A Most Unpleasant Wedding (8 page)

She smiled slightly. “Oh, Evelyn wouldn't do anything like that. If she made up her mind to cut someone out of her life, that would be that.”

Brisbois glanced at Creighton, then back at Joan. “Do you think he killed her?”

“No.”

“You seem very sure about that.”

“I am.”

“People do strange things in the heat of passion.”

She considered this. “I don't think Carl has the energy for passion.”

He regarded her evenly. “Maybe that was the problem.” He scribbled a half-page of notes. “So you and Evelyn became friends because of the horses. Did you have any other contact with her?”

“Oh, yes, Evelyn and I shared quite a few interests. Horses, horticulture, architecture. Her parents died young. I think I was a mother figure.”

Brisbois nodded. He could see this solid woman as a mother figure. “Mrs. Metcalfe, you're saying Evelyn and Carl had grown apart. But they were married for twenty-five years. How much of that was a charade?”

She frowned. “You have to remember, Detective, Evelyn was young when she met Carl. He had been out of university for some time. He had a good job, was well-regarded in his field. At one time, he had plans to open his own agency. I'm sure Evelyn saw him as a real go-getter in those days. As she matured, I think she became more aware of his flaws. That often happens when women come into their own. I think her disillusionment was probably complete by the time they moved out here.”

“And Carl gave up his business to write.”

“Yes.”

“Did they fight about that?”

“Evelyn wouldn't waste her time fighting about something she wasn't interested in. Carl wouldn't fight at all. It wasn't in him to be assertive, let alone aggressive. That's why I'm so sure he didn't harm Evelyn. And he loved her.”

“But she didn't love him.”

“Not in the way he would have liked, I'm sure.”

“Was she having an affair?”

He expected her to take umbrage. Instead she merely looked thoughtful. “I have no idea,” she said finally.

Her reaction caught him off guard. “Wouldn't she have told you?”

She smiled. “Evelyn wasn't the gossipy type. Most of what I've told you about her relationship with Carl is based on observation coupled with my sense of her general view on life. There was nothing schoolgirlish about her.”

He tried a different approach. “Was there anything in her behaviour that might make you think something was going on? Was she moody? Distracted?”

She thought for a moment. “Evelyn could be moody and distracted at times. That was the way she was. But, no, nothing that struck me as unusual.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Can you think of anyone she might have had a problem with?”

“Evelyn had problems with many people,” she said without hesitation. “She was exacting. She could be difficult, sarcastic. A lot of people didn't like her.”

“But you liked her.”

“Yes. I understood her. She needed things to be a certain way. But I can't think of anyone who disliked her enough to harm her.”

“Any business deals that went bad?”

“I'm sure not. Evelyn was good at what she did and scrupulously honest.” She stopped, suddenly tearful.

Brisbois gave her a moment, then said, “I get the feeling she and Terri didn't get along that well.”

Joan shook her head. “Terri was definitely Carl's girl. But that's not unusual. Mothers and daughters, they do have their battles.”

“Battles?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Clean your room, lose ten pounds, that sort of thing?”

“Yes. Terri isn't like Evelyn. She isn't a perfectionist like her mother. She's softer, more forgiving of people.”

Brisbois made some notes. “What do you think Evelyn was doing riding up in the woods?”

Joan shook her head. “Evelyn would never have taken a horse up into the woods. There are no suitable trails up there. Low-hanging branches, animal burrows, tree roots.”

“That horse, Ned, did he spook easily?”

“Any horse can be spooked given the right circumstances. But Ned was not particularly skittish, and Evelyn had no trouble controlling him.” She hesitated, then said, “I can tell you for certain, Evelyn did not go up into the woods willingly.”

Gregoire stormed up to the desk where Margaret was sorting through the mail. Tim followed. Rudley, who was leaning on the desk, sipping a cup of coffee, tried to pretend he didn't notice them.

Margaret looked up as Gregoire stopped in front of the desk, emitting a long sigh. “What's wrong, Gregoire?”

Rudley put his cup down. “I'm sure what you're going to tell me is going to ruin a perfectly good mood.”

Gregoire glanced around, then said in a low voice, “Mrs. Lawrence is driving me insane. First, she has bizarre ideas for the cake. She is thinking of a large bundt with a motorized waterfall at the centre and the figures of the bride and groom posed in the mist at the base.”

“If they look as if they're planning to jump, it might be appropriate,” said Rudley.

“It is not appropriate,” said Gregoire through clenched teeth. “I have planned the most beautiful cake, elegant in its simplicity. The sort of cake you can actually eat. Miss Miller told me to surprise her. She did not say she wanted to be terrorized. This thing Mrs. Lawrence is proposing is outlandish. It is burlesque, the sort of thing you would find in a Legion Hall. The woman is a philistine.”

“Don't worry about it, dear,” said Margaret. “Tell Mrs. Lawrence you will consider her idea, then go ahead and do what you had planned.”

Gregoire was not mollified. “Then she wants flowers in the salad. I have selected a delectable mix of salad ingredients, each one chosen to blend its molecules with a dressing created by me especially for the wedding. I will not have her flowers desecrating my delicate balance.”

Margaret thought for a moment. “Why don't you go ahead and prepare the salads you have planned, then to spare Mrs. Lawrence's feelings, do a small piece with the flowers she wants. Mainly for decoration.”

“As long as it is inconspicuous,” Gregoire said. “I have never felt comfortable working with flowers.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Sawchuck will donate a centipede,” said Rudley. “That would destroy everyone's appetite for the floral salad.”

Gregoire gave him an exasperated look and huffed back to the kitchen.

“Mrs. Lawrence is a pain,” said Tim. “She's obsessed with every detail. You would think it was her wedding.”

“She wants to be helpful,” said Margaret. “I think we should accommodate her, provided Miss Miller is agreeable.”

“Mrs. Lawrence is a fanatic,” said Tim. He left, shaking his head.

“Flowers in the salad,” said Rudley. “I don't know if I could eat a flower, Margaret.”

She gave him a playful swat on the arm. “Of course, you could. Your mother told me she couldn't keep you away from her peonies.”

“Children will eat anything. Squiggy used to eat mud.”

“I think a floral salad would be lovely,” said Margaret. “We shouldn't be critical of Mrs. Lawrence. It's fun planning a wedding, considering all the possibilities. We could almost forget…”

“Quite right, Margaret. The wedding is a welcome distraction. Usually we have to devise our own way to muddle through these things.” He paused. “I wonder if they've found out who that woman was.”

Brisbois and Creighton stood back while the pathologist completed the autopsy. “We have three head injuries,” Dr. Jim said. He beckoned them forward. “Here, on the right parietal, we have a superficial lesion overlying a small subdural hematoma.”

Brisbois frowned. “Could that have killed her?”

The pathologist nodded. “It could have — eventually — but it didn't.” He pointed to the left side of the head. “Here we have a bump.”

“A bump?”

“Yes, a simple bump, minor contusion. Probably knocked her out but didn't kill her.” He called to the morgue attendant. “Hugh, help me turn her.”

The morgue attendant helped the pathologist turn the body to the right.

“The bash on the back of the head killed her,” said Brisbois.

“Congratulations,” said the pathologist. “Yes, this is what killed our lady. Blunt-force trauma to the occipital area, depressed skull fracture, fragments of bone imbedded in the brain.” He left the gurney, threw some x-rays up on the viewer. “She also has a fracture at C-6. Not displaced.”

Creighton stared at the x-rays. “How did that happen?”

“From a fall, I would say. She would have survived that, and with appropriate supportive care, would have had minimal residuals.”

“The depressed skull fracture,” said Brisbois, “what caused that?”

“She was slammed in the head with something heavy.”

“What about the one on the right?” Brisbois asked.

The pathologist turned the viewer off. “That was caused by a different instrument, and it probably happened earlier. I can't say how much earlier exactly, but it could have been as much as four or five hours.”

“She was hit on the right side of the head first.”

The pathologist peered at Brisbois over his glasses. “That's what I just said.”

Brisbois returned his stare. “I was thinking out loud.”

“The right parietal injury,” the pathologist continued, “is a crease, a deep scratch really. It didn't bleed very much. But here's something interesting.” He led them to a tray on the counter, picked up a specimen jar. “Here's some stuff I picked out of the wound on the right. Traces of straw, husks, and I think what might be animal manure. This one — the occipital wound — ordinary soil and a partially squashed slug.”

“Any ideas about the weapons?”

The pathologist picked up a file folder, opened it, took a glance. “The one on the right? The weapon was thin and fairly heavy. Probably a tool of some kind. The depressed skull fracture? Maybe an irregular piece of sculpture or a rock. Maybe even one of those decorative doorstops. Bring me something. I can probably tell you what it isn't. I might be able to tell you what it is.” He put the file aside. “I can tell you all wounds are ante mortem.”

“But it was the bash to the back of the head that killed her.”

“Yes.” The pathologist cast a glance toward the body on the table. “She didn't last long after that.”

The doctor stood in front of the door to Carl Hopper's room, arms folded. “I'm afraid Mr. Hopper isn't well enough to see you.”

Creighton rolled his eyes. Brisbois cautioned him with an oblique look.

“When do you think he will be well enough?” Brisbois asked.

“Perhaps in a day or two.”

Brisbois jammed his hands into his pockets. “What's the problem, doctor? The man fainted.”

“The man's wife died. He's depressed and distraught.”

Brisbois nodded. “I understand. If my wife had been found dead — possibly murdered — I'd be distraught. I'd also be on the phone, begging the cops to talk to me. I'd want to help the investigation any way I could.”

The doctor let his arms fall to his sides. “Mr. Hopper has been sedated. He's sleeping.”

Creighton snorted. Brisbois frowned at him.

“OK, doctor,” Brisbois said, “when's the soonest we can talk to him?”

“Perhaps tomorrow.”

“How about later today?”

“I'll let you know. Please call first.”

“How about as soon as he wakes up?” Brisbois smiled. “You wouldn't want to interfere with a police investigation.”

The doctor inhaled sharply. “I'll let you know.”

Brisbois reached into his pocket, fished out a card. “The minute he wakes up.” He grabbed Creighton by the sleeve, urged him down the hallway. They were out in the parking lot before Brisbois spoke. “I'm not sure how much help Mr. Hopper is going to be,” he said.

“I'll bet the sedative erased the rest of old Carl's memory cells,” Creighton said.

“You don't like the guy very much.”

“He's pathetic.”

Brisbois patted his pockets for his keys, gave up. Creighton grinned, produced the keys. Brisbois went around the car to the passenger's side. He got in, left the door open, lit a cigarette.

Creighton put the keys into the ignition. “Where to, Boss?”

Brisbois thought for a moment. “The Hopper place. I want to see what our people have turned up.”

Simpson stopped as Miss Miller paused beside the brook. He patted Albert on the head, directed him to sit. Albert obeyed. “This looks like a good spot, Elizabeth.” He paused. “Or at least as nice as the last several spots we've looked at.”

She stood, hands on hips, surveying the site. “I think I like the clearing, although it might be too warm in full sun. We don't want the Benson sisters to faint.”

“We could rent a canopy.”

“That's a lovely idea, Edward. I don't know if we could have the clearing, though. Detective Brisbois has it cordoned off.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps a spot with dappled light would be better.”

He cleared his throat. “I wonder if you've been exposed to Bonnie Lawrence too much.”

She looked at him over her glasses. “I'm talking about dappled, Edward. I'm not talking about coordinating the flowers in the salad with the bridesmaids' dresses.”

“I thought Mrs. Lawrence's idea of flowers in the salad was a rather nice idea. My mother said that when I was a tot I sometimes refused lunch because I'd eaten so many daisies.”

“My mother said I ate Queen Anne's lace.” She grabbed his hand. “Come, Edward, let's look a bit more. I'm sure there's a perfect spot over the next hill.”

He squeezed her hand. “I'm sure there is.”

Brisbois knelt beside the forensics officer. “What have you got, Payette?”

She stood up. “Not much here. The stall's pretty clean. Straw, grain husks, the usual stuff for a stable.”

Brisbois levered himself up.

Payette indicated some tools hanging along the wall just inside the door. “We've checked these out. Stevens is looking at the tack room and the tool shed.”

“Anything that looks as if it could be the weapon?”

She swept her arm along the display. “Lots of things. There's a shovel here. There's a tool chest in the tack room, hammers, screwdrivers, that sort of thing. There's also one of those carpenter's boxes with the kind of tools a farrier might use for shoeing, trimming hooves, etcetera. Lots of good stuff to commit murder with. We're packaging it up but, so far, nothing looks suspicious.”

He digested this. “So maybe she wasn't attacked here.”

She wagged a finger. “Don't be so sure about that. Let me show you something.” She led him to the doorway, pointed.

He stared at the door jamb. “Blood?”

“Sure is.”

He frowned. “Seems kind of low down on the wall. We're thinking she was on a horse.”

“Maybe she got on the horse afterwards.”

“Doesn't make sense — to get knocked on the head, then get on the horse.”

“Maybe she got on the horse to get away,” Payette said.

“Maybe.” Brisbois stared at the stain. “Definitely not splatter.”

“No, it's smear. There're also some smudges on the floor.”

“You got specimens?” It was a rumination, not a question.

“We checked the whole stable. This is the only place that registered for blood.”

He looked toward the stalls. “Looks as if somebody cleaned out the stalls. Did you check the manure pile?”

She cracked a grin. “We're going to draw straws for that.”

He thought for a moment. “Sheffield's at the Pleasant. Who else have we got on the ground?”

“Maroni. He's tracking back from the site.”

“OK.” Brisbois turned to Creighton. “Let's go see what Maroni turned up.”

Miss Miller stepped into a small clearing, stopped. “This looks promising.”

Simpson looked around. “It's a pleasant combination of sun and shade. But I'm not sure if it's big enough to accommodate everyone, unless we scatter the guests among the trees. And” — he pointed to a weathered stake — “I'm not sure if it's entirely on the Pleasant's property.”

“I think it's Crown land,” she said. “But I'm sure the province won't mind.” She skipped across the clearing, parted the bushes. “There's another open spot here, Edward.”

He followed her, peeked over her shoulder. “Yes,” he said, “rather lovely the way the ferns have grown in though the ledges.”

Albert tugged at his leash, yipped.

Simpson cupped a hand over Albert's muzzle. “Quiet, Albert.”

Albert whimpered, strained toward the ledge.

“He must have seen a chipmunk,” Simpson said.

Miss Miller squinted into the foliage. “Look” — she pointed toward the bushes around the ledges — “look at how those branches have been bent over.”

He looked in the direction she pointed. “You're right, it doesn't look natural.”

She grabbed his hand. “Let's take a closer look.” She pulled him after her to the ledge, squealed with delight. “Isn't that clever, Edward? Someone has set up a blind. They've tied cord around those branches and anchored them to that tree.” She dropped his hand, started to untie the cord.

“I don't know if you should do that, Elizabeth.”

The branches snapped back to reveal an opening.

“It looks like some sort of dwelling,” Simpson said.

“Let's take a look.”

“I don't think we should.”

“I don't think it's occupied. It's probably an abandoned hunting blind.” She charged ahead against his protests, swept aside a piece of tattered canvas tarpaulin that covered the entrance. “Edward, look.”

He hesitated.

“Edward, come on.” Her voice rose with excitement. “Look at this.”

Brisbois and Creighton picked their way up the entrance route to the place where Evelyn Hopper's body had been found.

Maroni waved a clipboard as they approached. “We've been trying to get hold of you guys.”