Beach Strip (25 page)

“I made a much bigger mistake a couple of months ago,” I said, and Hayashida nodded. I had no secrets now.

“Gabe’s gun was serial number HPD7836, in case you were interested.”

“Has Mel confessed?”

“He’s told us some things, things he can’t refute. He’s being charged with three homicides.”

“Do you think Mel showed up at our house intending to kill Gabe? Or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing, maybe when Gabe tried to get at him?”

“This much he told us. He said Gabe came at him. He didn’t plan on killing him. Mel says the gun went off and he dropped it there. Claims he didn’t wipe his hand on Gabe’s. Just got the hell out of the bushes.”

“And Honeysett watched him go.”

“Apparently. Mel knew where Gabe’s gun was in the kitchen, took it, and went out the front door.” Hayashida smiled and shrugged. “Of course …”

“Of course what?”

“Saying it happened that way makes it second-degree murder, not first-degree. Reacting instead of planning. Might get paroled, someday.”

“He’s facing two other murder charges, right?”

“If his statements hold up, he’ll be sentenced for second-degree on those, as well. In both cases he said he hadn’t planned anything in advance. Blamed it on his hot temper. Makes it hard to get a first-degree conviction. Not that it will make much difference for twenty-five years or so. And there’s more. We got a tip that he received around a hundred thousand dollars in payoffs from street criminals over the past year.”

“Who told you that?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“I’ll bet his name ends in a vowel.”

Hayashida smiled and looked down at his notes again. “Mickey Court sends his regrets. He says he’s sorry he frightened you.”

“What’s a Mickey Court? Sounds like the Irish justice system.”

“Constable Michael Court. Undercover officer from Toronto, posing as a drug buyer.”

“The guy who showed up looking for Grizz.”

“We had nothing on that person except Mel’s claim that he’d heard Dougal Dalgetty had been shot by a heavyweight dealer, the Griswold character known as Grizz. Nobody on the street admitted to knowing anybody named Grizz, which isn’t unusual. We had to flush him out, which was Court’s job. It was trolling, is what it was. Enough people hear somebody’s looking to buy, the dealer responds. Usually. When nothing came up, we started getting suspicious of Mel.”

“Not suspicious enough. And not soon enough.” Then a thought. “Did Gabe know? About Mel and this guy supposedly known as Grizz?”

Hayashida nodded. “The day he was killed, Gabe scheduled a meeting with Walter Freeman. They were going to get together
the next day. Mel heard about it and knew he had to talk to Gabe that night. Which happened to be the night Gabe wanted you to meet him in the bushes. Nothing came together until after Honeysett’s funeral. Walter had already heard that somebody in the department was shaking down a couple of street dealers—”

“And thought it might be Gabe.” You stupid son of a bitch, Walter. “That’s why he asked if Gabe had given me any expensive gifts.”

Hayashida smiled and reached inside his jacket again, withdrawing a small piece of paper towel wrapped around something the size of a raspberry. “Nice timing,” he said, handing me the ring Wayne Weaver Honeysett had made for his wife and given to Gabe for me. “Honeysett’s daughters say you might as well have it. They’ve got lots more of their father’s jewellery, and they’re trying to respect their father’s wishes. They’ve also found three other women who received jewellery from their father. He was basically a harmless, lonely guy. Just wanted women to like him, but was too afraid to approach them directly. They’re sorry about accusing you.” He folded his notes. “If it’s any consolation, the ring he gave Gabe for you is the most expensive piece.”

He stood up and shook my hand.

“By the way,” he said, heading for the door, “no charges will be laid against you. Robinson’s getting the official word this week. And you shouldn’t have to testify at Mel’s trial. Oh, and Walter is still pissed at you.”

THAT WAS MORE THAN THREE MONTHS AGO.
Now it’s late November and everything is grey. The water, the sand, the sky. The lake, which is warm only in August, is getting colder, and in a few weeks I’ll wake up and find thin ice on the shore where the water meets the sand. Nobody rollerblades on the boardwalk between my house and the beach anymore, and few people pedal
their bicycles along it. They walk briskly, wrapped in woollen sweaters and leather coats. I’m starting to think like a bear: I just want to put on weight and curl up in a warm place for a few months.

Some days are golden for a while. Not July golden, of course, just golden with the sunlight. Nobody is fooled. Winter’s somewhere north of Toronto, heading our way. Sweaters smelling like mothballs have been hauled out of closets, people are looking at brochures with pictures of Caribbean resorts they can’t afford to visit, laggard birds are flying south, and tans have faded. Yesterday I made a pot roast for me and the Blairs. Gabe always liked pot roast.

Maude Blair still natters at her husband, Glynnis Dalgetty no longer walks the boardwalk glaring in anger at our house, and Hans and Trudy, who built their home in the style of a castle, sold it to a company that plans to convert the place into a schnitzel restaurant. Tuffy’s still serves cold beer and hot chili to the biker crowd, and the sun still rises over the lake each morning, although farther to the east and much later.

Mother hasn’t changed, nor will she, except she knows I love her more than ever. Tina thinks Mother’s next stroke may arrive with the next cup of tea or the next sneezing fit. Mother is determined it won’t. We may underestimate the power of love. We should never underestimate the power of a determined woman.

Tina rummaged through every site on Google about Mel’s arrest, learning the details on the three murders, including Gabe’s. She now knows more about it than I do.

The day after Hayashida and I had tea, Helen Detwiler called, her voice warm and sweet. She apologized for her unthinking response to Walter Freeman’s suggestion that I might be stealing money from the retirement home and told me I could have my job back whenever I wished. In fact, they hoped it would be very soon, because the replacement woman wasn’t … well, she just wasn’t as efficient or as well-liked among the staff as I was.

I told her I would think about it.

Dewey Maas called. I told him I was considering getting a dog to keep me company when I went for walks on the beach. He said that sounded like a good idea. Then he had a better one: he needed someone to work the front of his business for him, handling appointments, selling dog food and toys, keeping the books, all of that. “We would have so much fun working together,” he pleaded.

I said I would think about it.

Mike Pilato called twice, the first time to congratulate me on my detective work, prompting me to thank him for the services of J. Michael Robinson. The second time, he was more direct.

“Now that you know I’m not such a bad guy,” he said, “maybe we can have dinner sometime, a little veal Marsala, nice wine. You know, not right away. When you get over all this stuff, your husband and that
testa di cazzo
Holiday. You never asked me about him, Holiday. You should have. That’s the question you never asked me. I would have told you what I thought about him, what I knew about him. I knew lots. Not as much as you found out, maybe, but lots.”

I asked why he didn’t just volunteer the information, why he didn’t tell me what he knew without me asking.

“Volunteer?” I might have asked him to kiss the pope. “Hey, listen to me. Nobody volunteers anything, okay? Nobody but an
idiota.
You ask, maybe I answer. You don’t ask, you get nothing. That’s how the world works. I think a woman like you, been around the block a few times, right? I think maybe a woman like you should know that.”

“Been around the block a few times?” I was prepared to scream at him from a safe distance.

“Relax, relax. I mean you’re a woman as tough, maybe as smart as a man. Don’t meet many women like you anymore. You know your way around, you can still be a lady. Doesn’t mean you’re a
puttana.
You think maybe I invite a whore to have dinner with
me? I like nice women. Nice sexy woman like you, maybe have dinner with me. You heard of a restaurant called Omera?”

“Is it a local place?”

“No, no, no. It’s in Positano. On the Amalfi Coast.”

“You want me to go to Italy with you.”

“That’s right.”

“For dinner.”

“And a little longer. When you’re ready. When you’re feeling ready.”

I said I would think about it.

Two days later, Tom Grychuk called. It was Grychuk who had phoned Walter Freeman’s office when he saw me get into Mel’s car, as he had agreed to do when I called him from Vancouver that morning. When the police arrived at the lift bridge, it was Grychuk who told them to listen for a gunshot, which was enough to send them running toward the car just as I fired the Glock, aiming behind Mel’s head.

Grychuk reminded me that his wife had died a year earlier, which made it easier for him to ask if I would like to discuss the case, we two law-abiding conspirators, over dinner some evening. Not in Italy. Right here in town.

I said I would think about it.

LAST WEEK, J. MICHAEL ROBINSON PHONED
to say I might have to come to his office and make a deposition for Mel’s sentencing hearing. “I understand he has told the police just about everything they need to know,” he said. “The Crown will probably want a statement from you to corroborate things and ensure that he is not leaving out information vital to the case or vital to similar cases. But you shouldn’t need to appear in court.”

“What does a deposition involve?” I asked. I already knew. I just wanted him to keep talking.

“For the most part,” he said, “it will be a matter of you and I discussing the case, recorded on video. This will be submitted to the Crown. If necessary, a second deposition, with the prosecution in attendance, may be required to settle their concerns.”

I asked him what the
J
stood for.

He said it stood for Jonathan.

I asked him if there was a Mrs. Jonathan Robinson.

He said there was. His mother.

“Tell you what, Jonathan,” I said. “I’ll show up for the deposition on the condition that you let me call you Jonathan from now on, and that sometime in the new year you take me out for dinner twice. Once at a local Italian restaurant and, if the night goes as well as I hope, a second time at a restaurant I’ve heard about on the Amalfi Coast.”

He said he would think about it.

A
fter being absent so many years from writing mystery fiction, I needed something of a support system to complete this tale, especially because I chose to write in a woman’s voice. I found it in a number of people, including the usual suspects—my darling wife, Judy, and my illustrious agent, Hilary McMahon. The professional and caring assistance offered by Iris Tupholme, Noelle Zitzer, Lorissa Sengara, Allegra Robinson, and the balance of the editorial staff at HarperCollins Canada made the entire experience a delight. Others were both helpful and encouraging, especially Deborah Grey and James McMahon. I am grateful to them all. As I suspect Josie would be.

JOHN LAWRENCE REYNOLDS
is the author of more than two dozen works of fiction and non-fiction. He has written six previous mystery novels and is a two-time winner of the Arthur Ellis Award. His many non-fiction books include Free Rider, which won the National Business Book Award, as well as The Naked Investor and Bubbles, Bankers & Bailouts. Shadow People, his bestselling book on secret societies, has been published in sixteen countries. A former president of the Crime Writers of Canada, Reynolds lives in Burlington, Ontario. Visit him online at wryter.ca.

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ADVANCE PRAISE FOR BEACH STRIP

“John Lawrence Reynolds returns to the world of crime fiction with this terrific novel about a woman who refuses to believe that her husband committed suicide. It’s witty, tense and gripping, and features a beautifully realized lead character in the shape of mouthy, stubborn Josie Marshall. The beach strip is a delight to wander, a character in itself.”

PETER ROBINSON, author of
Before the Poison
and
Bad Boy

“A micro-universe populated with characters that are real, sometimes tortured and always compelling. This is a great story, told by a great writer.”

IAN HAMILTON,
author of The Water Rat of Wanchai

“John Lawrence Reynolds delivers the goods and a sassy heroine pitted against gangsters, perverts and low-life characters in this superb murder mystery that never takes its finger off the trigger.”

JOHN FarroW, author of
River City
and
City of Ice

PRAISE FOR JOHN LAWRENCE REYNOLDS

“One of Canada’s hottest crime writers.”

TORONTO STAR

“A beautifully crafted crime story. With this book, John Lawrence

Reynolds assumes a place in the first rank of Canadian crime writers.”

QUILL & QUIRE
on
Gypsy Sins

“A tough, bitter and splendidly written book.”

BOOKS IN CANADA
on
Solitary Dancer

“Quite simply, a terrific book.”

THE GLOBE AND MAIL
on
And Leave Her Lay Dying

Cover photo: Paul Knight/Trevillion Images

Author photo: Ben Soucie

Cover design: Lisa Bettencourt

Beach Strip
Copyright © 2012 by John Lawrence Reynolds.

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EPub Edition © MAY 2012 ISBN: 978-1-443-40816-5

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

FIRST EDITION

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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Reynolds, John Lawrence
Beach strip / John Lawrence Reynolds.

ISBN 978-1-44340-814-1 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-44341-095-3 (library hardcover)

I. Title.
PS8585.E94B42 2012      C813’.54     C2012-900616-5

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