Authors: Carolyn Davidson
“Not bad,” Constables Emily Beckstead and Gary Driscoll waited on the Logan family doorstep. “Guess you could get used to this if you had to.”
The home’s pale brick exterior rose steeply in front of them in accord with the precipitous rocks providing backdrop, elevated windows mirroring back the Bay water gleaming hundreds of feet below. Set close to the Lion’s Head namesake landmark, the house had limited foot traffic, accessible only by a half hour drive down a dead end gravel side road. Driscoll recalled there had been some local contention about the building’s creation interrupting the renowned shoreline view.
“Here we go,” Emily nudged her partner to attention. A percussion of footsteps grew louder and the granite door was partially opened by a well-kept middle aged woman holding a greyhound dog by the collar. Lifting enquiring eyebrows, she surveyed them through the opening.
“Mrs. Logan?” the officer held out her hand to the woman, “We’re with the Grey Bruce OPP. We’re here to talk about Sarah Harmon. Can we come in?”
“Tom’s not here,” Mrs. Logan answered, looking pointedly down at the dog who was straining against his collar in a bid to make a dash between their legs for the forest behind them.
Emily glanced at Gary. “We could go ahead and have a few words with you if you have a moment.”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Logan gave an audible sigh, “Just let me put Sheba in the run out back.” She gestured towards the room to their left, and turned away with the dog at her heels.
Driscoll resisted the urge to whistle as they stepped into the sitting room: blonde wood beams met at the peak of a cathedral ceiling two stories above a room decked out in furnishing more extravagant than the getups on the shows his wife was devoted to watching on the home and gardening television channel.
Sitting carefully on the edge of a cream coloured sofa he pulled a face at his partner. “Can I offer you anything to drink?” a voice came from behind them as their host re-entered the room. “Tea, something cold?”
“We’re fine thank you,” Gary straightened as Mrs. Logan took a seat opposite the officers. “We’d like to speak with you about Sarah. Get an idea of how she seemed lately, if you noticed any changes in her behaviour. If you could think of anyone who might have intended her harm.”
“Sarah was a nice girl. Nothing out of the ordinary. I can’t imagine anyone who would hold anything against her.” Mrs. Logan stretched her bare legs in front of her, examining them as if searching for a run in pantyhose.
Both officers waited expectantly.
Mrs. Logan held her shoulders up in a shrug, shaking her highlighted hair with finality. “I don’t know what else to tell you. As I said, she was a nice girl. Tommy was quite taken with her.”
Emily cleared her throat. “Yes, I understand the wedding was to take place a few months from now.”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Logan replied. “I guess it wasn’t to be.”
The thump of a door shutting sounded in a distant reach of the house, and the Constable looked up questioningly while Mrs. Logan more closely examined her calves. A moment of silence was followed by the slow descent of a long limbed man, dressed in worn corduroys and a button down plaid shirt. The bones of his face were strong and his grey hair curled in a soft mass a teenager would be proud of, but the skin on his face was the colour of ashes, hanging from the bones as though he’d recently survived a famine.
“Darling,” said Mrs. Logan “The police are here to ask some questions about Sarah. I didn’t realize you were in.”
Mr. Logan halted mid step, holding onto the banister as if he might collapse without its support.
“Come here, sit down with us, dear,” Mrs. Logan patted the seat beside her.
Mr. Logan descended the remaining stairs wordlessly, gaze directed towards the hardwood floor.
“How long have you known Sarah?” Driscoll asked the couple when they were both seated.
“Five or six years,” Mrs. Logan replied. “Since her family moved here from Toronto. After some scandal in the city, if you’re to believe the gossip.”
“Do you have any idea what the scandal involved?” Emily leaned forward, pencil and notepad poised.
“Oh you’ll have to look elsewhere for an answer to that. Something financial I believe, rumour has it her father left Toronto with his tail between his legs to hole up here.”
There was a moment of silence barring the scratch of Emily’s pencil.
“How long had Sarah and Tommy been dating?” Driscoll asked, attempting to catch Mr. Logan’s eyes in a failed bid to draw him into the conversation. Mrs. Logan supplied the response while her husband changed his focus to the view through the windows behind Driscoll and Emily’s heads. “Since shortly after the Harmon’s moved here. A high school romance, I guess you could call it.”
A silence fell in which the ticking of an unseen clock became apparent, and Mrs. Logan looked at her watch as if reminded of the pressing passage of time.
“Thank you for your input,” the officers stood up, and Gary leaned forward to place his card on the glass coffee table. “Please give us a call if anything comes to mind.” About to follow his partner back to the front foyer, he noticed a family portrait propped in the middle of the table; the lone personal touch amid stark modern furnishings.
Mr. and Mrs. Logan had been photographed against the backdrop of the steep cliffs their house overlooked, aquamarine sky and water around them. Their son Tommy stood beside his mother, with Sarah on his other side, posed between her future husband and father-in-law to be. Driscoll leaned closer to examine Sarah’s face; she was laughing, looking up at Mr. Logan as if in response to a joke he’d told. Tommy was facing the camera straight on, his arm around his fiancé, grin confident of a bright future to come. Mr. Logan’s likeness held Driscoll’s attention a moment longer: the angular jaw and check bones were fleshed out, his colouring held the healthy ruddiness of an outdoor athlete.
“How long ago was that taken?” he asked, turning back to the couple.
“Just under a year ago,” Mrs. Logan replied. “Not long after the engagement; Tommy wanted it taken, thought we should capture the moment or some such nonsense.”
As the constables stepped outside, Driscoll turned back in time to see Mr. Logan drop his head into his hands before the door closed decisively behind them.
*
Sarah looked around the room for Tommy but the cigarette smoke and smell of incense made the air seem thick, as though she was surrounded by a heavy fog. She felt sick to her stomach but didn’t want to stand up to look for a bathroom because she was pretty sure her legs would give out on her.
The flat beer had gone down well for a while; she’d had beer, wine, even a few vodka oranges before. But never enough to achieve this floating sensation, the realization that pretty well everything was funny, and nothing that important. Except of course now she couldn’t get up. I wonder where Tommy is, she asked herself again, leaning her head back to watch the miniscule specks of light dance in front of her eyes.
Most of the party goers were sticking close to the keg in the kitchen, but Sarah had somehow ended up stuck to a couch in a room littered with strangers who looked worse off than herself. The boy beside her had passed out face down, nose pressed between stained cushions. Sarah shuddered and shifted her legs so her skirt covered more of her thighs.
She was relieved to see a hand reach out to her, to help lever her out of her seat. It’s ok that it wasn’t Tommy’s eyes looking down at her, pale blue irises flecked with darker chips watching her instead of the untroubled blue of Tommy’s. At least they would help her get out of the room that had started to feel claustrophobic.
When the party was over they walked back into town, morning’s first light already starting to filter through the dense screen of the night sky. She knew she had done something wrong and she would probably regret it in when the full light of day came. But right now when they had the long empty road stretched out in front of them and the sky’s fading stars reflecting the flash of fireflies that disappeared from sight before they were sure they had seen them, she couldn’t make herself care. The world was wide open and anything could happen.
“Sure, I’d see her more mornings than not. She’d be following the shoreline to catch the Bruce Trail up the Bluffs.” Mr. Broadbent gestured expansively to the lake view backing his home. “I like to paint overlooking the water; gives me inspiration,” he told the Sergeant as he took hold of Alex’s arm to steer him away from the window to stand in front of a series of oil paint canvases affixed to the wall.
The pictures were variations on the view outside the window, all done in painstakingly small strokes that must have taken the artist months a piece to complete. Could be paint by number as far as he was concerned, but Alex would be the first to admit art wasn’t his forte.
“I tend to focus on the light,” Mr. Broadbent, or Don, as Alex had been urged to call him, buried his bearded chin in his chest and examined one of the paintings over the top of his glasses. “This one here is a summer piece. You can tell from the light spreading across the horizon, can get the feel of the sun illuminating the water. Brings out the iridescence of the rocks, seems to light the lake up from below if you catch it right.”
Alex uttered a vague grunt of appreciation. “What time of day would she usually run by?” he attempted to guide the conversation back to the investigation.
“Not long past seven in the morning. I’m an early riser, so I’m usually on my second cup of coffee by then, been at the painting an hour or so.” Mr. Broadbent scratched his grey beard thoughtfully. “She’s a nice runner, cuts a fine figure.”
He squinted more closely at his artwork as though an answer might lie within the paint’s whorls and smudges. “Just can’t believe something like this would happen around here. Must have been someone from out of town, wouldn’t you say?” He turned to raise an untamed eyebrow expectantly at Alex.
“We couldn’t say, sir, we’re still gathering information at this point. Can you say with certainty you didn’t see anyone aside from Sarah Sunday morning?”
“Yes I can, that was it aside from the seagulls and a few cormorants,” Don leaned back on his heels and stared out the window. “Saw the Everett girl go by yesterday afternoon, just gone lunch hour, but I don’t think that’s any help to you.”
“That would be Trudy, correct?” Alex checked his notes.
“Yep. She’s the one who found her from what I heard. Must have been quite a shock. Old farming family, one of the first around here, the Everett’s.” Mr. Broadbent leaned heavily on his cane as he turned away from the window and headed back towards the living room.
“Polio when I was knee-high,” he told Alex when he saw the officer watching his movements. “Didn’t have the medications we have now.”
Nodding sympathetically, Alex took one last look at the view from the window of Don Broadbent’s studio before he thanked the artist for his time and left him to his paintings.
*
“Nothing under the fingernails,” Susan reiterated. “And damage restricted to her face. So we’re likely talking someone she knew, or an unthreatening stranger who approached her and then took her by surprise.”
“Looks like.” Derek Janey gave a terse nod. Janey was head of the Owen Sound crime lab, her go-to man for blood spatter analysis and basically anything found on a crime scene that required further examination.
“The blood pattern on the rocks suggests the victim was standing, facing the attacker when the blows were struck. We’re looking at four, possibly five rapid strikes to the face and head. The victim likely fell to her knees after the second blow. The amount of blood pooled around head suggests she was still alive when she collapsed, more than likely unconscious.”
“Any idea of where the blows came from?” Susan asked. “What height would you put the attacker at?”
“From the damage to the facial bones I’d say the hits came from slightly above. If we’re presuming the attacker was facing the victim where she fell, he or she would have been on the lower ground, putting them at least a few inches taller than the vic.”
“Five foot four.” Susan looked at her notes. “Alright, thanks Derek,” she gave her colleague a nod. “Let me know as soon as anything else comes in. I’ve still got tire and foot prints outstanding.”
About to step out of the lab, Susan paused when she saw Ginny approaching the glass door to wait for her to join them. In spite of a hectic schedule the crime scene photographer always managed to be impeccably put together. Susan had yet to see her with a hair out of place regardless of the location or conditions.
The colleagues greeted each other with handshakes and Susan pretended not to notice Derek’s hand giving Ginny’s a gentle squeeze as they touched. There was a rumour floating around that their relationship was more than professional, but Susan made it a point not to pay attention to office gossip.
Handing a substantial envelope of photographs to Derek, Ginny turned her level gaze on Susan. “Any idea of what we’re looking at?” she asked the Inspector candidly. “Is the boyfriend first in line?”
“No such luck,” Susan responded, acknowledging the hope for an open and shut case. While it often proved true that perpetrators of violent crimes were amongst those closest to the victim, Susan could think of a number of incidents where this wasn’t the outcome. “There’s a Lion’s Head lacrosse team full of witnesses placing Tommy on a bus en route to a tournament in Goderich the morning of the murder.”
“We’ll get there,” Ginny gave the Inspector an encouraging nod. Lifting her hand in an answering wave Susan left the forensic unit and headed across the parking lot to her Nissan SUV. Feeling an autumn breeze skim through her hair, she raised her face momentarily. Cool but with no hint of winter creeping in, the leaves still bright on the trees save a few crunching underfoot. A picture perfect autumn day, for some.
*
Clive Bird was drinking. Not the having a few beers, watching the game, savouring a good scotch kind of drinking. This was straight up, get to the point cheap whisky drinking.
He didn’t used to be much of a drinker, he reflected, leaning back in the old recliner he had moved out to the patio. Wine with dinner, that was more often than not at his wife’s suggestion. Makes the food taste better; red wine to compliment the meat, white wine with the fish and so on. When they had guests they could get through a couple bottles all right. But not rye, and definitely not straight from the bottle. Funny how things sneak up on you; funny how things could change so completely without you hearing so much as a boo along the way.
Now the question of who was to blame for all the changes, that was a little easier to peg. Himself of course, himself for listening to a smooth as butter, warm as pancakes, complete phony liar. The promises, they were easy to make, anyone can make promises, put on a knowledgeable face. But he was the one who chose to listen to them in the end.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” he said aloud, raising the bottle to toast the clouds. “Some things I can’t go back and change. But he’ll know what loss feels like, I can do that much.”