Reluctant Detective Read online

  Mary Anne arrived with the tray of drinks. She placed a shot of rye and a glass of draft beer in front of everyone, including herself, and sat down with them.

  “Is someone else coming?” asked Jacqui. She pointed timidly toward the drinks in front of an empty seat.

  “That’s for Billy,” said Dit. “In some countries it’s an Irish tradition.” Then he raised his glass and added, “Here’s to Billy, a good friend, too soon gone.”

  Everyone emptied their whisky tumblers. Anne grimaced and hurriedly downed a mouthful of beer to cut the bite of the liquor.

  “Good grief!” Anne said. “The things I endure for tradition.”

  Over the next hour, the conversation centred mostly on stories about Billy. Ben recalled some humorous moments from when he’d partnered with Billy in Ottawa.

  “… and,” Sarah said to Anne, “you already know that Billy first introduced me to Ben, but did he ever tell you about the circumstances?”

  “No, actually.”

  “Me neither,” said Jacqui, suddenly becoming interested.

  “Well, Billy had to twist Ben’s arm. Ben was a bit of a ladies’ man in those days. It was a blind date, in fact a double date with Billy and his girlfriend at the time. She was my roommate. Ben didn’t want a blind date, but Billy insisted as a special favour. So he finally gave in. Just before Ben knocked on my door, though, Billy told him that I was an ex-nun, just out of the convent, and that he had to be very, very careful around me. It was a lie, of course. I’m Jewish like Ben is. He was such a gentleman that evening. That’s what first attracted me to him. He didn’t catch on until our second date.”

  “I didn’t catch on!” Ben exclaimed. “Neither did you.”

  “That’s true. Billy never told me I was supposed to be a Catholic either,” laughed Sarah.

  “I remember Billy telling me that story,” said Dit. “And I couldn’t help thinking afterward that it had to be more than just an elaborate practical joke. Not that he would admit it. But I think he figured you two would make a great couple.”

  “Do you think he was right, Sarah? About the ‘great couple’ theory?” Anne asked.

  “Let’s see… twenty-four years married… four kids…”

  “… and no divorce lawyers on speed dial,” added Ben.

  “Good point.”

  “He had a way of looking out for other people. You never knew this Anne, but the trouble you had with that insurance company job…” Ben stopped, glancing quickly at Jacqui, and then continued. “Billy knew all about it somehow. His phone call for you to come down here wasn’t just a coincidence.”

  “And if it weren’t for him,” said Dit, “I’d probably be a bitter… drunken… cripple in a wheelchair…” There was a quiver in Dit’s voice. His eyes lowered and his head turned away from those at the table. There was an awkward silence. Then he said “… instead of the devil-may-care, handsome, electronics genius and entrepreneur I turned out to be! Gotcha!”

  There was uproarious laughter from everyone at Dit’s performance along with threats either to dismantle his wheelchair or to file complaints with the Privacy Commissioner over the dodgy electronic devices he was making. His shop produced specialized surveillance and tracking devices for private and government agencies in several countries.

  “And what about you, Anne? What do you remember most about him?” asked Sarah.

  “Well… did you know he was my babysitter?”

  “He babysat Jacqui?”

  “No. Me. When I was little, four or five, he lived with us. That’s when he first arrived in Ottawa and joined the police department. Sometimes he looked after me when mom and dad went out somewhere. He used to tease me about my name. Made me mad as hell. I guess he thought it would toughen me up.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No. School kids finished the job, and I never used ‘Wilhelmina’ again. Uncle Bill’s teasing therapy was a flop, but what Ben said about Billy looking out for other people is true. He always seemed to be around in those days, and I always seemed to be able to talk to him… about almost anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Well, I once told him that I was pregnant.”

  “You never…!” said Jacqui.

  “Yes, but I was only eight years old at the time. I had no idea what pregnant meant, but I had watched one soap opera character tell another that she was pregnant, and the result seemed terribly shocking to everyone. So I decided to try it out on Uncle Billy.”

  “How did he react to that?”

  “He blinked.”

  “He blinked?”

  “Yes, he just blinked. Then he asked me if I preferred chocolate or vanilla. I said vanilla, and we went out for ice cream. I trusted him with real secrets after that. Things I couldn’t talk about to my parents. He never let me down, and he was always in the background, kind of like a guardian angel.”

  “More like a second father, if you ask me. You were the closest thing to the kid he never had.”

  “He didn’t treat me like a kid, though. More like a buddy than a niece. And I remember quite a few Saturday mornings at the old shooting range in Kings County. It was fun. Cool mornings, dew on the grass, smell of burnt powder in the air. And he talked about his cases. Said talking out loud helped him sort things out. And he asked my opinion on things. I liked that.”

  “I can relate to that,” said Ben. “Every so often he used to ask for my take on things, too.”

  Ben had a suppressed smirk on his face. Anne suspected that something was coming, but Ben held off until he had everyone’s attention before he continued.

  “I remember one time especially. I was a rookie in Ottawa, first week on the job. We got a call to hot site, a drug store robbery in progress. Billy let me drive and, when we got there, Billy got out first. The suspects ran out the front door and headed for their car. We were right behind them. Suddenly, Billy tackled me, took me to the ground. Then our squad car rolled past. I must’ve forgot to put the car in park. It just missed me. Meanwhile, it was picking up speed. It ran into the getaway car, and pinned the crooks inside. Billy covered for me, thank god, or I’d have been working security at the Laurier Retirement Village. Billy never said a word, but his new favourite rock group became Crash Test Dummies, and he hummed Superman’s Song every time I got behind the wheel. He’d say, ‘Aren’t they a terrific group? Crash Test Dummies… catchy name. I think they’re gonna be really influential… you know, on the younger generation, people like you. What do you think, Ben?’ He really rubbed it in.”

  Mary Anne banged down another tray of drinks. “On the house,” she said and sat down. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Another of Ben’s war stories,” said Sarah. “They improve with each telling. What are you going to do now?” asked Sarah, bringing the focus back to Anne.

  “I don’t know,” said Anne. “Maybe I can find something around here. This isn’t the industrial hub of the Maritimes, though. We’ll see. Maybe back to Ontario.”

  “Mom! I’ve got friends here… and school.”

  “I know, hon. I’ve got Billy’s office to close up and some of his papers to sort. We’ve got the whole summer to decide what to do. There’s no rush. Who knows what wonderful opportunities will pop up by then?”

  Anne spoke with an assuring confidence. She put her arm around Jacqui, smiled, and tweaked her nose playfully a few times until she got a smile in return.

  “Okay?” she asked.

  “Okay,” said Jacqui.

  3

  Anne knew she was feeling sorry for herself, but she took pleasure in the warmth of her melancholy. Each wave of it was like a mouthful of chocolate. Sweet. Almost sinful. Yet it was oh so tempting to drift between the struggle of swimming and the surrender of drowning.

  Memories of her dead parents, the broken body of her husband, her meag
re education, her ruined career, and poor Billy overwhelmed her. She was only thirty-five. Today she felt fifty-five. A worn-out fifty-five.

  Yet, even in sadness, Anne had no delusions. This self-indulgence was temporary. She would pull herself together in spite of her life being a litany of tragedy. It wasn’t in her nature to wallow too long in the muck.

  In fact, she knew she didn’t have any right to do so. Some things were more important than her self-interests and expectations. At the top of that short list was her daughter. Jacqueline had suffered, too. She had to protect her, she had to be the strong one, the hopeful one, the one with vision, the fixer of all things broken in her life. That’s what a mother does.

  Anne had gone to the office the week following Billy’s funeral. Mostly out of habit. There was much to be done, but so far she’d had trouble focusing. On the third day, though, she finally dug into some of the paperwork. She started with the safe.

  The office safe was a rat’s nest of odds and ends. It was Billy’s private place and she’d respected that without him having to tell her. Anne spun the dial; the tumblers clicked like a roulette table. She snapped the handle and the vault door swung open.

  Inside were three shelves, a gun rack, and several sliding metal drawers. The gun rack was the first thing to catch the eye. A riot shotgun and two rifles stood in vertical slots. Next to them, hanging one under the other, were a snub-nosed Colt .38, an S&W .38 special with a six-inch barrel, a small .32 revolver, and a 9 mm Beretta, the standard US military version. Each was gun-metal blue and glinted with a light coating of oil. An assortment of holsters hung from a hook. One of the drawers held neatly stacked boxes of cartridges and spare magazines for the Beretta and the .303 rifle. The other drawer was a dumping ground for personal papers, notebooks, scraps of paper, memorabilia, and items that Billy had considered important, valuable, or sentimental.

  She took the stack of papers, set it on Billy’s desk, and sorted through each piece. Phone numbers without names, expired memberships, old postcards, and photos of who-knows-whom were tossed in the trash. Insurance policies, rental agreements, wills, legal documents, business licenses, and tax forms were stacked on a corner of the desk in a pile she deemed “urgent.” The rest was boxed and put away in a corner of the office under “uncertain.”

  “Packin’ up, are you?” A woman about Anne’s age stood in the doorway of Billy’s inner office. She had come through the small reception area without a sound. “Good,” the woman added. Then she walked passed Anne and moved to the window. “Nice view, too.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Patty Pacquet. The former Mrs. Wendell Dundas. Ring a bell?” Patty’s red hair took on a straw-like cast in the filtering sunlight. Her arms were crossed when she came in, and they remained crossed as she positioned herself in front of the desk.

  “Mr. Dundas owns this block of buildings. He’s our landlord.”

  “Wrong tense, honey. Was your landlord.”

  “What are you getting at?” Anne struggled to maintain civility.

  “Wendell’s dead.”

  “What happened to him? I never heard a thing.”

  “Too much rum, sun, sex… too much something in the Dominican.”

  “What… I mean… how…?”

  “Heart attack. I hear that’s goin’ ’round. Anyway, I didn’t come for a girly-chat. I’m the new landlady… owner… whatever you like… I’ve got the office rented for the beginning of next month. Be out by then.”

  “Hold on a minute. You’ve been divorced for years. What makes you think that you have control of the building? Billy would have told me if that were the case.”

  “Yeah, we’re divorced all right. But Wendell Dumb-ass was so happy to be single at work and play that he forgot to amend his will. He’s dead… I’m next of kin… I get everything. Remember… end of the month.” Patty turned and walked out the door. She looked back long enough to loose a self-satisfied grin. It was payback time, and she was enjoying every minute.

  4

  Anne locked the safe and the door to Billy’s private office. She grabbed a stack of envelopes from her desk in the reception area, closed the door behind her, and headed downstairs. Outside, the air was fresh and sweet. Somewhere nearby there were flowers, but their scent only reminded Anne of the floral arrangements at the funeral home.

  Less than a dozen steps brought Anne into The Blue Peter. Competing smells of coffee, steak, and beer displaced any others. It was ten to twelve. The pub was filling. She took a small table at the rear.

  “Hey! What can we get you today?” Mary Anne bounced into the seat across from her.

  “Special smells good.”

  “Steak sandwich or fish and chips?”

  “Fish, tossed salad, no chips, and water, please.”

  Mary Anne motioned to one of her waitresses and gave her the order.

  “You look off today. Not sleeping?”

  “I’m doing okay… at least I was doing okay until I had a visitor… Patty Pacquet.”

  “Patty Pacquet, the Queen of Tarts. Now I get it. She paid me a visit, too. Wanted to jack up the rent. She doesn’t have two clues about business. We have a long-term lease. Rents are negotiated every five years. We just started year two. I told her to take a three-year hike. By then she’ll have dumped all of her properties for cash, anyway. What’d she want with you?”

  “She wants the office closed by the end of the month. New tenants are moving in.”

  “Can you do it by then?”

  “Probably.”

  “Do you want to do it by then?”

  “No. I’d rather take my time.”

  “Rent’s paid up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t. She has to give a month’s notice of eviction. And that’s a month’s notice after the end of the paid month.”

  “You know, if she weren’t so damned rude… vindictive about it, I’d get out by the thirtieth. Maybe I’ll just let her stew for a while. Whatever happened to that contractor she ran off with?”

  “He’s history… didn’t measure up. He had a ten-foot social ladder. She wanted a sixteen. He’s polishing his wrenches on some back porch in Stratford now. Best gossip on the Island passes through here, hon’. See ya.”

  Mary Anne patted Anne’s shoulder and bolted toward the cash register.

  Anne had a lot to think about after she returned to the office. She didn’t want a fight with Patty Pacquet, especially such a petty one, but she didn’t like being pushed around, and she didn’t like Patty’s motivation. It wasn’t about money. It was about getting even. Billy had uncovered her plot to steal as much of her husband’s cash as she could and then trade up to a shinier model. That made it about Billy. Maybe a good fight would be a healthy distraction, thought Anne.

  Daydreaming about Patty’s comeuppance energized Anne, and she dug into the stack of Billy’s personal papers with vigour. She found his will and read through it. She was principal beneficiary of all properties and assets, personal and business-related. That was thoughtful of him, she thought, but she knew that there was no hidden treasure in Bill Darby’s life. He had a three-year-old Ford, a rented apartment, a checking account with $2,400 in it (according to his last statement), and a $50,000 insurance policy which had lapsed at the end of May. He also had $20,000 in a savings account. That would be set aside in trust for Jacqueline’s education. He had his police pension, but the pension extended only to immediate family. That wouldn’t include her.

  He also had the business, though. Right now that amounted to a safe full of firearms, a couple of desks, a couch, four chairs, and two filing cabinets. As far as company cash, Anne knew that what came in went out just as quickly. Not that he couldn’t have made money at it. But Billy had been generous with pro bono work. If he’d crossed paths with someone with a compelling problem and little money, Billy wou
ld take it on and carry the expenses himself. Those clients would never know what a costly investigation had been undertaken for them. Then again, Billy hadn’t really needed the money. He’d just loved the work.

  Anne picked up the phone and called Dick Clements, Billy’s lawyer. It rang three or four times. Impatiently, she twirled the chair around until it faced the wall. She propped her feet onto a cabinet, and tilted back until she slipped into a comfortable recline. The phone rang a few more times. Finally she got his voice mail.

  “Dick. Anne Brown. I found a copy of the will in his office. If you could you arrange for probate, I’ll send it over. I’m going to include another couple of documents, too. I’d just like your take on them, if you wouldn’t mind. No hurry. Talk to you later. Bye.”

  Anne rocked back, dropped her feet to the floor, and spun back to the desk.

  In front of her stood a well-dressed woman of about fifty-five. She wore a navy blue pants suit and a white blouse buttoned to the neck. A gold cross dangled from a matching chain. She had a square face and pleasant features. She was lightly made-up, and her smile fluttered nervously.

  “Good afternoon, may I help you?” asked Anne. The woman looked as if she had inadvertently walked into an adult book store.

  “Yes,” she said slowly and carefully. “I’d like to see Mr. Darby about a matter.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Darby is…” The word “dead” caught in her throat. A momentary wave of emotion rose and subsided. “… is unavailable. Is there some way I can help you? I’m Anne Brown, Mr. Darby’s assistant. Is it a personal matter regarding Mr. Darby?”

  “No… no… it’s professional… a business matter,” she said and looked behind her at the open door.

  “Perhaps you’d like to have a seat in Mr. Darby’s office. It’s more comfortable. We can talk in there.”

  The woman nodded and smiled a thank you. Anne showed her into the office and led her to the leather couch.

  “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  A few minutes later Anne brought in a tray carrying two coffees and a small plate of cookies and set it on a table. She sat down in a chair next to the woman and waited.