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Murder at the Lake
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Murder at the LakeA serialised murder mystery byJack Benjamin(a Sr. Constable Thompson mystery)
Part 1
10 years into his career Nick Thompson had slipped into a comfortable pattern. Working in the Sharbot Lake detachment he put in his 12 hour shifts by day and night, three days on, four days off, four days on, three days off. His job was mundane, easy going if not a bit boring, beyond the odd unpleasantness from a drunk driver, an angry domestic scene, or the frantic scenes when he joined teams who played at cops and robbers when busting up a back road marijuana grow ops.
Lately, Thompson began to wonder about these busts, partly because as a teenager he used to smoke with some of the people he was involved in arresting. Still, he told himself, they knew the risk they were taking.
Nick was a drinker; he never really liked smoking, and cigarettes made him sick, but beer had always been another story. Not that he had a problem, although there had been a few incidents early in his career, and he was warned by his first partner a couple of times, but when the kids came along, life became busy and Nick kind of grew up.
A couple of years ago Nick’s wife Cathy began making noises about leaving, not for any reason that Nick could put his finger on. She said he was aloof, didn’t pay attention, watched too much TV. But she never did leave after all. Nick wasn’t sure why, but figured she just decided it wasn’t worth the bother, and there was enough for the two of them to do, what with the kids, an 8-year-old boy Mark, and his 6-year-old sister Meghan, and the juggling between his job and hers.
Cathy worked as a prison guard part time, and between her shifts and his, and working out school and daycare Nick and Cindy barely had time left to worry about getting along. Still, Nick couldn’t help thinking that someday something was bound to happen, but that thought remained in the background. He lived n the present, and the present was busy, if predictable.
On July first, Nick spent the morning stopping traffic for Canada Day parades, answered a few calls at cottages. One guy fell of a cottage roof, and there was a minor domestic dispute that didn’t go anywhere.
Finally, it was fireworks time, and Thompson and his young partner, Cindy Pupillo, who was “as green a cop as I’ve ever heard tell of,” Thompson was fond of telling his buddies, although he had to admit she as getting better after nine months on the job, and she was turning out to be loyal, were getting ready to direct traffic for the one time a year in the little village that was hosting the fireworks display, when the call came in.
“There’s been a 911 call on Bob’s Lake, ‘possible fatality’” the message said. “I guess we’ll let them work their own way out of this traffic jam,” Thompson said as he waved Pupillo over, jumped into his cruiser, and opened the door for her.
When they arrived on the scene, it was eerily quiet. Cars were parked every which way along the road, some teetering on the edge of the ditch beside the cottage road. Thompson drove through and headed towards the ambulance that was parked by the water in front of the main house.
It was obvious a large rowdy party had been taking place. There were beer bottles everywhere, food growing cold still piled on paper plates, and people scattered about. The lights were all on in the 6 or 8 buildings that were set about the oversized cottage lot The paramedics were already on site, but they weren’t hurrying, and Thompson knew that could only mean one thing.
There were about 50 people on the scene, aside from the paramedics, of different ages, “Most of them are drunk, I bet,” he told Pupillo, “This is going to be fun.”
The dead man was laid out on the dock, and the paramedics were just covering up the body. He looked to be 60 or so. There were two women sitting by him, one in her late 40’s or early 50’s, as far as Thompson could tell, and the other he recognised as Mrs. Hargreave, his Grade one teacher.
“I was sure she was dead,” he said out loud, and was relieved to see only Pupillo had heard him. Thompson felt a wave of sympathy for the man who had just died, surmising that he must have been Mrs. Hargreave’s son.
“Imagine having an old bat like that as your mother; that guy must have suffered enough over the years,” Hamilton thought to himself.
It turned out that Ed Hargreave had done very well in the world. The ramshackle cottage on Bob’s Lake that he bought in 1968, only 5 years after moving to Toronto from Tichborne, had been expanded and turned into a compound over the years. Ed had purchased both adjoining lots when they came open, tore down the cottages on them, and had built a main cottage, three other smaller cottages and a large boathouse over the years.
But Thompson didn’t find out all this until later.
“Heart attack?” he whispered into the paramedic’s ear.”
“Probly’. Isn’t this place wild? Everybody’s pissed to the gills. But you know what? This guy was sober,” the paramedic said. Thompson recognised the paramedic as Phil Bonder, whom he’d known all his life.
“How do you know?”
“I tried to revive him. Believe me, I would know if he was drinking. He was also in pretty good shape.”
“Who called in?” Thompson said.
“The woman over there. I think she was his wife, or something, and she was drinking enough for both of them. There was also a commotion over in the water when I got here, by the rocks about twenty feet into the bay, but I came right over there to the body.”
“Is that really Mrs. Hargreave over there?” Thompson asked Bonder.
“It must be, although I thought she could be dead. I was sure she was ninety back when we were in the fist grade,” Bonder whispered, “ but I guess she only looked 90.”
“She acted like she was 400 and rode a broom,” Thompson whispered, and he and Bonder leaned into each other so no one would see they were laughing.
Thompson then stood up and surveyed the scene. There was still a fair bit of commotion by the water. A large light had been brought out from the boathouse and was shining out over the bay. Clumps of people were standing around on the beach. Over by the various buildings, all the lights seemed to be on. Children were still running around, and some adults were making a half-hearted attempt to get them to stop. A smashed-up row boat and a twisted red plastic kayak were sitting on the beach.
“Well, I guess I’d better get started,” Thompson told himself, “and I guess the wife’s as good as place as any to start.”
“There was nothing we could do,” Thompson heard Bonder tell the woman. “
“I know,” she said, “I know.”
The elder Mrs. Hargreave began wailing. “No, no, not Ed, not Ed, not Ed,…”
The wife stepped back and sat down on a chair that someone had brought over from the barbeque area.
“I suppose I’d better start with her,” Thompson told himself.
“I’m terribly sorry to bother you ma’am,” Thompson said, “but I’d like to get a bit of information, whenever you’re ready.”
“That’s ok, that’s ok, I’ll be ready in a minute.” She leaned over to a younger woman, who had brought the chair. “Bring me a vodka, would you, Sis.” Then turning to Thomspn, she said, “I’d offer you one, but I know you won’t take it.”
Thomson didn’t say anything. Sis brought over a drink, and Ed’s wife took a deep gulp.
“What do you want to know, officer?” she said to him as he pulled out his little notepad.
