Murder on the Thirteenth (10 page)

“How'd he get there?”

“We're working on it. There's a blank from eleven to dawn. We don't know where he was.”

“Where was he at eleven?”

“Finishing his shift.” Wan Ho explained. “At eleven o'clock, the Squire presumably locked up his street car. At the west end of the line. The loop. Then walked home. But he never arrived.”

“Who saw him?”

Wan Ho consulted his notebook. “A police cruiser. At ten-fifty-five. They waved at each other. That would be just before he parked his street car.”

“And after that?”

“No one. “ Wan Ho checked his book again. “At five-thirty a.m. the day conductor opened up the car. It was empty. Nothing amiss. He drove it right through the city. Eventually to the east end. About five miles.”

“Past King and James?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Just before the sun came up.”

“And you say,” Tretheway persisted, “still nothing amiss?”

“Correct. He picked up some early shift workers at different stops, but saw nothing unusual along the way.
Even at King and James.”

“There must be something else.”

“What about his bag?” Jake asked. “The old school bag he kept his stuff in?”

“I'm coming to that,” Wan Ho said defensively. “A passerby found it. At the end of the McKittrick Bridge curve. On the sidewalk. At first light.”

“That's about a mile before King and James?”

“That's right,” Wan Ho said. “Still on the streetcar line.”

Tretheway ran out of questions.

“What now?” Jake asked.

“As Inspector Renault said in
Casablanca,
“Round up the usual suspects'.” Wan Ho looked tired.

“And who might that be?” Zoë Plunkitt said, with a smile.

“You're not going to like this.”

“Eh?”

“Zulp has a new theory.” Wan Ho had their attention. “One of the Air Raid Wardens is a spy. A Nazi. He or she is knocking off the other ARW's. A plot against the Canadian Civil Defense. Starting in Fort York.”

“You can't be serious,” Tretheway said.

“He's outdone himself,” Jake said.

Zoë was speechless.

“I said you wouldn't like it.”

“Surely you don't believe it,” Tretheway said.

“The Nazi spy thing, no. But in fairness to Zulp, Mary Dearlove and the Squire
were
ARW's.”

“But so am I,” Beezul said.

“Me too,” Zoë said.

“So tell me where you were Wednesday night,” Wan Ho said; then more softly, “just for the record.”

“You asked the others?” Jake said.

“Yep. Garth Dingle, Gum, Pat Sprong, Cynthia, Tremaine. Even Doc Nooner.”

“And?” Tretheway said.

“They all say they were in bed,” Wan Ho said. “And can't prove it.”

“You didn't ask me,” Beezul said.

“Okay. Where were you?”

Beezul smiled sheepishly. “In bed.”

“Anybody see you?”

He shook his head.

“Join the club.”

“What about me?” Zoë Plunkitt asked.

“You were away,” Wan Ho.said.

“You know?” Zoë went pale. “And I suppose you know where I went?”

“It doesn't matter. I know you weren't here.”

“I was in New England. I always go there.” Her lips pressed tightly together. “A town called Danvers.”

“Take it easy, Zoë” Wan Ho said soothingly. “Look at it this way. You're the only one with an iron-clad alibi.”

“Well…” The colour returned to her cheeks.

“I suppose you checked on Jake?” Tretheway said.

“No. Of course not.”

“And me?”

Wan Ho hesitated. “Not really, but…”

“But what?”

“You know what Chief Zulp's like. He thinks you shouldn't dabble in…”

“I don't dabble,” Tretheway said quietly.

“Poor choice of words.” Wan Ho tugged at his collar which was suddenly too tight. “You know what I mean.” He tried again. “He says you're the Regional ARP Officer, and doing a fine job. But you're not a detective. And he thinks you should…you know…”

“Stay the hell out of the investigation,” Tretheway finished.

“Well, not in those exact words.”

“Couldn't agree more,” Tretheway said.

“Eh?”

“I have enough to do with my own job.” He spread his arms and looked around. “Right here. And I certainly wouldn't want to interfere with the Chiefs investigation.”

Everyone relaxed.

“However.” Tretheway stood up. Everyone stopped relaxing. Tretheway shook his fat forefinger at no one in particular. His eyes flashed. “As a senior officer of the FYPD, I have a responsibility to the people. If I deem there's an emergency, I'll do all the dabbling I want. Murder tends to erase the lines between detectives and traffic cops.”

His great fist banged the desk. Pencils, paper clips and a framed picture of Tretheway's old traffic division jumped up about an inch from the solid oak table top. “A Third Class inside desk Constable can—hell,
must
arrest a killer!”

Wan Ho and Jake held their breath. Beezul hitched his pants up. Zoë Plunkitt stared intently into her lap. Tretheway sat down and began to realign his pencils.

“What's the time?”

“Eleven twenty,” Jake said.

“Close enough.” Tretheway stood up. “Let's have some fish and chips,” he said. “My treat.”

For the rest of the month, the investigation followed trails that dead-ended, criss-crossed, went in circles or just petered out. Zulp's large unwieldy unit (not including Tretheway) didn't lack energy. Their motto —'No Stone Unturned'—was repeated every morning by Zulp at the daily pep talk. Some upturned stones proved interesting, some amusing, but most were unnecessary. Negligible new evidence came to light.

By the beginning of June, the investigation had bogged down. Very little had changed. The Mary Dearlove case was still officially an accident but viewed now with
suspicion. Luke had returned to the hotel on a trial basis but still couldn't, or wouldn't, remember anything about his grisly sighting. And the Squire's demise remained on the books as a killing by strange unknowns. This too was being questioned.

The June thirteenth murder shattered this air of indecision.

It was no accident. And it was obviously premeditated.

E
arly in the eighteenth century, Geoffrey Beezul's ancestors had left the US for Canada as part of the United Empire Loyalist movement. Since 1843, the year the Fort York Yacht Club received its Royal charter, a Beezul had been a member. Geoffrey carried on the tradition, this year as Rear-Commodore. Although his appointment had more to do with keeping the club's gin cupboard stocked than with seamanship, he did own and skipper a small Rainbow Class sailboat.

The pretty, 21-foot white craft, with keel and Marconi rig, called for a racing crew of three: Skipper Beezul, Mainman Warbucks and Jibman—in this case Jibwoman— Zoë Plunkitt. During the races Beezul was an inept sailor and Warbucks daydreamed but Zoë, the only active female member in the club, ere wed with agility and knowledge, and did her best to keep them from coming in last—which they did often. They raced only once a week except for special occasions, like regattas.

The RFYYC had decided to host the Great Lakes International Regatta to celebrate its centennial on the weekend of June 12-13. On Saturday, ideal weather prevailed. The wind blew a reliable twenty knots, the sun shone and the temperature steadied around eighty degrees.

On the club's verdant bayside lawn, waiters circulated among the casually arranged tables and chairs, balancing pink lemonade and gins on gleaming silver trays. Ladies
wearing flowered summer dresses walked arm in arm with men in white ducks and crested navy blazers. Local politicians, including the Mayor himself, hobnobbed with the officers of the club. Rear-Commodore Beezul had invited all the west-end ARWs, the Tretheways and Jake. Tretheway's blazer pocket displayed the splendid crest of the Second Life Guards, Household Cavalry.

Everyone jostled pleasantly for a view of the starting line. They waited expectantly to see the puff of smoke from the Committee boat and, seconds later, hear the small cannon's roar that signalled the start of the first race.

Lightnings, an international class, made up the largest group and started first. They were followed by small Snipes and smaller Penguins. Those with homemade, unique or scarce models fitted into an untidy miscellaneous class. Beezul raced in the last group against eight other Rainbows.

From the first starting cannon to the last finishing bell, all races went off without a hitch. And Skipper Beezul did better than anyone expected. Because of bad decisions by half the fleet, fluky wind shifts and just being in the right place at the right time, he finished second, a personal best.

This pleased Beezul immensely. He couldn't wait for the Sunday race. That night, as he slid into a dream in which he held the winner's cup above his head amongst his cheering peers, a small, nagging thought nibbled at the edge of his enjoyment: “If only the weather holds.”

The barometer dropped alarmingly overnight. By Sunday morning the wind was gusting to forty knots, no sun appeared, the temperature had dipped to the high forties and uncomfortable darts of rain were falling erratically. Only the hardiest spectators turned up. The ladies had exchanged their floppy summer hats for bandannas.
Woollen sweaters and squall jackets were popular. Topsiders replaced dress shoes. Everyone kept turning a weather eye to the grey lowering skies.

“Doesn't look good.” Beezul stared skyward from the dock. He had called an emergency pre-race meeting with his crew. The Rainbow rocked alongside.

“Maybe they'll call it off,” Warbucks said hopefully.

“Surely they will.” Beezul shared his mainman's hope.

Zoë said nothing.

In the past, when the weather changed suddenly for the worse—not unusual on the inland lakes of Fort York— Beezul simply didn't race. He would spend the afternoon in the card room with warm friends and gin. But this was different.

“Let's just go inside,” Beezul suggested.

“Good idea,” Warbucks said.

“We have to race,” Zoë said.

“What?”

“Why?”

“Everyone expects us to,” Zoë said. “We're in second place.”

“But look at the weather,” Beezul said, sulking.

“They've got to call it off,” Warbucks said.

The sound of the fifteen-minute-warning cannon dashed the hopes of the two mariners.

“Let's go.” Zoë jumped on board. “Where's my storm jib?”

Warbucks reluctantly maneuvered his boat out of the slip while Zoë snapped on the smaller jib and Warbucks roller-reefed the mainsail to a point where it was hardly worth raising.

“Tremaine,” Zoë complained, “it's too small. We won't move at all.”

“We're going about five knots now on the rigging,” Warbucks said.

“I don't care,” Zoë said. “It looks dumb.”

“Raise it a little.” Beezul's voice wavered. “We're getting close to the start.”

Warbucks complied. The main now carried almost the same sail area as the set jib. Their speed increased. The Rainbow shot across the starting line, which bisected the bottom windward leg of the course triangle, at the same time the cannon roared. It was as though they'd planned it. Zoë cheered. Beezul smiled. Warbucks didn't hear it.

Beezul and crew tacked wildly back and forth toward the first marker. Three of the Rainbow fleet, racing with sails boldly unreefed, swamped. By the time Beezul somehow rounded the first buoy, there were only six boats left in the fleet, five ahead of him. On the next leg, a straight run before the wet, blasting north wind, two more dropped out with broken whisker poles and torn sails. The remaining four boats, Beezul trailing, rounded the second buoy to a choppy, exciting but relatively safe reach on their way to the last leg. The front runner, Saturday's winner, expertly rounded the final marker onto the windward leg once again. Numbers two and three weren't as expert. Reefed but still with too much sail, they also swamped. Minutes later Beezul passed them dead in the water.

Rear-Commodore Beezul looked ahead, past the heaving bow, bucking madly to windward with the boat at a forty-five degree angle. The one remaining Rainbow's stern showed an insurmountable five-minute lead. But he came next, second, a peak in his sailing career. It crossed Beezul's mind that his next successful race could be the Nationals or even the Olympics. He smiled and looked towards the shore. I wonder if anyone's watching, he thought.

Jake stood on the roof of the large lockers with Gum supporting him in the wind. For the last hour, he had been following the Rainbow race through an ancient telescope
commandeered from the miniature RFYYC museum and shouting interim reports to the small crowd below on the dock.

“Can you see him?” Tretheway shouted.

“He's second,” Jake shouted back. “A shoo-in for second.”

Everyone cheered. Tretheway, Addie and the rest of Beezul's guests clustered around the
Rainbow's
empty slip in front of his locker.

As the Rear-Commodore, Beezul rated a large, walk-in locker. The overhead garage door was open, allowing the guests to come in out of the rain and mingle freely amongst the untidy sailing bric-a-brac: half-empty, antifouling paint cans, sandpaper, extra sails, souvenir burgees from visiting yacht clubs, empty gin and vermouth bottles. A clutter of tools lay on the counter next to a dusty wind-up Victrola. Lined up neatly on a hundred-pound cake of ice stood a row of milk bottles filled with a deep purple liquid—Beezul's famous Bangers. Tretheway remembered later that one bottle had a piece of string tied loosely around its neck.