Murder At Midnight Read online

  Gemma lay in her favourite spot by the window, wisely keeping her distance from all the activity. Scott had agreed to look after the store and the dog for the day, joining Violet at the Fair afterwards.

  “Oh and by the way,” she called over her shoulder. “Philip will be in later to pick up a couple of books.”

  Philip Mitford and Violet were now officially engaged. The celebration, a plush affair at the Hyatt Regency Hotel, had been well attended.

  Scott thought at the time that they were an ill-matched couple, Violet with her untidy hair and careless ways, and Mitford so immaculate and rigid in his habits. Yet, they appeared to be happy together, rooting around contentedly at antique fairs, and flying off for weekends to Mitford’s Caribbean retreat.

  The books Violet had put aside were a first edition Bleak House, and a well bound Life of Lord Strathcona.

  “Excellent, just what I’ve been looking for.” Mitford examined the old volumes carefully; turning the yellowing pages with professionally manicured fingernails. “Too bad I missed Violet, but I’ll no doubt catch up with her later on at the Fair. It’s a wonderful event you know, I never miss it.”

  They chatted for a while about antiques in general.

  Mitford seemed quite devoted to Violet, and Scott felt very happy for his aunt. Maybe this marriage would succeed where her others had failed?

  On impulse he asked Mitford about Lisa Craig and Garrick Boyd. After all he had been their employer, and must have known them well, at least on a business footing.

  “Ah yes,” he answered contemplatively. “My most famous employees.” A cloud passed over the aristocratic features. “It was a dreadful tragedy, Scott. Lisa was a lovely young woman. Now Boyd’s gone. Was his death an accident? I suppose we might never know.”

  He reminisced about how Lisa and Boyd were both good workers. Always punctual, never took time off. Got on well with the rest of the staff. “Or at least Lisa did. Boyd could be a bit awkward at times. Tended to get people’s backs up.”

  “How did they get along together? Was there ever any noticeable bad feeling between them?”

  Mitford shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Did Lisa have any other men friends besides Boyd?” It was the question, never far from Scott’s mind, and he pursued it with all the zeal of a jealous lover, which in a sense he was.

  “If you mean was she sleeping with anyone else, I have no idea. Although…” he hesitated. “This has to be off the record. That swimming coach of hers was always prowling around.”

  Scott pricked up his ears, intensely interested. So Alec Webb had been more to Lisa than he had admitted.

  “I caught them once in the storeroom,” Mitford recalled with a laugh. “After the office closed for the night. I returned unexpectedly to pick something up.” He described how Lisa––her face flushed as a radish––hurriedly adjusted her clothing, while Webb tried to look nonchalant, concealing the front of his trousers with his jacket.

  “Did you ever tell the police about this?” Scott asked. For this would surely have been a motive for Boyd killing Lisa in a jealous rage.

  But Mitford said that he hadn’t. “I just didn’t think it important at the time,” he explained. “Besides, Lisa’s poor mother was already going through hell. The last thing I wanted to do was add to her grief, by besmirching her daughter’s memory.”

  It was understandable, Scott supposed. Although he believed Mitford had less altruistic reasons for not exposing Lisa’s relationship with Webb. He would be concerned about the effect it could have on his business. What with one murdered employee, and another one suspected of the crime he would have no wish to add further grist to the mill.

  Scott watched him as he strode towards his maroon-coloured Jaguar, parked beneath an ornamental cherry tree. His limp slightly less pronounced today than at the Waverley Antiques Auction. Although he still leaned fairly heavily on his silver-topped ebony cane, as it tapped out a purposeful beat on the sidewalk.

  * * * *

  The Sea-to-Sky Highway was deserted, save for the occasional car that skimmed past on its winding back. Well past midnight, the only other sound was the gentle rush of the ocean against the shore.

  Slater paced beside the hazardous curve where Garrick Boyd’s car had left the road. Had it been an accident, or had he been deliberately pushed? Either way it had sent him hurling to his death on the jagged cliffs hundreds of feet below. It was the same spot where Scott Preston had told him he was rear-ended earlier in the year, on his way home from a meeting with Boyd. Coincidences such as that bothered him and begged to be addressed.

  The beauty of the landscape caught his attention. It was like something out of a fairy tale. The gleaming white peppermint moon rode high in the star embedded heavens. And far below, a milky sea washed the chocolate coloured cliffs.

  He zipped up his jacket against the early morning chill and after inspecting the area for a while and taking a few measurements, returned to the city.

  Preliminary inquiries had revealed that Alec Webb had once been a very wealthy man. But his fortunes had changed recently, when his primary source of income, an exclusive line of designer swimwear, collapsed.

  If Boyd had, indeed, been blackmailing him, this would be as good a reason as any for him to threaten to go public with whatever he knew. The goose that laid the golden egg was virtually bankrupt.

  He had also been unable to find any evidence that Webb’s wife, the acid-tongued Judy, had been unfaithful to him. So his account to Scott about her playing around, and then leaving with one of her lovers, was highly suspect.

  Of course, she may have simply packed up and left. There were thousands of people did just that every year. But in this case…he sensed something rotten, and it wasn’t in Hamlet’s Denmark.

  Had Webb been having an affair with Lisa Craig? It certainly seemed possible. However, they did know for certain that they had been seeing each other on a regular basis for at least two years. And, were intimate to the point that would allow her to go unannounced to his home at midnight. Because, where else could the doomed woman have been heading for when she left the bus on the last night of her life?

  Then if she caught him flagrante delicto with Judy’s lifeless body on his hands, it’s not difficult to imagine that in a fit of panic he killed her as well. Later, he left her body in Roanoke Park. But that would leave Judy’s corpse to be disposed of somewhere else, but where?

  Boyd, whom he already knew, somehow found out about the double murder and had been blackmailing him ever since. Until that is, his money ran out. That’s when Boyd ended up at the bottom of a cliff, on his way to talk his head off to a newspaper reporter.

  It all fit.

  Even to the attack on Meg Bryant, as she re-enacted the murdered woman’s last moments on the anniversary of her death. It was a well-known fact that murderers felt compelled to return to the scene of their crimes. And understandable that Webb would panic, when confronted by a young woman that must have looked, in the dim street lights, like the re-incarnation of the girl he had murdered twenty years before.

  But building a case against Webb and making it stick would not be easy. Trails went cold after weeks, days, sometimes even hours. But after twenty years, they were as covered with frost as Roanoke Park had been; on the night Meg Bryant almost met the same fate as Lisa Craig.

  * * * *

  The Mintos were truly delighted to see him, first a visit by a newspaper reporter, and now a police detective, and all in the space of a few weeks. Life hadn’t been this exciting since their next-door neighbour ran off with a plumbing inspector.

  Dorothy knocked some newspapers off the couch to make room for him to sit down, shooing away a sleepy orange cat at the same time. Then she speeded into the kitchen and prepared a slap up tea, served on her best china.

  Slater, who had not taken time to stop for lunch, tucked into the veritable feast with gusto.” Delicious.” He nodded his approval.

  He h
ad had a miserable morning. Police Chief Tom Harrington was furious about his continued inquiries into the Craig case. “I thought that was over and done with,” he barked. “All that bad publicity about cops on the take and bungled investigations, we don’t want that again.”

  “But Sir, we can’t just ignore this new evidence,” he insisted, trying desperately to remain calm.

  Finally, he had triumphed, but only on the condition that it be wrapped up as quietly and as quickly as possible. “We just can’t spare the manpower on a case that’s been unsolved for twenty years.”

  The Mintos told Slater much the same as they had Scott. They spoke at length about the nasty arguments, complete with flying missives, which would erupt from 609 Braemar, on a fairly frequent basis.

  “She threw a table lamp at him one night,” Tony piped in. He adjusted his hearing aid so as not to miss anything. “Oh she was a nasty piece alright.”

  One of the newspapers that Dorothy had swept from the couch, a week old issue of the Morning Herald, had a photograph of Garrick Boyd on the front page.

  “Such a terrible tragedy about that young man.” Dorothy prattled on about the dangers of road travel, especially at night, while Tony expounded on the wisdom of never drinking and driving.

  “Well you can’t lay that folly at Boyd’s door,” Dorothy reminded him. “He never touched the stuff.”

  “So you knew Garrick Boyd?” Slater asked sharply. His interest perked up like a bloodhound that’s just caught the scent of a rabbit.

  “Well not to speak to,” she admitted regretfully. “But we did see him visit Alec Webb from time to time, and he always appeared completely sober.”

  She poured everyone another cup of tea and passed around a fresh plate of homemade brownies.

  “We didn’t know who he was until we saw his picture in the paper,” she shrugged.

  Slater felt elated. Now he had at least two eyewitnesses who could testify that a long-term, ongoing communication existed between Webb and the ill-fated Boyd. Things were indeed looking up. He flicked some cookie crumbs off his black pants and helped himself to another brownie.

  “Did you ever see any suspicious activity at the Webb residence, particularly around the time of Lisa Craig’s murder?” he asked.

  “Nothing that I can recall off the top of my head, I’m afraid.” Dorothy looked disappointed. “How about you dear?”

  Tony shook his head. “Of course, their place had been in an awful mess for some time, what with building that new garage and all.”

  “Now let me get this straight,” Slater interjected. “Webb was actually in the process of building on his property when Lisa Craig was murdered?”

  The Mintos nodded in unison, puzzled by the question and Slater’s enthusiasm. But it wouldn’t take them long to figure out why, and then they would have a field day discussing the ins and outs of the affair and their involvement in it.

  “We really made a difference dear,” they would reminisce in a contented state of well-earned euphoria, as they feasted on delicious teas, and complimented each other on their powers of observation. Their eagle eyes, although slightly dimmed with age, never straying far from the goings on in the street outside their windows.

  “Just imagine, dear,” they would repeat to each other endlessly, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues. “Alec Webb did away with his wife and buried her body under his new garage.”

  * * * *

  “You must be insane,” Alec Webb exclaimed. His small, green-flecked eyes flashed dangerously, just as the 9:00 p.m. cannon from Stanley Park boomed out the hour.

  “Just making a few inquiries,” Slater replied patiently. “Certain new evidence has come to light and we must follow up on it.”

  He glanced around at the cheerless interior of number 609 Braemar Crescent.

  Webb, he decided, had certainly not put any of his wealth into making his home more welcoming. But then, if Boyd were indeed putting the arm on him, he probably didn’t have too much left over to play with.

  “To imply that I murdered not only my wife, but Lisa Craig as well, is nothing short of lunacy,” Webb raged. “You have no evidence whatever to back it up.”

  Webb’s neck muscles bulged, and his broad face livid. With his fiery red hair and powerful swimmer’s build, this was not a man one would want to be on the wrong side of, Slater decided.

  “So you did not find it strange when your wife suddenly left without as much as a goodbye?”

  “No, I did not. She had been threatening to do it for years.” Webb paused and made a visible effort to get a grip on himself. “Things had gotten to the point that if she hadn’t left when she did, I would have done so. We’d tried counselling, trial separations…the whole nine yards, but nothing worked.”

  “Can you recall what you were doing on the night Lisa Craig was murdered?”

  “Oh now let me see,” came the sarcastic answer. “After all anyone who can’t give a detailed account of his activities on a night twenty years ago, has to be a murderer.”

  “Come now, Mr.Webb,” Slater responded with measured coolness. “A night when someone you knew was murdered would tend to be branded into your consciousness for all time.”

  Webb sighed deeply and rubbed at his forehead with a nervous hand. “I’m sorry to disappoint you Lieutenant,” he answered testily. “But I for one, do not recall even a single moment of that night. The news of Lisa’s murder simply eclipsed everything else from my mind.”

  “Would you be willing to take a lie-detector test?” Slater watched closely for the effect this would have on the volatile man.

  “No bloody way,” he retorted aggressively. “What’s more, I don’t intend to answer any more of your damned impertinent questions, unless I have my solicitor present.”

  It was the response Slater had expected. And until he had something more tangible to go on, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. But, he did intend to have the last word. “Please notify my office if you plan on leaving town,” he cautioned.

  The hot sun, which had blazed tirelessly all day, now wrapped itself in a crimson cloak and retired beneath the western horizon for the night.

  Slater drove home at a leisurely pace to the apartment he had once shared with his ex wife. It was the moment of the day that he disliked the most. When the empty lifeless rooms waited to engulf him, without respite or diversion. Then it was all down to himself and his gloomy thoughts until the reprieve of morning.

  * * * *

  “Slater thinks that if we put enough pressure on Webb he might do something foolish.” Scott poured two coffees from the staff room machine and handed one to Ben. “So we’re starting a series of hard-hitting articles designed to do just that.”

  The first one had appeared in the weekend paper. There was a full colour photograph of Judy Webb on the front page, taken from her driver’s license of twenty years ago. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? Asked the caption, in bold, inch-high print.

  “She sure is a nasty looking wench.” Ben examined the picture; age-enhanced to resemble what Judy might look like today. “Miss Piggy with cruel eyes.”

  Scott nodded.” One can almost feel sorry for Alec. But with that nasty temper of his, he’s no prize himself.”

  * * * *

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” Bernice Craig berated Scott. “You’re trying to frame an innocent man. Garrick Boyd killed my niece, and now you’re detracting the blame from his unholy memory.”

  He had visited Bernice, upon her request, to find her in a state of almost uncontrollable fury.

  On his last visit to the shabby rooming house, she had been relatively normal, although a bit intense. But now he could see where her reputation of being mentally unbalanced had originated.

  “You have to try and calm yourself Bernie,” coaxed Adelaide. She eventually persuaded her to take a couple of tranquillisers and lie down.

  “I’m sorry about that Mr. Preston,” she apologised. “Bernie was elated when Bo
yd was killed, said that justice had at last been done. But then when your paper started publishing all the suspicions about Alec Webb, she became more and more incensed.”

  Adelaide looked tired. Her hands trembled badly. “I’m trying to stop drinking,” she murmured. “ In fact, I’m on my way to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting right now.”

  “Let me drop you there.”

  The sidewalk in front of the rooming house bustled with drunken activity. The scream of a police siren drew closer. A garbage bin had been knocked over spilling refuse into the gutter, and a half-starved mongrel foraged amongst it for food.

  “Of course, I never did believe Boyd murdered my daughter,” Adelaide confided as they drove through the scorching streets. “But Alec Webb, now that’s a different kettle of fish entirely.”

  “So you knew Webb?” Scott was immediately interested.

  “Not well,” she admitted. “But I did meet him a couple of times when I picked up Lisa from her swimming lesson.”

  “You obviously didn’t like him.”

  “He was a creep, Mr. Preston,” Adelaide charged.” I had a feeling about him right from the start. But Lisa thought the world of him and there was nothing I could do.”

  Scott stopped for an amber light at the intersection of Pender and Romney Streets, to allow a bus in front of him to get well ahead. He had been travelling in the wake of its exhaust fumes for too long, and compounded with the sweltering heat, they were making him feel queasy and light-headed.

  Adelaide stared as if transfixed, at the exclusive Romney Building, which rose with classical elegance by the harbour. Fountains played in the foreground beside a bronze sculpture surrounded by flowerbeds.

  There was a bank at ground level and a number of expensive boutiques. The mezzanine floor housed several offices, and the remainder of its twenty or so floors offered luxury suites, with million dollar views of mountains, sea and sky.