but it seems unlikely the two are unconnected. You should be aware.”

  Did that mean the police suspected Josh?

  Carrie’s touch startled me. “Gailynn, do you think…would you mind staying with me again tonight?”

  I hesitated—not because I was opposed to staying, but because I still felt ill-prepared to discuss the Steering Committee meeting in a reasonable, calm manner. And she’d ask about it as soon as the men left. “Are you sure?”

  “Last night I couldn’t sleep a wink. Caber kept howling for Claude. It was terrible.”

  “I don’t think I can do much for Caber.”

  “Of course you can. The night you were here he didn’t make a peep.”

  The basset bed-hog stared up at me. I found his mournful eyes even harder to resist than Carrie’s. “I don’t have my overnight bag.”

  Geoff gave my hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. “I’ll scoot home and get your stuff.”

  “And feed Sheba, please?” By now, my cat would be clawing the cupboards.

  Geoff kissed my forehead, and followed Andrew and LeClerc to the front door. As he and Andrew stepped outside, LeClerc turned.

  “Your husband was a famous man, Madame Oui and, as to be expected, the press are making inquiries. We have been very careful to discourage speculations, but I cannot guarantee we have succeeded. So when they arrive at tomorrow’s memorial service, I would advise you to refrain from making any statement.”

  Carrie’s eyes filled with tears. “Trust me, Inspector, I’ll be in no shape to say anything to anyone.”

  She started up the stairs. “If you could let Caber out for a minute and lock the house? I’m going to take a sleeping pill. I need a good night if I’m to survive tomorrow.” She pulled a tissue from her pants pocket and blew her nose loudly before she disappeared upstairs, leaving me alone in the hallway where, three days before, her husband had died.

  17

  When I whistled, Caber came flying from the backyard, ears out like airplane wings.

  I locked the French door, closed the curtain, and turned out the kitchen lights. Then I sat on the stairs. He rested his droopy chin on my knee and gazed at me balefully.

  The house was full of shadows. They reached out from the kitchen, the parlor, the great room, crept down the staircase. If it weren’t for the brave pools of light cast by the hall lamps, we would have been swallowed in darkness. Of course, I could have flipped on all the downstairs lights, but Carrie’s movements upstairs dispelled a good dose of the house’s inherent creepiness; and Caber, bless his homely face, was a comfort, too.

  “Well, Lord,” I said to the other One keeping me company. “Here we are again. Now what do I do?”

  A frog figurine stood on the hall table. I could see, from a collector’s point of view, it would be an intriguing piece. Unlike Ash’s collection, Carrie’s embraced a wider frog-aesthetic, although maybe that was because she had more money with which to indulge her obsession.

  Thanks to Josh’s thefts, Ash possessed who knew how many cheap kitchen frogs. Surely, if he’d really burgled Hunter Hall, he would have presented Ash with Carrie’s high-end pieces. Unless he knew Carrie’s frogs could link him to Claude’s death. After all, Inspector LeClerc did say it was unlikely the two crimes were unconnected.

  What would Josh do with the frogs he took, if he took them? Hide them until the heat was off? Chuck them? And how many frogs were we talking about?

  Why hadn’t I paid more attention when I printed off the insurance claim information?

  I pushed Caber’s chin off my knee, and headed into the kitchen. Maybe Carrie’d made a second copy of the list. I was unsuccessfully poking through kitchen drawers, when Caber announced Geoff’s return.

  Geoff had my overnight bag in his hand and a distressed frown on his face. “You left the front door unlocked. Anyone could have walked in here.”

  “I forgot.”

  “Forgot? You’re the one who keeps saying there’s a murderer in Hum Harbour. How could you just forget?”

  “Maybe that’s how the murderer got in and out without being noticed. Maybe Claude and Carrie never locked their door.”

  “They always locked up. They have a business in their home, like you do.”

  “Then I guess I was distracted. Tonight…” I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say.

  “It’s been a hard one.” His hug mitigated the reprimand in his words. “Andrew shared some disturbing information after we left.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Until the post mortem report’s complete, they can’t afford to jump to conclusions.”

  “But….”

  “Livor mortis, that’s the discoloration that happens when blood pools after a person dies, doesn’t support the theory that Claude slipped on the loose staircase runner on his way out that morning.”

  “Oh.”

  “On top of that, the contusions on Claude’s head don’t match with what they’d expect if he banged his head.” He stood. “Or if he’d simply collapsed at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “You still think he just collapsed?”

  “It’s possible he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage after Murdock clocked him. Bleeds aren’t always immediately apparent.”

  I tried not to look annoyed. Geoff wasn’t responsible. Why couldn’t he get that through his thick head?

  “But, according to Andrew, the prelim suggests Claude’s head injury was more in keeping with impact against an irregular surface. Like the frog candlestick Andrew bagged. They’re checking it for hair and blood of course, but he’s doubtful they’ll find any.”

  “So Danny-Boy’s punch didn’t kill Claude?”

  “It may have contributed, but, no, unless he came back later and hit Claude with the candlestick—”

  “And took Carrie’s frogs so it would look like a robbery gone wrong.”

  “It’s all speculation, Gai, until they find proof.”

  “Surely the candlestick will have trace— I mean, would the murderer take the time to scrub and disinfect it, knowing Carrie’s upstairs?”

  “Probably not. But there’s another problem with the candlestick theory.”

  I couldn’t guess what.

  “Police only found one. Presumably, the other one’s with the missing frogs.”

  I swallowed hard. We were back where I started. The only person we knew of who stole frogs was Josh Pry.

  18

  The stairs’ carpet had been re-secured with a new rod. Despite the woven runner, the stairs creaked beneath my weary feet, apparently rousing Carrie. She called my name in a sleepy voice.

  It had been an emotionally draining day; I prayed she didn’t have a new list of jobs for me. I tapped on her bedroom door and pushed it open enough to poke my head in. “Are you OK?”

  From the depths of her room she said, “Almost aslee
p, but I wanted to thank you for handling the Steering Committee tonight.”

  “Yes, about that.” Since the situation was unresolved, I’d done nothing to deserve her thanks, much as I appreciated the unexpected words.

  “I can sleep easy knowing they didn’t choose Danny Murdock. That’s all I care about. Can you wake me by ten?”

  “Ten?” I was supposed to open the clinic at nine.

  “I don’t know how late I’ll sleep otherwise. Never taken sleeping pills before. And could you vacuum downstairs and dust?”

  I knew I’d offered to help, but vacuum and dust Carrie’s house when I should be at work?

  “Mimi’s catering the reception after Claude’s memorial service, so you won’t need to do any of that work. But people will come here from the church, and I want the place to be presentable. You understand.”

  Traditionally, our church ladies catered funeral receptions in the church hall. It was their gift to the grieving family, their way of making a difficult time a little less complicated. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised Carrie’d made other arrangements. Carrie was a Hunter after all, and Hunters didn’t settle for egg salad sandwiches and oat cakes in the church basement.

  Well, Geoff had given me permission to miss work if she needed me. As it was, the clinic would only be open in the morning. Everyone in town would be at Claude’s memorial service in the afternoon.

  So I said I could handle things. She needn’t worry. “Anything else?”

  “If there is, I can’t stay awake long enough to remember.”

  “Then, goodnight, Carrie.”

  She didn’t answer. Maybe she was already asleep.

  Arching my aching shoulders, I let myself into her office, flipped on the desk lamp, and booted up her computer. The screen saver was a picture of her and Claude. He wore his kilt—only his kilt—and she an elegant, narrow black gown, and her necklace, of course. They made a handsome couple, the tanned, muscle-bound athlete, and his willowy blonde wife.

  I found the Steering Committee’s address list and sent a brief email to each member, saying they could suggest whoever they wanted, and the one who got the most nominations would be the person we approached first. Hopefully this would work. With less than two weeks until Hum Harbour Daze, we couldn’t afford to be fussy about our voting process.