Minnitaki Lake Mystery: Book Two in the Death in Sioux Lookout Trilogy

By Richard Schwindt

On a bitter winter evening in Sioux Lookout a woman is shot dead. Across the street, in the shadows, Chris Allard stands watching. At first Sergeant Miles of the OPP treats Chris as an annoying but innocent bystander. But when the identity of the victim is revealed Chris suddenly becomes the chief suspect. Desperate to prove his innocence, Chris sets out to discover the truth. It is a search that moves from the back streets of Toronto to a small cabin on Minnitaki Lake. Time is running out. For even as Chris pursues the killer, someone is stalking him. Minnitaki Lake Mystery is the second book in the Death in Sioux Lookout trilogy. It is preceded by Death in Sioux Lookout, and will be followed by the Vermilion River Murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 1995
• ISBN: 9780992105464

Book preview

Murder."

Part 1: December

Best Western Hotel, Dryden

She sat on her bed and stared out the window. It was late and the afternoon light was giving way to another night of shadows and fear. The Trans-Canada Highway ran past her window, through the functional structures of a small industrial community. Rising like a great cloud from the distance, steam blasted out from the pulp and paper plant. Set on the polluted Wabigoon river, the mill operated twenty-four hours a day, delivering both a sickening smell and the economic lifeblood of the town.

He had promised to find her in the polite tone he affected when he wanted her to know that he was giving his solemn word. She knew that if he did she was lost. More than she was already? Hard to say. No, she thought, there is hope. There is always hope.

She smoked. After a while the smell sickened her so she decided to go out and get something to eat. She stood in front of the mirror for a good ten minutes applying make-up before feeling presentable. Mostly it was her skin going bad, blotchy and grey. She wasn't that old, and remembrance of her youthful beauty only filled her with sorrow.

She started out the door, wearing only a shapeless yellow coat against the cold. The phone rang. Hesitating, she closed the door behind her and reached over.

Hello, Ms. Smith?

Yes.

We have a bed for you.

Thank you, can I come tonight?

Yes. Are you sure that you can't give us a real name?

No, I can't do that. I'm sorry. Do you believe me when I say that my life is in danger?

"Yes. We understand. We… I just don't like to call anyone… however, we'll expect you tonight. Drive carefully. Do you know how to get to Sioux Lookout?

Yes.

A suburban estate in Scarborough

The place was nuts. Ten o'clock on a Sunday night, the kids were still up, clothes were scattered on every bed, and I was in a nervous state.

Kate. I yelled down the stairs to the basement, where I assumed that my wife was toiling over the washing machine.

What! I'm busy, Chris.

Where's that article I wrote on fixated pedophiles?

I think Roxy's colouring on the back. I glanced over to the coffee table at my nine year old daughter. She looked up, smiled, and reached over for a purple crayon. I turned and yelled again:

No, she has the one on suicide clusters.

Then I can't help you, came her disembodied voice. I waved my arms around helplessly. Kate and I were both about to take off for a week and my in-laws, the Michlachuks, were about to move in. Kate had received an offer from a woman executive friend to share a beach house in the Barbados for a sun drenched week of recreation and pleasure. I assumed that they were going to discuss the glass ceiling, gawk at beach boys and get ga ga on cheapo rum.

I had a reservation at the Sunset Inn in Sioux Lookout.

Not only was Kate getting the better deal, but with only hours before my mother-in-law arrived on the doorstep I still hadn't found a hiding place for the Macallan's scotch.

I had first travelled to this small community in Northwestern Ontario two years ago to provide training to the local Children's Aid Society. Unfortunately, I had immediately found myself in the middle of an ugly murder investigation. This murder had led to another, and the whole mess had not been solved for another year.

Despite my over-involvement with these unfortunate events, the CAS had liked my work, and given me a one year contract to provide clinical consultation for a week every month to the family treatment staff. That year, unlike most of the previous ones in my career, had gone by quite smoothly, and the per diem, along with Kate's industrial research position, had thankfully allowed us to resume our empty middle class existence.

This time my contact and confrere in Sioux Lookout, Kerrin Fujiama, had something different in mind for me.

Kate arrived at the top of the stairs with an armful of laundry. Dangling from the pile sat the top of her bikini.

You're going to wear that? I said. She looked at me. Like on the beach? There'll probably be men all over the place.

Give it a rest, Chris. Besides, I wasn't going to wear the top.

Kate?

I wait in the shadows

On Monday, December 12, I stood in the dark near a small convenience store in Sioux Lookout, in the dark, looking at a plain two story house across the street. I tried to pull up the sleeve of my parka enough to see my watch but found it had fogged. I guessed that it must be very close to five. A few people walked by in the darkness of late afternoon, crooked, bent, red faced, staring down at the ground. I could hear them panting against the chill.

No one had appeared at the door of the house yet and I chided myself for not walking over to ring the bell. I had an appointment with someone inside and was waiting for her to appear. I knew how I must look. A man in shadows, staring at a woman's shelter.

I felt like the enemy, and that approaching the shelter would frighten the people inside and subject me to a small interrogation. It was my conscience, of course; following a few inquiries they would either wave me in or send out the woman I sought. But I was impaired by my own unresolved guilt.

Her name was Debbie McCarthy. She was a worker in the house, and the chair of a small project with a long name: The Cross Culture Women's Health Collective. The government had dreamed this up to combat Community racism and violence against women. A somewhat massive mandate for a small group of human beings but the committee had resolved to find a workable goal and decided to offer a holistic counselling alternative for women - native and non-native. The idea being that a considerable health regimen would be offered with the counselling; massage, nutrition, reflexology, etc.

Kerrin Fujiama, clinical supervisor at the local Children's Aid, had offered up my consultation services at a fee so low that it could only be paid to a considerable success or a considerable failure. I wasn't sure which she considered me.

Chris, you'll be up here anyway working for us she said, Everything's already paid for. You'll like Debbie, and you get to do something worthwhile.

I'm a social worker, Kerrin. Everything I do is worthwhile. I want a pastime that's wasteful and stupid; maybe growing dope or writing pornography.

I know you don't mean that, she said, laughing. I did, but agreed to take the job. So now, with the temperature below minus thirty, I stood waiting. I had arrived early and wandered around the store until the glare of the student manager (Sir, are you going to buy anything?) had driven me out into the dark.

I had grown up in, and still inhabited the plains and rills of Scarborough, a mostly temperate place, thick with malls and apartment blocks, where it slushed instead of snowed and the cold was mostly raw air from Lake Ontario. On a chilly day you wore a hat and complained at the bus stop. The cat stayed inside and peed on the rug, you put off the car wash.

Nothing had prepared me for this kind of cold. It was a profound sort of thing, a cold you felt as much in your soul as your body.

I felt as though my breath was about to be sucked down inside. My eyes scratched, ears stung right through the hood and a frightening chill spread through my gut. If I stood here beyond a certain point I would surely be rendered too stiff to move and simply freeze-dry. I wasn't sure how much longer I could last without approaching the door.

I looked up and saw someone emerge from the house. I couldn't see her clearly but it looked like she was wearing some kind of yellow coat. She stood for a moment, taking time to stretch, two graceful arms arching above her head. She turned towards the street but I could not see her face in the dark. I stepped forward from my shadow and then she was shot.

I stiffened in shock, staring stupidly as she slipped to her knees, waiting for the meaning of the scene to emerge. It could have been the sound of a birch branch cracking under snow or a car backfiring. But those things don't make someone fall down dead. Or almost dead; she was still moving before the second shot finished her. As she snapped back from her kneeling position into the closed door I realized what was happening: a woman was being murdered right in front of me.

The shots had come from behind. I turned in my tracks. Nothing. My ears ran for a moment an echo sang over the darkness, otherwise silence. The woman was no more. Rousing myself from this grotesque reverie, I clumsily ran around front of the store and looked behind the far wall.

A figure holding a rifle, maybe twenty feet away, bundled up beyond recognition in a heavy parka and white scarf, glanced up sharply. I saw the weapon, the floodlight reflecting off its scope and into my eyes, and instinctively jerked back. Counting to ten, then cursing my cowardice, I peeked again. The figure had disappeared and the rifle lay in the snow. I ran up to where the killer had stood, and a little beyond, but in the icy gloom I could see nothing.

I knew that I couldn't leave the rifle lying there in the snow. It might be loaded. So I pulled off my big mittens, rubbed my hands for a moment and picked it out of the snow. It felt heavy in my hands and warmer than I expected. Pointing it away and gingerly lifting the bolt I watched as a wicked looking cartridge popped out. I tried the same manoeuvre again but nothing came. Satisfied that it was safe, I put the cartridge in my pocket and lay the rifle down in the same depression of snow where I had found it.

Then I remembered the woman who had been shot.

Turning about I saw a small crowd gathering on the doorstep and a chilling clamour of women and children discovering the body. Even from across the street I could hear the gasps and keening voices. A siren started up in the distance.

Someone looked up and pointed at me, and I felt an electric surge of guilt through my body, as if I had shot her. I stood very still for a moment, took a very deep breath to centre myself, then walked forward.

One woman ran back into the house, another started to cry. It was very difficult to continue moving forward, and when I arrived I heard women and children crying from inside. Only one woman, with a light cardigan wrapped around her shoulders remained, kneeling over the body. She looked up at me, and hot bile literally rose in my throat. It wasn't her; though her face was contorted with emotional agony; but the bloody and shattered object she held.

The woman I saw stepping onto the porch was gone forever.

The kneeling woman whose eyes met mine was streaked in blood from the chest down. I sank to my knees, wrapped my arms around her, and felt her begin to shake.

Sergeant Miles arrives

Sergeant Miles of the Sioux Lookout OFF found us moments later. He ran up to the door step from his car, opened his mouth, caught a glimpse of the corpse then shut it again. Miles was a tall rangy guy, wrapped in a dark police issue parka. His icy blue eyes betrayed shock for only a moment. Then he swallowed and noticed me.

Good God, it's you.

Hi, Sergeant.

Get that woman into the house, she isn't dressed for the cold.

Right. I leaned over and lifted her up and stepped inside. It was a measure of the residents shock that they allowed me in. In the sudden rush of warm air my glasses fogged up totally. I took them off and looked around. I saw women hugging children and each other. I saw wide red rimmed eyes filled with tears. These were the faces of a war zone. One very young woman began to clutch her stomach and shake with sobs. I couldn't handle it and went back out.

Dammit, Allard, stay out of the way. Miles ordered with a hostile glare. He was directing a team of officers who moved frenetically to organize the scene of the crime. Don't go away. I want to know what you're doing here. He yelled down to the boulevard at subordinates:

Cruikshank, keep those people back. Tait, get on the radio and find out where the hell the doctor is.

I know where the gun is. Sergeant Miles. That got his attention

Say what?

It's across the street, behind the store. I pulled the unused cartridge from the pocket of my parka.

Good Lord. He stood speechless for just a moment. Where did you get that?

I unloaded the gun.

Take me over there. Miles was already headed across the street. I ran to catch up. The cold wind passed through me like I was running naked.What in blazes name are you doing here, Allard?

I had a meeting with the woman who got killed.

Who was she?

Debbie McCarthy.

No.

No?

That was McCarthy you were hugging on the porch when I arrived. We hopped over the curb and into the snow. We were still talking as we passed the west wall of the store.

Wait a sec, see that. Sergeant. We had nearly tripped over the rifle.

Dammit, Allard, don't go any closer, we'll have to check footprints. Did you touch it?

I unloaded it after the guy dropped it.

You saw the guy?

Yeah, you want to hear more?

Four hours later

As I stumbled out into the dark from the police station I badly wanted a change of clothing and a stiff drink. I would need the drink and maybe a few more if I was going to pick up the phone later and try to explain this to Kate.

Miles had kept me standing around shivering at the scene of the crime for close to an hour in the minus thirty temperature. I suppose I could have waited inside but I didn't want another look at those children's faces. Various women had arrived from all over Sioux Lookout to provide support for the staff and residents, including Kerrin who had only looked at me before mounting the step and entering the house. One notable exception to the support group was Dr. Margot Laan, who had been called and paged continuously but not responded. Instead two women physicians from the zone hospital had come.

I was whisked away to the police station. There I waited for another hour reading OPP circulars while Miles finished taking statements in the house. He finally arrived back at the station, stormed past me into his office, then yelled: Allard, get in here! His parka lay crooked across a chair. A bright sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. Miles was an authoritative type, strong looking, wrinkled by the elements. Kind of a northern Marlborough man. His hands were busy fidgeting with some papers. His eyes, for the time being, avoided mine.

I want that son of a bitch, Allard,' He said, then looked up. Did you see those kids? He let go of the papers and tapped a finger, hard, on a bare patch of desk. I want that son of a bitch."

Who was she? He stared at me as if I had disturbed his thoughts.

Who?…oh, the victim. He shrugged. No one seems to know her real name. She just showed up last night, scared out of her mind.

So you don't know what this is about?

Miles looked up again. Come off it, Allard. A woman is shot on the doorstep of a shelter. You don't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure this one out. We will identify her. She will have a husband or a boyfriend. He will be a remorseful scumbag, who is missing a gun. I wouldn't be surprised if he comes walking through the door to confess before we even find out her name. I had an impulse to comment that I should have suppressed.

What if it's not so clear? I asked. Was it my imagination or did Miles turn a deeper shade of red. He turned away for a moment and looked out the window. All I saw was more of the black night. He appeared to be trying to get himself under control. I had said the wrong thing.

In the unlikely event, he began with chilling politeness, that this is not so clear, we on the police force shall investigate until it is clear. Then he made his main point. The one thing we will not need is the interference of a nosey social worker from Toronto…

Scarborough

Get out of here, Allard. Give Cruikshank your statement, go back to your hotel and stay out of my way.

Back at the Sunset Inn

The clock by the front desk at the Sunset Inn said nine. I found that hard to believe because I felt as though I had been out all night. I stood shivering in the bright light of the lobby for a moment, fumbling for my key and composing my statement to Kate. The Sunset Inn was a large frame structure set in a parking lot, across the street from a tourist information centre, a bunch of planes , some houses, a marina, and a small bay.

I returned to my room, tore off my clothes and scrunched them up into a plastic bag, then lay down on my bed in the dark and stared at the ceiling. The room was very warm, and lying there naked, a release. At the same time I felt very alone