Weekends can be murder, p.1
Weekends Can Be Murder, page 1
Also by the author
Adventures in Godhood
Imaginary Friends
The Earthborn (forthcoming)
SIC TRANSIT TERRA
(Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing)
Book 1: The Genius Asylum
Book 2: The Otherness Factor
Book 3: The Relativity Bomb
Book 4: The Genome Rally
Book 5: The Cockroach Crusade
Book 6: The Identity Shift
Milton, Ontario
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, events, and organizations portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Brain Lag Publishing
Milton, Ontario
http://www.brain-lag.com/
Copyright © 2022 Arlene F. Marks. All rights reserved. This material may not be reproduced, displayed, modified or distributed without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission, contact publishing@brain-lag.com.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Weekends can be murder / Arlene F. Marks.
Names: Marks, Arlene F., 1947- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220388733 | Canadiana (ebook) 2022038875X | ISBN 9781928011835
(softcover) | ISBN 9781928011842 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS8561.R2868 W44 2022 | DDC C813/.54—dc23
Content warnings: Death
To the memory of Robert G. Kennedy, (Retired) Fire Chief of the Town of Richmond Hill, Ontario.
One
The vintage pumper truck taking up most of Larry Holmes’s driveway in Groverton was big and boxy and extremely yellow. He’d purchased it at an auction, egged on by fellow firefighters who had banded together and basically kidnapped him there. It would be a great restoration project, they’d enthused, a perfect way to occupy his hands and his time and, coincidentally, distract his mind from his problems.
They were wrong. Each time he stepped out his front door, the sight of the truck was a depressing reminder. Like him, it had been sidelined—judged to be operating at less than optimum levels and taken out of service—and no matter how much work he put into making it look and run like new, nothing seemed likely to change either of their situations.
Larry had been on critical incident leave for going on four months now. Three months of rehashing the trauma with a department-ordered psychotherapist following Tamara’s funeral hadn’t helped much. He was still just as messed up and off-duty as before, only now he had a better understanding of the reasons for it all.
As he sat behind the wheel of his Volvo, headed north to the Georgian Bay resort his cousin Alec had described in such glowing terms, Larry was determined not to get his hopes up. Using Alec’s prepaid tickets to crash a literary conference didn’t sound like much of a vacation. Bermuda would have been a much better choice. However, Larry had emptied his bank account to buy the truck, and beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Alec had visited Windsong Resort and Spa several times in the past when he needed to relax, and he swore that much of the unwinding had taken place in the car on the way there. So far, rolling along on a broad ribbon of even pavement with a bright, sunny August sky overhead, Larry had to agree. Traffic was light on this Monday afternoon, and no one was doing anything stupid. As the kilometres mounted up behind him, he could feel the weight he’d been carrying begin to slide off his shoulders.
According to his GPS, he was making good time. Too good, in fact. He was enjoying his solitary journey. In order to prolong it, he would need to find a more scenic route.
As if cued by his thought, one appeared. The path cut into the forest wasn’t a numbered road, was hardly a road at all, truth be told, but it showed up on the screen and was going in the right direction, so he took it. As the Volvo made the turn, something strange rippled through Larry’s mind. Something like an affirmation that he was doing the right thing. A nascent certainty that good was going to come from this.
He smiled with belated recognition. Optimism. He’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. Maybe Alec’s idea wasn’t such a bad one after all.
Several minutes later, he noticed a car off to the side of the road ahead and a woman standing next to it. He couldn’t make out her facial expression, but something about the way she held her shoulders, impatiently crossing and uncrossing her arms and tossing her head, told him she needed help.
His help.
The conviction was too sudden and powerful to resist. Almost before he knew he was doing it, Larry pulled over and came to a stop behind her blue Chevrolet sedan.
* * *
The car didn’t owe her a thing.
Selena Watt had been repeating these words to herself like a mantra.
She’d purchased the “pre-owned” Chevy eight years earlier, with the intention of driving it into the ground, and that appeared to be precisely what she had done. But couldn’t it have had the decency to hang on until she’d parked it in the Windsong lot? Or at least until she’d made it back onto the main road?
On the highway, she could have flagged down a patrol vehicle. She could have displayed her ‘Call Help’ sign in the window for other motorists to see.
No, she corrected herself, on the highway the Chevy’s engine would have continued to hum, without even a hiccup. The moment all four tires had left level pavement and crunched down onto the gravel at the entrance to this godforsaken dirt road, the car’s fate—and hers—had been sealed. It was Murphy’s Law: any shortcut taken on desperate impulse would only make her later than she already was.
She blew out a sigh and gingerly tried the ignition key once more. The battery gave a final groan and went still, just as Selena noticed a faint gasoline aroma drifting into the cab. Terrific. Engine flooded, battery dead, power windows inoperable…
…and no cell phone service, she soon discovered. Murphy was working overtime. She couldn’t even call the Auto Association.
Selena slammed her palm down hard on the rim of the steering wheel and shoved open the driver’s-side door. At that moment she hated the Chevy, hated whoever had decided to include this glorified tractor path on the road map she’d copied from the Windsong website, hated with a passion the person who had waited until the last minute to beg off Welcome Table duty at the conference. Selena had been forced to travel an hour out of her way to pick up a trunkful of signs, registration packages, and cartons of printed material before heading up to the resort. She’d had little hope of arriving and setting up on time even before her car broke down. Now? Forget it!
Pausing a moment to peel her damp cotton blouse off her back, she turned and looked around. She had stepped out onto a two-lane dirt road strewn unevenly with rain-muddied gravel. In front and behind her as far as she could see, thick maple and evergreen forest made a wall of trees to either side. Directly overhead hung a startling blue sky that purpled as though bruised as it neared the treetops. Selena strained to hear the low-pitched rumble of traffic from the main road, but the woods blocked all sound. Instead, what filled her ears was the rhythmic rush of her own blood as she realized for the first time since her car had sputtered and stalled—had it been only fifteen minutes ago?—just how stranded she was.
Like Barbara had been.
Dread scampered icily down Selena’s back as remembered headlines from the Toronto papers flashed into her mind. Headlines about Selena’s cousin who had been seen accepting a lift from someone after her car had broken down on the 400. Barbara had later been found dead on a little-used back road. One disturbingly like this one.
A sudden splash of gravel behind her brought her back to reality with a start. A bronze-coloured Volvo had pulled up behind her car and a man was getting out. Selena caught a brief glimpse of dark hair, sunglasses and a plain white T-shirt in the split second before she dived back into the Chevy. She slammed the door shut and pressed the lock into place. The air inside the car still held traces of gasoline fumes, but she didn’t care. Thank goodness her windows had been closed when the battery died!
Then it hit her. By taking refuge in the car she had sacrificed all her options. She was trapped here.
Struggling for breath, Selena risked a look in the side view mirror. It was something the police always advised in self-defence seminars—study your attacker, memorize his face so you can describe him accurately later on and/or pick him out of a lineup. If you survive, that is.
He was standing motionless, with his hands resting on jeans-clad hips and a quizzical tilt to his head, just behind and beside her left rear fender. Unwilling even to guess at what he might be thinking, Selena forced herself to concentrate on his appearance.
His T-shirt was straight-from-the-package white. And his face…? As though on cue, he removed the sunglasses and hooked one of the armatures over the crew neck of his shirt, then began striding toward her window. Selena gasped and stared into the mirror, frantically committing his features to memory in the couple of seconds before he reached her.
She guessed his age at about thirty. His eyes were dark and deep set. His nose was aquiline. His jaw was strong. His hair was brown and wavy. And his smile was utterly disarming.
Of course it was. Ted Bundy had probably smiled like that, too.
Filling her lungs, she squared her shoulders, stiffened her spine, and faced resolutely ahead. Maybe if she didn’t respond to him he would go in search of easier prey.
There was a light tap at her window. She forced
“Miss? Are you all right?”
Her mind was racing. Go away!
“Miss?” he persisted. “Can I help you with something?”
Reluctantly, she turned and met his gaze. His eyes were dark blue, not brown as she had first thought, and he was clearly not taking the hint. She would have to try sending him away.
“My car won’t start,” she told him, loudly enough to be heard through the glass, “and my phone won’t work. Would you drive to the next service centre, please, and have them dispatch a tow truck?”
“I’ve got booster cables. Pop the hood,” he instructed her, and began walking toward the front of her car.
“No!”
Her shout stopped him in mid-stride and brought him back to stand beside her window with a bewildered expression on his face.
“What’s the matter?”
Frustration was growing like a bubble in her chest, threatening at every second to burst.
“Boosters won’t work,” she told him emphatically. “There’s something else wrong. I need a tow truck. Please.”
“Listen, I know something about cars,” he insisted, “and there’s a smell of gas coming from under your hood. If you ran the battery down trying to start a flooded engine, I can probably get you going again in less than five minutes. You won’t even have to get out of your vehicle.”
Now she had a decision to make.
Less than five minutes, and she could remain safely locked in? If he was correct about the cause of her problem, she would be a fool to refuse his help. On the other hand, it could be a trick to get her to drop her guard. On the first hand, she was already late, and having to wait for a tow truck would delay her arrival even more, and, dammit, people were depending on her.
The first hand won. Praying that she wouldn’t regret it, she pulled the hood release lever.
He repositioned his car nose-to-nose with the Chevy, lifted the Volvo’s hood, and set to work, pausing only to flash her another smile.
It was the opposite of reassuring. Selena’s hands went to her purse, sitting on the seat beside her. She kept her entire life in this tote bag. Surely there was something here that she could use to defend herself, if need be.
Her urgent fingers located a nail file, the tiny screwdriver she used to tighten small things or pry them open, and the folding scissors that came with her emergency sewing kit. Great. The glove box was no better, containing nothing but her owner’s manuals, some spare fuses, and the key wrench for unlocking her hubcaps. Struck by a sudden thought, she reached beneath the front seat and pulled out… a plastic scraper for clearing ice off the windscreen. Right. That would really be helpful if he pulled a knife or a gun.
Just then, she heard him call out to her to try to start her car. She twisted the key in the ignition. No good. The Chevy whined, chugged, and rat-a-tat-tatted for nearly a minute, but would not turn over.
Damn!
A moment later he reappeared beside her window, shaking his head.
“Your battery seems to be okay, Miss. My guess is, you need a new starter motor.”
And he was still here.
This was too much. Selena’s frustration boiled over. “Now will you please get me a tow truck?” she shouted, her vision clouding with tears. “Or a Provincial Police officer? I’d even settle for the Fire Department!”
Silence.
For what seemed an eternity she sat behind the wheel of her car, feeling his steady gaze on her and wishing that she could teleport herself away somewhere.
Finally, he reached into his pants pocket, produced a small black wallet, opened it, and placed it flat against her windscreen. It was a silver badge: Firefighter First Class, Town of Groverton Fire Department.
Stunned, Selena stared alternately at the badge and at the man, her mouth working soundlessly for a couple of seconds before she could get any words out. “You’re—You’re—?”
“A firefighter. Ask and ye shall receive,” he said, giving her that now-infuriating smile once again.
“How dare you!” she yelled through the glass. Then she swarmed out of her car to confront him face to face, forcing him to jump back to avoid being flattened as she flung the Chevy’s door open. He was not much taller than her own five-foot-five. She barely had to tilt her head to glare directly into his startled eyes.
“How dare you frighten me like that?! Why didn’t you identify yourself before?” she demanded.
He seemed taken aback. “I’m… off-duty, and I guess I’m not accustomed to having to show my badge to get people to trust me when I’m helping them. But you’re right, I should have identified myself, and I apologize for that. Truce?” he added, the smile morphing into a lopsided, little boy grin.
Selena tried to hold on to her anger but couldn’t. “All right, truce. But you still haven’t fully identified yourself,” she pointed out.
“You’re right. My name is Larry Holmes. I can give you a lift to the next service centre if you like,” he told her. “I was on my way to a resort, but I don’t mind—”
“A resort? Which one?” she asked hopefully. The universe hadn’t exactly been handing out favours to her today, but maybe, just this once…
“It’s called Windsong.”
Yes! “That’s where I’m going too,” she exclaimed. “This is amazing. I’m Selena Watt, the convenor of the Crime Club conference, and I’m supposed to be there by now, managing the Welcome Table. All the signs and handouts are in the trunk of my car. Could you possibly…?”
“Sure, no problem,” he replied after a beat.
It took just under five minutes to transfer Selena’s freight into Larry’s Volvo and get under way.
She debated with herself at first over whether even to broach the subject with him. However, as the Volvo settled down to some serious dirt road crunching and the silence between driver and passenger stretched on, Selena found herself longing to reverse the terrible first impression she’d made. Especially if they were going to be arriving at the Crime Club conference together. Crime Clubbers were extremely observant. They also had a gift for putting two and two together and getting twenty-two. If there was even a hint of awkwardness between her and this firefighter, the grapevine was sure to light up with juicy speculation.
“Listen, about what happened back there…”
“It’s all right,” he said, with a dismissive wave. “I figure you must be from Toronto or Montreal or some other crime-ridden place where nobody trusts anybody else and strangers are all presumed to be axe-murderers unless proven otherwise.”
“And you’re from… Groverton?” she countered, her dander rising again. “A cozy little community tucked away in a safe little corner of Ontario, where everybody knows everybody else and a five-dollar lottery win is front page news?”
“Okay,” he said with a laugh. “You’re wrong, but I get the point.”
Selena sank back against the Volvo’s beige fabric seat. “All right, then, straighten me out. Tell me about Groverton.”
He paused, then replied slowly, “It’s a town, a pretty large town, actually. Used to be a Great Lakes trading port, but tourism is the main industry these days. We’ve got beaches and ski runs, and plenty of city amenities, like live theatre and big-box stores. And when a structure catches fire, trust me, there’s plenty of city-type excitement.”
Her next question was barely framed in her mind when he declared heartily, “So, you’re the one who organized the conference this week. Does that mean you’re a member of the Crime Club too?”
“Yes, and yes, I am. I especially enjoy reading Tess Gerritsen, Gareth Wylde and Kathy Reichs. Growing up, I dipped into my grandfather’s collection of vintage authors like Dashiel Hammett and Richard S. Prather. You?”
He shook his head. “None of the above.”
“So who do you like?” she persisted.
“I don’t. Can’t stand the stuff.”
Nonplussed, she half-turned in her seat and stared at him. “But you’re going to the conference, so you must belong to the Crime Club.”
“I’m not the member. My cousin, Alec Ullman, is.”
Selena recognized the name. Alec was a lawyer and budding novelist, as she recalled. He was also the Chief Inspector of the Toronto Crime Club chapter.
