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“We’ll bring him back tomorrow, immediately after the funeral.”

  “Okay.”

  Moore stood. “I’ll get Conrad and Lowrie.”

  Naslund nodded. After reading the Hope Bay transcript, she’d looked up the two DCs on the staff intranet. They were newbie detectives but not raw rookies, early-thirties, from what she could tell. Conrad was a former OPP PC, Lowrie, an ex-RCMP corporal.

  Moore quickly returned with the DCs. Introductions complete, he pointedly asked the two if they had any questions about the case notes.

  They had none.

  “Nothing?” he asked again.

  They shook their heads. Naslund sympathized with them. She probably wouldn’t have asked anything either.

  Moore summarized the recent interview with Larmer, and then opened the floor to suggestions.

  Conrad remained silent. He appeared to be cowed by Moore.

  “Might be good to look into Larmer’s sailing ability,” Lowrie said. “Does he own a boat?”

  Moore shook his head.

  “Does he swim?”

  “Good question,” Moore said. “I’ll leave that to you to find out.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you know if he belongs to a gym?”

  “Again, over to you.” Moore sat back. “All right, Constables, we’ll leave it at that. Sergeant Naslund, do you have a list of Mr. Tyler’s family members and local acquaintances?”

  “Almost complete. I’ll email it to the DCs in fifteen minutes.”

  “CC me as well. DCs, I expect you to start your interviews tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred sharp. Get your schedules solidified this afternoon.”

  The DCs nodded and left.

  A rush of annoyance surged through Naslund. The inspector didn’t have to micromanage them.

  “I’m going to visit Mrs. Carson,” Moore said and shut down his computer.

  Naslund watched him tighten his tie and assume his public face, his earnest, insistent face. The man seemed to have one gear only: full-speed ahead. Well, she decided, better follow Graysuit’s lead. Back at her desk, she quickly completed the Tyler family and acquaintances list then strode to her car. It was time to talk to J.J. MacKenzie.

  Chapter 10

  Wiarton. July 11th:

  Naslund had a good idea where to find J.J. MacKenzie. At this time of day, the mechanic was usually taking a coffee break. She drove downtown, surveying the streets as she went. All quiet--as usual. The afternoon sun burned through a thin layer of clouds. The town seemed to be in siesta mode.

  Up ahead, she spotted MacKenzie striding toward the Berford Coffee Shop. She parked and started walking. Although a tall heavy man, MacKenzie moved like a mountain lion, all power and dignity. He surged forward chin first, showcasing a big, bushy beard. She quickened her pace. The traffic light turned red at William Street and the mountain lion stopped.

  She called out. “Mr. MacKenzie.”

  The mechanic looked over his shoulder then turned around. “Sergeant Naslund.” He feigned alarm. “You here to arrest me?”

  “Might be,” she said.

  “Didn’t do it, Sergeant. He was my best friend. But I know you have to ask. And I have an alibi.”

  “Good. Tell me, for the record.” For someone so angry at the morning visitation, MacKenzie now had a calm look on his face.

  “I was in Hamilton for an Independents meeting. Left here Friday at four p.m., got back Monday at noon. You can ask my wife Marie. Plus about four hundred other mechanics.”

  “That’s a lot of mechanics.”

  “Plenty more out there. We’re going to put the Walmarts of the world out of business.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Demographics, Sarge. More and more folks like the local touch.” MacKenzie grinned then raised a hand in peace. “But we’ll let the Marters die on their own.”

  “Good.” Naslund nodded. “I’d like to talk about Thom. We were close this last year or so.”

  “He often mentioned you.”

  That was nice to know. “How about a coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  ***

  “You’re right,” J.J. said as he stirred his coffee. “Thom loved being out on the water. He had a good life. A great life,” he corrected himself. “And to think he was taken by the bay. That’s almost the worst part of it.”

  “It’s an awful irony,” Naslund said.

  J.J. nodded.

  She took a quick look around. The place was empty. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why the irate act in the funeral parlor? You don’t seem angry now.”

  “You’re right. It was an act. I want people to talk about the enraged mechanic, that crazy man from Colpoys.”

  “They will.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “Most locals are too taciturn. Too Scottish.”

  “Aye.” Naslund mimicked her aunt. Growing up, she’d heard plenty of Scots burr. Her father was Swedish, but her mother’s side was Scottish. “Hang on, I have more to say. Nae, I canna say more.”

  J.J. chuckled. “It’s long odds, I know, but if people talk, it might uncover the truth about Thom’s death. Gossip has wings. As my wife says, it flits around like a blue jay. Word will get back to me.”

  “Sounds good.” Thom had once said that J.J. MacKenzie knew more about boats than anyone in Wiarton. With their canoe sterns and sharp prows, Mackinaws cut through the water like a porpoise, yet she figured they had a downside. “Can I get your opinion on something?”

  “Any time.”

  “Personally, I find Mackinaw centerboards narrow and a bit weak. What about you?”

  “I’ll give you narrow,” he replied, “but not weak. Thom’s Mackinaw rode out dozens of heavy squalls. The centerboard was solid.”

  “Would you be willing to give testimony in court? You know, for the police?”

  “Me? For the police?”

  “Yep.”

  He eyed her without moving a muscle. “Maybe,” he eventually said. “I’ll be happy to give you an opinion at any time, but I’m not sure I’ll testify. History, Sarge.”

  Naslund nodded. She knew that MacKenzie’s father had been jailed for labor unrest in the mid-80s and had died in prison.

  She hesitated. “What I’m going to mention now is supposition. Pure supposition.”

  “Understood. You never said it.”

  “Exactly. I think two screws popped out from the centerboard housing and I think they got forced out by heavy seas or grounding. Does that sound right to you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “If she grounded, the centerboard itself would be damaged, but not likely the inner housing. Centerboard screws don’t usually pop out--grounding, high seas or whatever--not in my experience. They’re Phillips screws, not flatheads. You can sink them in deep. Plus they’re inside the hull and behind a set of ribs. Pretty well protected.”

  “Thanks.”

  J.J. took a sip of coffee then looked up. “I’ve been doing a little investigating myself.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a bead on what might have happened to Thom.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  J.J. grinned. “I’d say you’re more than ears.”

  “Was that a compliment?”

  He grinned again.

  “All right.” She smiled. “Let’s keep on track.”

  “No harm meant. I’m happily married. Would you consider my news an anonymous tip?”

  Why not? she thought. “Okay.”

  “Well, a young fella from Colpoys saw a Mackinaw about six-fifteen a.m. on the day Thom died.”

  “A young fella?”

  “Fine. My son. Doesn’t matter which one.”

  For now, Naslund decided.

  “My son saw one man onboard. He’s sure it was Thom. Thom was like an uncle to him.”

  “That might not stand up in court.”

  “Court? This is anonymous, right?”

  “Right,
” she said. “Completely anonymous. Pardon the line of questioning. Habit.”

  J.J. eyed her.

  “You have my word.” She told herself to get her head on straight. At this point in the investigation, court should be the last thing on her mind. She wasn’t prosecuting a murderer, she was trying to find one. If court came later, and hopefully it would, she’d cross the disclosure bridge with J.J. then.

  “All right,” he said. “The youngster knows who he saw. I sat with him a long time. I believe him. He’s a boat spotter, likes to use a pair of WW-Two binocs my father once owned. Anyway, that morning, he was camping on Hay Island with two kid brothers. There’s a lookout on the east side. He was sitting there with the binocs when he saw Thom’s Mackinaw.”

  “What exactly did he see?”

  “Well, he saw a fishing boat moving fast, approaching the Mackinaw from the south.”

  “Did the boats meet?”

  “He doesn’t know. He had to get back to his campsite, to make breakfast for his brothers. You can’t see the water from there. It’s inland.”

  “Too bad.”

  J.J. nodded. “He identified the fishing boat as an Albin Tournament Express. There were two men aboard. He didn’t think they were fishermen.”

  “Why?”

  “According to him, they didn’t look like fishermen. They were dressed like city guys: tank tops and tight shorts. They were young too. Under thirty, he figured. Most guys who fish are older.”

  “True.”

  “Coincidentally,” J.J. added, “the Griffith Island Club has an Albin TE Thirty-Five. My cousin Marty Fox works over there as a guide. According to him, the club Albin was out that morning.”

  The club, a private fishing and hunting operation, owned the whole of Griffith Island. “Did you report any of this to the OPP tip line?” she asked. “Anything at all?”

  “No. I’ll be honest. I don’t want your crew questioning my family.”

  “Understood,” she said. “How about the Wiarton Echo’s tip line?”

  “No. Didn’t want anything interfering with my little investigation.” He sounded apologetic. “But you can report it now. Just remember, no mention of Colpoys or my family.”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “Another coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I’m going to jot down what you just told me. Are you okay with that?”

  “Sure, Sarge. Scribble away.”

  “Here’s my private number.” She handed her personal card to MacKenzie. “Call me anytime.”

  ***

  Having left the coffee shop, Naslund sat in her car and called MacKenzie’s tip in to Moore. The inspector said he’d dispatch two officers to the Griffith club ASAP.

  On the way home, she drove to the end of Bayview and walked to a lookout facing Colpoys Bay. Out toward Lake Huron, the water deepened, changing from turquoise to azure to navy. She gazed past the three islands at the mouth of the bay--White Cloud, Hay, and Griffith--to the larger waters of the lake, once called La Mer Douce, the Sweet Sea. On a map, the long finger of the Bruce Peninsula yearned toward the northern forests. She felt a yearning too. It felt like she’d been alone for years. She seemed to be slipping into spinsterhood. There were hardly any single men her age in the area. The ones that were didn’t like cops. Lance Chu was nice--very nice--but she didn’t want to date a cop. She’d learned that lesson in Toronto.

  Leaning forward, she studied the bay. Two fishermen in a Lund drifted steadily offshore, trailing their lines. The wind had veered from northwest to southeast, a 180-degree turn. It was high time for her to make the same kind of turn. It was time to turn her home life around. She knew there were men in the city, yet she wanted to meet someone local, someone down-to-earth. There was a guy who worked at the Echo, Hal Bell, a journalist and writer. He wasn’t a hipster, he wasn’t a redneck. Two points already. He was exuberant and genuine. Two more. She liked his looks: tall, dark, the kind of hair she loved, longish in front, short at the back and sides. They’d chatted many times over the last few months. He seemed to like her.

  She leaned farther forward. Do it, she told herself, ask him if he wants to share a meal. As it happened, he was running the Echo’s tip line for the Tyler investigation. She had a ready-made reason to eat with him--to ask if he’d share his tips more quickly with the OPP. The faster the team got tips, the better. She nodded to herself. Call him.

  ***

  Naslund sat at her kitchen table, checking her bank account on her phone. Hell! Two hundred and eighty-two dollars left for the month of July. She needed at least three-quarters of it to buy groceries.

  Her money troubles were a recent development. She’d let Pete talk her into buying a huge house. She’d also paid off his crushing grad school debt, which put her deep in the hole before the house came along. These days, after shelling out for an enormous mortgage, what was left of her decent pay packet barely covered utility and social club bills, work lunches, and groceries. Although she owned a century-old grange, it looked two centuries old. The paint was peeling. The roof sagged like spinach in an August drought. She’d sold her sailboat, a Jeanneau-27. She’d probably have to sell her house.

  Being half-Scottish, she knew how to weather financial trouble. “Avoid” spending money. Always eat at home. But she couldn’t invite Hal to her place. That was too forward. They’d have to eat out. Go Dutch. Eying her account balance again, she did an instant calculation. A buffet dinner plus half a liter of wine, maybe an aperitif. With the tip, over forty dollars.

  What could she do? Over-extend her credit card again? No. She’d done too much of that.

  She couldn’t cancel her golf or curling memberships. The OPP brass expected their officers to be in the public eye. She wasn’t going to quit her women’s hockey team. She loved ice hockey.

  She had no choice. She had to cut back on groceries. Move it, she told herself. Call him now. He’d hinted that he’d go out with her anytime.

  I’ve been thinking, another voice said. Why don’t you cancel your life insurance? It makes no sense to insure your life if you’re living half a life.

  Exactly, she thought. Pulling out her personal phone, she called the insurance company.

  Despite languishing in on-hold hell for what felt like hours and repeating that yes, she wanted to suspend her plan--no, not add to it, or buy another one, or buy car insurance--she finally suspended her plan. Mission accomplished, she called Hal. After a nod to the weather and expressions of sadness about Thom Tyler’s death, she broached the subject of discussing the tip line over dinner that evening.

  “That would be wonderful,” he replied. “We’re lucky, you know.”

  That’s good, she thought. “We are?” she kidded.

  “Yes. The tips are flooding in.”

  “I knew it. Dinner will be all business. No time for fun.”

  “Damn it. I finally dine with the most beautiful woman in town, and she has to talk work.”

  “Only until nine p.m.”

  Hal chuckled. “Can you meet at seven-thirty?”

  “That’s fashionably late.”

  “As always, Sergeant.”

  “Eva.”

  Chapter 11

  Naslund exited the shower and wrapped a towel around her hair. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she smiled. Good move, young lady.

  Well, she had to admit, that was half-true. Calling Hal was good, but she wasn’t exactly young. Leaning closer to the mirror, she surveyed the wrinkles around her eyes. Forget ’em, she told herself. Wrinkles or not, she wasn’t the worst catch around.

  At five-feet-seven and 144 pounds, she wasn’t as lithe as Carrie MacLean, but she was fit, and, as her father used to say, still full of mischief. In her mother’s eyes, she was a Tomboy. In her father’s, she’d been a paragon of Swedish womanhood, other than her unruly auburn hair, statuesque and strong.

  As she styled her hair, taming the wildest waves, her duty phone rang. She walked to the bedroom and fo
und the phone. “Sergeant Naslund, OPP.”

  “Hello, Sergeant,” said a tentative voice. “Constable Derlago.”

  “Yes, Constable.”

  “I’m--I’m at the main CS, Tyler’s boat. Someone stole some things from it.”

  Jesus. “Where’s Sergeant Chu?”

  “He had to go to Orillia. To a meeting. So did the other three. I--I was charged with keeping the site secure until twenty-two-hundred.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I was at the MU and I spotted a man sneaking around the boat. I called out to him. He started running. He got away.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Not exactly. He was medium-build and bald, that’s what stuck in my mind.”

  “Okay.” Naslund decided to go easy on Derlago. He was the station rookie, still on probation.

  “And he ran like a middle-aged man,” Derlago said, gathering confidence. “You know, fast enough, but clumsy. He bolted and disappeared across Highway One. I tried to chase him down, eh, but he had a big head-start. He disappeared into the bush. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” she said. “You did your best, Constable. So, what did the thief take?”

  “I saw him carrying two lines. When I checked the boat, the bow mooring line was missing and the stern one too.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I did a once-over when I arrived. They were gone.”

  “And they were mooring lines?”

  “Yes.”

  Well, at least the rookie knew boats. “Did you inform Sergeant Chu?”

  “No. Not yet,” Derlago added.

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Thank you. Seems like the thief didn’t care,” Derlago said. “Operating like that in broad daylight, eh. He must think he’s untraceable.”

  “Likely.” Naslund checked the time. An hour and a half before dinner with Hal. She better go to the scene. She better phone Moore as well. “Stay close to the boat, Constable. I’ll be there in fifteen.”