Murder At Midnight Page 9

  “Or, he may not have been guilty, and either knew, or suspected, who the real murderer was,” Scott interjected. It irked him that Slater would not admit Boyd might have been innocent.

  “We go on facts,” he responded to the unspoken rebuke. “So far they all point to Boyd as the killer.”

  “Almost entirely circumstantial,” Scott stated firmly. Memories of his visit to the Black Friar Inn flooded back. He recalled Boyd’s dark imposing figure and hostile manner. Now he was dead, at the bottom of the cliff where he himself had almost ended up that same night.

  “That’s why we were unable to charge him with the crime,” Slater agreed. “Nevertheless, that makes him no less guilty in my estimation.”

  “So where’s that doubt…the one you spoke of when the case was first re-opened?” But Slater ignored him and continued speaking as if Boyd’s death would close the Craig file once and for all.

  “I believe he was forced off the road by whoever killed Lisa Craig,” Scott insisted. “To stop him from spilling the proverbial beans to me.”

  “Oh now just hold it for a minute. There is no indication whatever that any foul play was involved. Until we find some evidence to the contrary, we’re treating the Boyd accident as exactly that, an accident.”

  Scott shook his head. He pointed out that Boyd must have been completely familiar with the Sea-to-Sky Highway. That the weather conditions were good, and that it must have been still light when his car for some reason veered off the road and went over a cliff. “I don’t buy the accident theory,” he finished with grim determination. “Just remember that someone tried to run me off the road at that very same spot a couple of months ago.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” Slater answered impatiently. “Because you chose not to tell me until now.”

  * * * *

  “The cops just want to cover it up and make Boyd their scapegoat,” Ben insisted. “Slater isn’t interested in finding out the truth about Lisa Craig’s murder, he just wants to close the file.”

  Scott weaved his way through heavy lunchtime traffic. “You’re probably right.”

  Boyd’s untimely death stirred up a lot of interest in the media, where speculation that he had been Lisa Craig’s killer had been bounced around for two decades.

  “We have no reason to believe that this was anything other than an accident,” Slater declared on the noon news. “We’re asking anyone who witnessed it to come forward.”

  “Accident my foot,” Scott scoffed. “He was knocked off because he knew too much and was about to sing.”

  “So who do you figure?” Ben snapped off the radio.

  “I’d put my money on Alec Webb. I think that Boyd knew he killed Lisa and probably his wife as well.”

  “But then why would he keep quiet about it?”

  “Boyd may have been blackmailing Webb. Or, Webb may have had something on him as well. Perhaps Boyd colluded in Lisa’s murder in some way, who knows?”

  “Slater is going to announce the case is closed, you mark my words,” Ben warned.

  And that’s exactly what happened.

  CRAIG CASE NOW CLOSED says Lieutenant Neil Slater of the Vancouver Police Department. The Morning Herald ran the story on page three. The Craig Case had been usurped off the front page by a particularly gory drive-by shooting at a local nightspot.

  There was the usual recap of the Craig murder, followed by recent events and finally the death of Garrick Boyd, the prime suspect. Slater had gone so far as to suggest that Boyd’s untimely death might have been a suicide precipitated by a guilty conscience. “Pressure caused by the inordinate amount of publicity the case has generated over the past few months, might have played a part,” he announced cryptically.

  “I don’t buy it, not even for a minute,” Scott declared angrily. It strengthened his resolve to find out as much as he could about the ambiguous Garrick Boyd, and his connection to Alec Webb. For connection there had to be, of that he was convinced.

  Scott had framed Lisa’s picture and stared at it often. “I think you’re in love with her,” Meg declared. That was before their frantic encounter in the back seat of his car cast a wedge between them. “And that makes me jealous because there’s no way I can compete with a ghost.”

  In love and infatuated to the point of obsession, he had admitted to himself. Thoughts of the lovely young woman, who met such a tragic end, now dominated his every waking minute, and visited him in his dreams as well.

  “You’re obsessing way too much about this murdered girl,” Violet scolded, wrapping up a pair of candlesticks. “You should get out more and mix with people your own age.”

  He knew she was right. Yet some force stronger than himself propelled him on.

  That night he dreamt he was once again in Roanoke Park. He could feel the dark intensity of the trees that surrounded him, and the biting cold in his limbs. He drifted by the azara bush where Lisa’s body had been found and looked with a sense of dread in the direction of the Humpback Bridge.

  A figure stood there with a flowing green cloak and a tangle of glorious red hair. It was Lisa. She had her back turned towards him.

  He moved silently in her direction through the snow-shrouded midnight, willing her to turn around while at the same time terrified that she would.

  An owl hooted eerily from the giant evergreens, and suddenly his feet were pinned to the snowy earth and he became paralysed and unable to move.

  Got to get out of here…got to get away…he thought frantically, and tried to propel his frozen legs forward, but they refused to budge.

  Lisa began to slowly turn around, with a ghastly precision that left him wanting to scream but unable to do so. He had to get away before her face was revealed…had to…had to…had to…but the weight persisted on his feet, try as he might to heave it off. His heart hammered with fear, his breathing rapid and laboured…

  Then a loud protesting howl snapped him back from the chilling nightmare with a startled gasp. It was Flynn, still clinging on determinedly across his feet, despite his best efforts to toss him off.

  * * * *

  Scott’s quest to find out more about Garrick Boyd began on a misty June morning. The trees still glistened with raindrops from a torrential shower the night before. As if, he thought, a filmy web of translucent pearls had been thrown over their leafy hair.

  He dreaded the two-hour drive to Whistler along the Sea-to-Sky Highway, loaded as it was with painful memories. Especially when he passed by the spot where Boyd had been killed, and where he himself, had almost met the same fate.

  The staff at Chalmer’s Real Estate Company, where Boyd had worked, remained in a state of stunned disbelief over the tragic accident. Compounding this shock, the revelation that their work associate had been the prime suspect in an unsolved murder case.

  A realtor named Rose Schilling was the last one to see him alive.

  “We had been working late and were the only two people left in the office,” she explained. “He told me he had an eight o’clock appointment, said goodnight, and that was it.”

  “Did he seem different in any way?” Scott asked. “Troubled or nervous?”

  “I don’t think so. But then I wasn’t really paying that much attention. I was drawing up a sales contract at the time. Darryl was not an easy person to get to know,” she confided cautiously. “He kept very much to himself.”

  “So, no close friends?”

  Rose shook her head. “Business acquaintances only, and he lived alone.”

  “What about family?”

  “None that I know of. And I’ve worked here for almost as long as he did, about twenty years.”

  * * * *

  Boyd’s penthouse apartment sat atop one of the most exclusive buildings in town. An obliging property manager let Scott in.

  Floor to ceiling windows ran the full length of the living room, which overlooked a private swimming pool on the terrace below. There was a black marble bathroom with gold-plated faucets and a master b
edroom with a stunning view of the surrounding countryside.

  Yet despite the ostentatious display of wealth, the suite had an empty unlived in atmosphere. It was a lonely place, Scott decided with a shiver.

  Boyd must have really been a top-notch realtor to afford such affluence, as it didn’t appear he belonged to a wealthy family. Either that, or he was indeed blackmailing Lisa Craig’s killer.

  On impulse he telephoned Rose Schilling. “Was Boyd one of the top salesmen?” he asked.

  Rose chuckled. “Heavens no. Darryl was in no way a high earner.” She paused. “People just didn’t take to him, and that’s anathema in this business.”

  He was about to ask if she thought Boyd had killed Lisa Craig, but she beat him to the punch.

  “Everyone here got a terrible shock when we found out that Darryl had been the prime suspect in a murder case,” she confided. “But I don’t think he killed that girl Mr. Preston. Darryl Boyd might have been many things, but a murderer he was not.”

  * * * *

  Boyd’s funeral service, held at a small Anglican Church called St. Martin’s-in-the-Field, was poorly attended. Only a few of his business associates showed up. Scott arrived late and hastily took a seat in the back row.

  It was an overcast day. Foghorns moaned in the distance. Yet halfway through the service, a pale sun managed to push its way through a stained glass window, piercing the tiny gathering with a shaft of ethereal light.

  As they filed out silently after the brief service, Scott nodded to Rose Schilling.

  It was one of those “No flowers by request” affairs, and yet that did not prevent one woman from laying a single white rose on the coffin. Tall and slender with long brown hair drawn back in a ponytail, Scott recognised her immediately. It was Jessica Drake, Lisa’s closest friend.

  My God, he thought, what gives here?

  He recalled their meeting on the rooftop of her apartment building. Jessica had voiced her hatred of Boyd, and been convinced he had murdered Lisa. Now her eyes were wet with tears, as she turned and walked quickly out of the church.

  The following day he dropped by the library where she worked.

  “Well hello there,” she greeted him, with a slightly guarded expression.

  “I saw you at Boyd’s funeral service yesterday,” Scott stated without preamble.

  Jessica nodded vaguely while stacking books onto a trolley.

  “I was surprised to see you there,” he pressed on. “You were very emotional too.”

  “I suppose I was,” she admitted slowly. “I hate funerals. Yet I felt I had to attend that one.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “I don’t know if you can understand this.” She stopped what she was doing and looked directly into his eyes. “But I felt I had to do it for Lisa. Almost like closure of a sort. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “So there was nothing…special between you and Boyd?” he asked bluntly

  Jessica flushed.” Look it all happened such a very long time ago,” she hedged.” So you were seeing him then?” he prompted. Good God, this was the man who may have murdered her best friend.

  She smoothed back her hair with hands that fluttered like trapped butterflies. “Boyd was my husband,” she whispered.

  “What?” he asked incredulously. “You and Boyd married?”

  She nodded. “ But that doesn’t alter the fact, I believe he murdered Lisa.”

  Chapter Five

  “Well you could have knocked me over with a wet noodle when she told me,” Scott admitted. He swatted a mosquito off his desk.

  “So did Lisa know that she was dating her best friend’s husband?” Ben looked incredulous.

  “It seems not.”

  Jessica told Scott she met Boyd while away at college. They were both very young and rushed into a marriage they later regretted. She left him when he became abusive and started to knock her about.

  “He had a violent temper,” she confided. “I was appalled when I discovered he and Lisa were involved, but there was nothing I could do to dissuade her.” She paused to clear her throat. “He threatened to kill me if I told her that we had once been married, and I believed him. He was quite definitely more than capable of murder.”

  “Does the name Alec or Judy Webb mean anything to you?”

  “It sounds vaguely familiar,” she replied, after giving it some thought. “But I can’t place them definitely. I’ll call you if I remember.”

  Scott was desperately trying to establish whether or not there had been a connection between Boyd and Webb? Or had they even known each other for that matter? It was while he was ruminating over how to progress with this line of enquiry, that an idea came to him…

  “How about taking your friend Roxanne out for another drink?” He winked at Ben. “If Boyd and Webb had any business dealings there’s sure to be a record of them somewhere in the deep and dusty files at Mitford. And our Roxy has access to them all.”

  “Oh God, the things I do for you,” Ben joked.

  “Oh come on now,” Scott exclaimed. “Singapore slings at the Purple Onion like last time, or was it Margaritas? Doesn’t sound so bad to me!”

  * * * *

  “My, but it’s simply ages since I saw you,” Roxanne gushed. She wore a tight leopard skin blouse with matching Capri pants.

  Ben chose a table as far away from public view as possible. He plied his quarry with a generous amount of alcohol, which she guzzled down in delicious abandon.

  “Alec Webb,” she repeated, while murdering a Brandy Alexander. “Can’t say that it rings a bell sweetheart, but I’ll see what I can find out.” She giggled and tapped his leg seductively with the toe of her shoe.

  * * * *

  “Now let me get this straight,” Scott exclaimed. He balanced the telephone on his shoulder while tidying up his desk. “Alec and Judy Webb purchased their home at 609 Braemar Crescent through Mitford Realty.” He paused, trying to control the mounting excitement. “And Garrick Boyd was the agent who handled the sale.”

  “Bingo,” replied Ben.

  “Good God,” Scott whistled tonelessly. “Roxanne deserves a dozen red roses for this one.”

  * * * *

  “I am convinced, absolutely convinced that Webb is our man.” Scott caught Slater about to leave his office for the day.

  He had decided to enlist the detective’s help, because Alec Webb had simply refused to speak to him.

  “Listen, I realise that you just want to forget about the Craig case.” His tone was conciliatory. “And that unofficially Garrick Boyd is the killer. But I’m sorry, the facts dictate otherwise.”

  “Oh do they now?” Slater’s darkly handsome face was inscrutable. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to fill me in on them?”

  “Right,” Scott responded, “fair enough.”

  “One: Lisa was almost certainly heading for his home on the night she was murdered. There is an eyewitness who saw her walking in that direction.

  Two: Webb had an obnoxious wife whom he fought with constantly, and who suddenly goes missing around the same time.

  Three: I believe that Lisa stumbled upon something that night, perhaps Webb dragging his wife’s body out to his car to get rid of it. He saw no choice but to silence her as well, leaving her body in nearby Roanoke Park.

  Four: Garrick Boyd somehow got wind of this, and began blackmailing Webb, whom incidentally he already knew. When Boyd seemed about to go public with this recently, Webb drove him over a cliff on the Sea-to-Sky Highway. I believe he tried to do the same thing to me, after my meeting with Boyd at the Black Friar Inn. It’s safe to assume that the Morning Herald articles about the case were exerting a terrific amount of pressure on him.

  Five: It fits that Webb is also responsible for the attack on Meg Bryant last February. Something drew him back to the scene of the crime on its anniversary; perhaps he goes there every year, who knows? In any case, when he saw Meg standing there looking so much like Lisa it must have popped
his wires. So he attacked her.”

  Slater heard Scott out without uttering a word. When he stopped talking, an uneasy silence settled around them, broken only by the pinging of the elevator down the hall.

  “So what do you think?” Scott finally asked. “About Webb I mean?”

  “It’s mainly conjecture,” Slater answered carefully.“But there again, you might just have something.”

  * * * *

  “So what does he intend to do about it?” Ben asked, sitting down beside Scott in the Morning Herald cafeteria.

  “Make the necessary inquiries.” Scott smiled. “He hated to admit that Webb merited closer investigation.”

  “I just bet he did. He must be desperate to close the Craig case, and keep it that way. Boyd ending up at the bottom of a cliff was the answer to his prayers.”

  It was lunchtime and the tables were all taken. So when Meg walked by, balancing her tray awkwardly, Ben asked her to join them. She looked flustered and about to refuse, but sat down anyway.

  She sipped on a glass of cola, and nibbled without appetite on a cheese sandwich. Scott knew that his presence on the other side of the table, made her feel uncomfortable. He had used her, she had told him bitterly. Pounded away at her like a stallion on a mare, pretending she was Lisa Craig. “You were so desperate to fuck Lisa, that you couldn’t even wait for the privacy of a bedroom to do it in,” she accused. “You had no interest in me, until I dressed up as Lisa Craig.”

  The conversation inevitably turned to the Craig case. Meg said she had no further memory recall of the terrible night, when she had been left for dead in Roanoke Park. The feeling that her attacker had been a woman still persisted.

  “You must continue with the same security precautions until Webb is safely behind bars,” Ben advised.

  ”Definitely,” Scott agreed. “He must be in a torment of worry, that you’ll have a total memory recall.”

  Meg nodded impatiently. “I’m getting tired of living like a virtual prisoner,” she admitted.

  “Hang in there, Meg.” Ben squeezed her hand. “It’ll all be over soon.”

  * * * *

  Granny’s Attic buzzed with activity as Violet prepared for the Annual Antiques Fair held in the Rosedale Fairgrounds.” Please be careful with these they’re priceless,” she cautioned, as the men from the cartage company, loaded a few carefully chosen items onto their truck.