Crafting with Slander, page 2
Later, as Mona and I sat with our cups under a row of coats, I remembered the sign in the cart.
How stupid was I? I’d been at the scene of a crime.
And what had I done? Walked straight out with evidence in my hand.
This was not good.
It looked suspicious. The first thing the Royal Canadian Mounted Police would wonder, when they found Mike strangled under a desk, was who did it.
And if I were the RCMP, who would I talk to first?
Me.
CHAPTER THREE
I missed the arrival of the ambulance, two reporters, and the crowd of local people who arrived after Mona made her calls. I wasn’t outside—I was in an RCMP cruiser.
Were they going to arrest me?
To keep my mind off this possibility, I tried to make conversation. I knew the officer at the wheel. Dawn Nolan and I had done police business before. I also knew that she rented Sylvie’s basement apartment. Sylvie said that she was nice. Quiet, but nice. I counted on that now.
“It was quite the shock,” I said. “Finding Mike under the desk like that. Dead.”
“I can imagine,” Officer Nolan said, glancing over at me. “Are you alright?”
“As good as can be expected. I was there because of the dogs,” I explained. “There’s nothing wrong with liking cats, you know. It doesn’t mean you don’t like dogs.” I paused and looked at Officer Nolan. She was concentrating on her driving.
The RCMP officer was careful in her reply. “Right. For now, all we need are the facts. You understand?”
I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know anything about Mike’s death, but if the RCMP wanted to be formal, that was fine with me.
“I was there in the office, being a campaign manager,” I continued. Why did I never know when to stop talking? “Darlene and I read that booklet, you know, A Guide for Women Running in Elections? It’s nine pages, covers everything, but it skips dirty tricks. That’s why I went to see Mike. Those dogs are ruining our signs.”
Officer Nolan kept her eyes on the road.
When we arrived at the station, Dawn Nolan left me in a room that, for various reasons, I had been in before. After a wait of about thirty minutes, she and her senior officer, Wade Corkum, walked in.
Everyone knew Wade. He was one of those former high school star athletes who secretly spend their lives wondering whether Grade 12 had been the best year of their lives. In Wade’s case, the yearning to belong and wear a uniform had led him to the RCMP. As a Mountie, he was moderately successful. He counted on the sparse population to keep him no busier than he wanted to be. I often saw him lounging in his cruiser along the highway, his speed gun steady on the dashboard.
Today, Wade was flustered. Before he sat down, he took off his RCMP hat and threw it on the table. The elaborate crest, Maintiens le droit, meaning “uphold the right,” spun and then settled to face me. Under the overhead lights, Wade’s shaved head glowed. I thought that I could see the joints of the tectonic plates of his skull. I caught myself staring. Wade cleared his throat.
“Looks like you had yourself had quite the morning,” he said, then turned formal. “Officer Nolan will record this interview. We’ll transcribe it. You’ll sign it for accuracy. Are you comfortable with the process?”
Wade’s politeness worried me. I knew that he found me irritating. Something was up.
But who says no to the Mounties?
“Sure,” I said. “Mike was dead when I found him. I hope you don’t think that I had anything to do with it.” There was no response. I tried to think of something else to say.
“I’m a mother,” I offered. This should make clear that I was not capable of murder. Granted, my three children were now adults, at least in their own minds. And yes, they lived far away from Gasper’s Cove. That was beside the point. I was a mother, a sewing teacher, and a crafter. I was not someone who killed mayors. I had nothing else to say. I wanted to go home. I wanted to see my dog.
Wade sighed. I felt better. An annoyed Wade was more familiar.
“Look. You’re here for a statement. Then, we will wait for the results from the medical examiner. Let’s stick to that for now,” he said.
“I’m not a suspect?” I asked. I wanted to make sure.
“We will be thorough,” Wade said, evading my question. He glanced at Nolan, indicating that thoroughness would be her job. “But on the face of it, violence, moving a body under a desk, and laying a competitor’s sign beside the victim don’t strike me as your modus operandi.”
“Modus what?” I asked. The term had a familiar, heard- on-TV sound to it.
Wade almost let himself smile.
“The way you do things,” he explained. “You are more of a missing-sewing-machine, busybody, not-able-to-mind-your-own-business kind of operator. More likely to get in the way of trouble than to make it. At least, that’s how it’s been up to now.”
Nolan leaned forward, ready to get back to business.
“Let’s begin with what you know about the former mayor,” she said. “What did you think of him?”
I put my purse on the table and took off my red boiled-wool jacket. I folded it over the back of the chair and settled in. Where should I start?
Nolan was new in town. There was a lot she wouldn’t know. “He was a fight promoter before he went into politics,” I told her. “That’s where he got his nickname, ‘Mighty Mike.’ Skinny little guy, managing a bunch of bruisers from the woods or off the boats. His boxers called him that.”
Wade interrupted. “Small-time fights,” he explained to Nolan. “Mike drove around the province, charging for brawls that were going to happen anyway. You know, on Friday nights, paydays.”
I nodded. Wade grew up here, so he knew. None of Mike’s boxers lasted long. Most had more belligerence than skill. Or mothers who made them quit fighting.
“What made him move from that to the mayor’s office?” Nolan asked.
“Fight promotion is hand to mouth. I figure he wanted a better job. Besides, he could use the same skill set,” I answered. We all saw it. Boxing had taught Mike to talk fast, exaggerate his achievements, and pass over money in a handshake. It also taught him that everything in life was a fight. “I think what Mike liked most about being mayor was getting there,” I said. “He liked elections. Always a clear winner and a loser.”
Dawn Nolan made a note and passed it over to Wade. They both looked at me.
“Just to be clear,” Nolan said, “in your opinion, Mayor Murphy had enough”—she searched for the right word— “conflict in his past that someone might have held a grudge against him, is that right?”
Wade took over. “Anyone you can think of?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “But I’ve heard Mike would bend the rules in return for a little compensation. Who knows what he was up to?” I rubbed my index finger and thumb together like I had seen them do in the movies, vaguely aware that I was getting carried away. “Then, there’s the election. Fewer people running, the better his chances.” As soon as the words had left my mouth, I realized that wasn’t a smart thing to say. Not for myself, and not for Darlene. “But you can count Darlene out. She’s my cousin, on my mother’s side.”
Wade picked up his hat. “I think we have all we need from you,” he sighed. “More than we need, in fact. You are free to go today. We know where to find you.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Can’t say you’re much of a flight risk.”
“Flight risk?” I was grateful for TV. It was helping me interpret this conversation. “You mean, leave Gasper’s Cove? Where else would I go?”
“Exactly,” Wade said opening the door for me. “We’ll talk again soon. Count on it.”
I was beat, but when I returned home, Toby’s big golden retriever face was at the window. How long he had been there on the couch, paws on the African violets on the windowsill, waiting? I was late for his walk. Not surprisingly, as soon as my foot touched the first step, I heard the rattle of his harness and leash as they were dragged to the front entry. So, as tired as I was, off we went.
We were halfway down the street when my phone beeped in my pocket. The call was from Darlene’s director of communications, Sarah Chisholm. Sarah was her own kind of verbal news station. I suspected her reach, at least locally, was wider and deeper than that of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. She’d been the obvious choice to handle media relations for the campaign.
“Have you heard?” she demanded.
“Not only heard it—I was there. Poor Mike,” I said. I assumed that we were talking about the mayor’s murder.
“Mike? Oh, yes. He’s dead. But that’s not it. Look at the Lighthouse Online.”
“Hang on, hang on,” I said, “give me a minute.” I tapped away. In seconds, I had the latest edition on my screen. “What am I looking for?”
“Read the headline. Do you believe this?” Sarah sounded energized.
“Okay,” I said, scrolling.
“‘License no longer required for dip-netting Gaspereau’?” My fishermen uncles would be pleased.
“Nope, keep reading,” she coached.
“‘Stabbed Halifax man taken to hospital returned home to stab stabber. Both recovering’?” Another reason I was happy I had left the big city. It said that they were roommates.
“‘Two forged paintings found hanging in the premier’s office’?” Fakes in Province House? No surprise there.
“‘Man breaks into Tim Horton’s to make himself a coffee’?” I continued. I had felt like doing that myself on occasion.
“Keep going.” Sarah was impatient.
“‘Beer bottle as old as Canada found floating on local beach’?” Probably left behind by the stabbing roommates.
“No, no, no,” she said. “Look at the bottom. Regional news.”
I saw it.
There it was.
“‘Long-time mayor of Drummond found dead at campaign office by a middle-aged passerby.’”
“‘Passerby’?” I choked. “I wasn’t passing by, I went there for a reason. To ream the guy out for his smear campaign against us. It was dog exploitation!”
“Looks like someone there before you did a better reaming-out job. Keep going, the best one is farther down,” Sarah said.
I was still offended. “‘Middle-aged’? Not even close. I’m definitely on the right side of fifty.”
“Let it go. Read,” Sarah ordered.
“‘Election Launch to go on as planned on the Drummond Waterfront tomorrow.’ I don’t believe it,” I said. They were going to carry on as if a murder hadn’t happened? “Is that in good taste?”
“Of course not,” Sarah said. “That’s the point. Look at the story.”
I did.
“It’s what Mighty Mike would have wanted. For democracy to continue,” says former deputy mayor Elliot Carter.
“My heart is heavy, but I know that the best way to
honor Mike’s legacy is to continue it. That’s the reason
I’m entering the race myself. This one’s for Mike.”
The report went on.
With the death of the former mayor, four candidates remain in the race. In addition to former deputy mayor Carter, also director of the Gasper’s Cove Public Works Department, the candidates are Charlie Landry, a well-known local activist, who has run in the last nine elections; Brian Nickerson, lawyer, businessman, and president of the St. Francis Xavier University Alumni Association; and Darlene Mowat, a vocal opponent of amalgamation. A local hair stylist, Mowat is the three-time winner of the Nova Scotia provincial updo competition.
May the most-qualified candidate win.
“What do you think?” Sarah asked, so loudly that I had to move the phone away from my ear.
“What I think are two things,” I said. “First, we’ve got to keep Darlene strong.” There was only one way to do that. “I’m making her a new outfit.”
“What’s the other thing?” Sarah asked.
“We’re putting Darlene on the waterfront tomorrow with people who are out to get her.” I paused. “And one of them is a killer.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Dressing Darlene for political battle was a challenge.
Darlene had the misfortune to become a DD cup size in Grade 6. This gotten her a lot of attention. It had also brought her heartbreak and three failed marriages. But you had to give Darlene credit—when the last husband had run out on Christmas Eve, taking the new rubber floor mats and the windshield ice scraper, Darlene had pulled herself up by her acrylic nails. She’d gone down to the basement and set up her salon. She’d run for town council and won. And now she was running for mayor. Becoming her campaign manager was the least I could do. But it wasn’t an easy job. Not when it meant that I had to tell her what to wear.
“Black?! You’re kidding.” Darlene was indignant. “You might as well say beige.” She hitched up the cross-over portion of her floral polyester dress. “You know my colors: coral, shocking pink, turquoise, and periwinkle. How about I do the launch in my periwinkle palazzo pants and matching shell? With coral accessories and shoes? What do you think?”
I considered this ensemble, her favorite, worn to the last Chamber of Commerce dinner and dance. The shell had sequins on it. I visualized tomorrow’s podium on the waterfront. I saw a row of men in gabardine. I saw Darlene in an outfit that swirled when she step-danced.
“How about a suit?” I suggested. “A dark blue suit.”
“What?” Darlene rolled her eyes. “I’m running for mayor,not enlisting in the navy.”
This wasn’t going to be easy. But I remembered the article in the Lighthouse. I couldn’t give up.
“How about a dress?” I tried. “I have some fabric at home.” I couldn’t say that it was brown—that would turn her right off. “Deep … mocha. Perfect for the coral shoes and jewelry.”
Darlene relented. “Okay, but make it fitted. And don’t go to any trouble.”
“I won’t,” I lied. “I’ll whip it up after dinner.”
It took me three hours, but before I went to bed, the dress was done. It was a simple ponte sheath sewn on the serger, with a catch-stitched hem. If I’d had more time, I would have made her a proper coat dress. Under pressure, the fastest thing to make was a knit. I’d read that brown was the color of reliability. Given that this dress was for Darlene, and for her first public event in the campaign, I thought that deep mocha wouldn’t hurt.
Before the causeway was built more than 30 years ago, the communities of Gasper’s Cove and Drummond were connected by a ferry that ran twice a day. When the ferry was no longer needed, it was retired to the Drummond side. There, it was moored next to an apron of asphalt called the “Historical Interpretive Centre,” optimistically intended, along with the small building behind it, to be a tourist attraction. Staging the launch in front of the old ferry was supposed to express a connection between the two communities. This purpose was lost when the small podium was set up in the parking lot with its back to Gasper’s Cove across the water. Facing the podium was a semicircle of folding chairs with a small riser for TV cameras behind them. By the time Darlene and I arrived, the camera people were already there, as were as a few reporters, one of whom I knew, Noah Dixon. Noah was a surfing friend of my youngest son, Paul. I knew that Noah did some reporting for the CBC in Halifax but had recently become a staff writer for the Lighthouse.
I made a beeline for him as soon we arrived.
“Noah,” I called out. “Tell me that you had nothing to do with ‘Catty Candidate Disses Dogs.’”
“Oh, that. Not me,” he said, reaching up to loosen the collar of the button-down shirt he had put on for the event. “I wanted to cover more of the election, but they’re moving me to sports.”
“It was a cheap shot, whoever wrote it,” I said, moving to let a cameraman with heavy gear go past. “I’m surprised to see so much media here today.”
“Are you kidding?” Noah asked. “This is a big story. Outgoing mayor killed, crime unsolved at the start of an election? Might even go national. A real career opportunity for whoever covers it.”
A clipboard jabbed my back. It belonged to the event organizer.
“I’d like to stay on schedule,” she said, making a show of looking at her watch. “Could you please have Miss Mowat wait in the interpretive center with the other candidates? I’d like to march them all out together when we start.”
I mumbled something that I hoped she would think was an apology. I said goodbye to Noah and went to find Darlene, who had wandered off. As I pushed through the crowd, I passed Trevor Ross, a local teacher. Trevor’s hair was falling out of his ponytail as he tried to control his class from the junior high.
“Hi Trevor,” I said. “I thought you taught art. What are you doing here?”
“Pulled the short straw,” he said. “The principal thought that they should see democracy in action. I was the one with the free period.” He looked past me over my shoulder, and his eyes widened. “Hey, boys! Get away from the water!” he shouted, then turned to me. “Nice to see you, got to go.”
The clipboard hit my back again. I found Darlene, took her by the arm, and we hurried up the stairs to the center. At the doors, she hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as I pushed her inside. “You look agitated. Nerves?”
Darlene lifted up her bright statement necklace. “No, it’s this,” she said, showing me a faint red rash on her neck.
I leaned in and caught a whiff of Darlene’s L’Air du Temps. “It’s probably nothing. Don’t worry about it,” I said, distracted. Around us, I saw the other campaign managers with their candidates, rehearsing speeches, prepping for Q&As. We weren’t doing any of that. I had been preoccupied with clothing, not with content.
“Darlene, we should have done our homework,” I whispered.
“Don’t stress about it. I know what to say,” she said, arranging her necklace to cover the rash. “Calm down.”
I willed myself to relax. Then, I saw an unexpected face on the far side of the room.
