A Scent of Almond: Andy Blake Mystery, #3

By Richard Whitten Barnes

When Ontario Detective Andrea Blake investigates the newly discovered corpse of a man missing for two years, she gets way more than she bargains for: serial poisonings!

A serial killer at large.

Detective Andy Blake's life couldn't have been better. Her love life with Grant Stacey is on track, and she is happy in her new job with the Ontario Provincial Police. But her tranquil life on beautiful St. Joseph Island is interrupted with a simple request to take over the investigation of a two year old poisoning death.

The routine case turns complicated when curiously similar unsolved deaths are discovered over a period of several years, and cyanide is a common thread. Adding to the turmoil is Dan Graves, a renaissance man if there ever was one, and a contender for Andy's affections. She finds herself pulled in all directions before coming to grips with the A Scent of Almond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613092132

Book preview

Dedication

Especially for Elisabeth.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank:

Constable MJ Baker of the Ontario Provincial Police Sault Ste. Detachment Marie Media Relations for keeping me straight on the details of an O.P.P Detachment.

Véronique Rioux, Senior Media Relations Advisor with Correctional Service Canada for reviewing my section on the Grand Valley Institution for Women.

Preface

Everett Cole shifted his stocky frame from foot-to-foot and glanced at the ticking clock again, urging the hands forward. From his freshly ironed shirt pocket he removed the folded note, smelled the aroma, and spread it out onto the garage workbench. He read the note once again. The neat cursive told him what he already knew—that little honey with the tight little ass wanted him bad. The words were inviting. ...you know the place. I’ll get there around eight. I hope you will too. I can’t wait until we’re alone.

He felt himself harden, visualizing her thighs, hard little breasts. The clock still sat on 7:15. He willed the hands to move.

Everett? Emma Cole cautiously peeked inside the side door of the garage.

What do you want? It was a demand more than a question.

She closed the door behind her, and cautiously approached. Janice is late for play practice. You said you’d drive her there.

Yeah, well she’ll have to miss.

Emma hesitated. She can’t Everett. This is important to her. She has a big part. You promised. She reached out to touch his arm. I think it’s the least you can do for your—

His big hand came up and caught her flush on the left eye, bringing her to her knees. Don’t ever tell me what I can or can’t do, you cow! Cole quickly folded the note, replacing it in his shirt.

He grabbed his wife’s arm pulling her to her feet. Now—you go back in the house. You tell that stuck-up brat I need the car and have no time to sit around that school for her silly play-actin’ for eight year-olds. Tell her to ride that bicycle she wanted so bad this year.

It ... will be after eleven when she...

He lifted his hand again.

I’ll tell her, Emma gasped. She fled the garage without another word.

He watched her go, the damn bitch, always at him for this and that, thinking of that goddam kid instead of him and his needs. Her and her whole damn family acting like they was smart-ass intellectuals, or whatever.

The clock read 7:28. Only a ten-minute ride there. What difference if he was a little early? He reached in the back of a drawer extracting two sheepskin condoms. He’d paid extra, but they were the best.

Cole’s pride and joy was his new Chevy pick-up. It dominated the single car garage. He threw open the big wooden double doors and got in the truck, feeling good. Maybe drive through The Landing on this March night. The sun was down, but there was still enough light to show off his wheels.

HE KNEW THE PLACE SHE’D mentioned in her note, pleased she’d decided to keep it on the Island. She lived on the mainland, and the wait at the ferry was a bitch until the ice was completely gone. The old Henson place was a good one, all right. It was getting dark now as he turned off the Pine Island Ferry Road onto Boyle’s Side Road. Another right, yes there it was, the rusted gate left wide open. High on a rise, the darkened house waited silently.

He smiled there, in the dark of his cab with the dash lights glowing dimly, and WSOO playing Country on the radio. That little tease had finally come around. He thought he’d rather have had her at her house, but this was just as well for the first time—the abandoned Henson farmhouse.

The gate was open. The Chevy rumbled up the rutted drive where he parked between the house and the wreck of a barn, out of sight from the road. In the slanted light of a setting moon, he looked once more at the note with its delicious invitation. Patsy O’Dell, you naughty girl! That old heap of a car she drove wasn’t here yet. Better go inside to see where they could get comfortable.

The front door was ajar, and he pushed it open to find the place in decent order. Good. A half-moon gave just enough light through the parlor windows for him to barely see a familiar silhouette step from the adjacent room. A glint of moonlight caught...the barrel of a gun?

You! What the hell! He heard no response.

Perhaps he saw the muzzle flash of the single barrel shot gun. He had no sensation of his head exploding from the force of the buck shot.

One

T here he is. OPP Detective Andrea Blake straightened, peering through the windshield.

Her partner, Arnold Terry, lifted his large dome of a head and popped open his sleep-deprived eyes. He’d briefly dozed, the previous night’s stake out registering its toll on the sad, hound-dog face. He thumbed the two-way with a laconic, Our guy’s here. Look alive.

Got it, came the reply from the Ontario Provincial Police car parked near the rear of the house.

Andy waited until a man in his thirties fumbled for his key, and entered the bungalow before she said, Let’s go.

They marched the half-block to the house and knocked. Terry stepped out of sight to the side, and let Andy do the talking. The response to her knock was almost immediate.

Yeah? He was clean-shaven, in an argyle sweater, about five feet-four, and skinny, still holding his jacket in one hand.

Mr. Muir? I’m Detective Blake, and this is Detective Terry.

Terry’s big frame filled the doorway. They both flashed ID.

What’s...?

We have a warrant to search the property, sir. Terry flashed more papers from his inside coat pocket.

Muir didn’t ask why or what for. He merely stepped backward in a tacit invitation for the two policemen to enter.

Terry stayed put by the door while Andy stepped into the small, sparsely furnished parlor. She moved through the room and down the hall from which two bedrooms connected, giving them and a bathroom between cursory inspections.

Is there a basement, Mr. Muir?

There was no answer, and Andy smiled as the back door quietly clicked open and shut. She continued through the house for a few minutes before Muir made his reappearance in the hands of the two uniformed officers.

Good catch, Tony, she told the younger of the two. I was asking about a basement. She directed the comment to Muir. He remained silent, sullen.

Terry joined them in the kitchen, and opened a door revealing descending stairs. He glanced to Muir. Maybe you didn’t know about this.

Andy followed Terry, who flipped on a light as he went down the steps. The usual damp basement odor mixture greeted them. They didn’t have far to search. Under the stairs were a table, sink, cabinet and rudimentary chemical glassware.

Shit, Terry said. He’d opened the cabinet to find boxes of the drug Sudafed and other name brands for the chemical pseudoephedrine. There were jars of ammonium nitrate and solvent.

Shake and Bake, Andy said.

It was a major disappointment. This was small time, not what they were led to believe by their informant.

A hundred bucks says we’ll never see that fat shit again, Terry complained.

Or the two hundred you gave him for the tip, she added.

For the past several months, a new, apparently local source of methamphetamine was supplying the needs of Northern Ontario’s Algoma District. The drug had an analysis signature not found anywhere else in Canada or the U.S. states nearby. The two detectives were beginning to get a ton of pressure to put an end to the availability of this cheaper and purer source of the drug.

It was late, the sky outside already darkening. The two detectives escorted Muir to the OPP detachment lockup while the constables secured and sealed Muir’s house.

Back in their shared office, Andy prevailed on Terry to write up the arrest. Late already and I’ve a fifty minute drive.

My pleasure. At least you have a life. Sorry about today.

She retrieved car keys from her desk drawer. I’m not going to think about it until Monday. We’ll figure something.

Your lips to God’s ears, he said.

THE HEADLIGHTS OF ANDY’S Jeep Wrangler pierced the dark of Highway 17-East from the city of Sault Ste. Marie. A pale, full moon hung low in the sky ahead. Hunger pangs reminded her she’d skipped lunch again. It had been a frustrating week—hell, a frustrating nine months—since she had joined the OPP. She and Terry had walked down countless blind alleys since then, trying to discover the meth lab, or at least how the drug was getting into the local market.

She shook her head, reprimanding herself for dwelling on the investigation. She had better things to contemplate—her son Tim’s arrival tomorrow being paramount. Tim was graduating from the University of Guelph, and was driving up to stay for a week before heading to law school in Ottawa. He’d opted to skip the ceremony and get a head start at finding an apartment there.

She turned south off the highway and across the bridge to St. Joseph Island, a place she had re-learned to love since leaving for university over twenty years before.

St. Joe is a large, oblong mass, at one time gained from the mainland by various ferry services, but since 1972, attached by a handsome, arching bridge. The Island is almost thirty miles long and twenty miles wide, the third largest in the Great Lakes.

The Island was only sparsely inhabited until the mid-nineteenth century when the two small communities which are now Hilton Beach and Richards Landing were established. Heavily forested with maple trees, a large part of the Island’s economy is maple syrup. Agriculture, aggregate rock and dairy make up most of the balance.

The Island’s perimeter is formed by Highway 548, the interior roads forming a grid oriented approximately northwest, with alphabetical and numerical names: A-line Rd., 10th Side Road, etc. From the water’s edge, the ground rises gently to its highest point, referred to locally as The Mountain.

Decades of relative isolation in a rugged environment had resulted in a population of self-reliant, pragmatic citizens. Andy most assuredly came from that stock, and twenty-five years of chasing scumbags had not softened her. Behind perfectly arched brows over hazel eyes, a small, straight nose and classic jaw line lurked a tenacious, accomplished police officer; qualities that often clashed with the maintenance of a well-managed personal life.

It took her another fifteen minutes to drive to the foot of the Island where her family farmhouse sat behind a copse of trees. Andy’s deceased parents had run a small vegetable farm where they once made a subsistence living bringing their produce to local markets. Any doubts about her recent decision to quit her job with the Windsor, Ontario police were dispelled whenever she returned to the house. The place still radiated the love and security she’d known as a young girl.

As expected, the lights were on, and Grant Stacey’s Audi sedan was there. It was a good feeling.

SHE WOKE THE NEXT MORNING hearing the shower running, and decided to wait until Stacey was finished. They hadn’t quite graduated to bathroom sharing, and she had to go.

Get up, slug! Grant Stacey gave her a poke. He was dressed, holding a steaming mug out to her.

Andy peered up at his tall presence. She’d fallen back to sleep. What time is it?

Eight-fifteen. I’ve got to go in. Something came up.

In was Stacey’s equipment leasing yard in nearby Bruce Mines, strategically located between his two major markets, Sault Ste. Marie and Sudbury.

Let me use the john, and I’ll fix you an egg or something. She swung her feet to the floor.

I already had a piece of toast. He set the coffee down, and pulled her up to him.

Notwithstanding last night’s sex, this unexpected display for the normally conservative Stacey was erotic. You could stay. Her words were measured.

Wish to god I could. I’d have Earla in fits, though she’s already upset, and there waiting for me.

Heaven forbid we upset Earla, she thought. Right then, she didn’t much care if his site manager was having a tizzy, but she knew Grant didn’t get where he was by succumbing to the immediate demands of his penis. She wasn’t surprised when he kissed her warmly and said he’d call as soon as he could.

THERE WAS MUCH TO DO before Tim arrived that afternoon. He’d called earlier in the week saying he’d scored a ride with an underclassman from Wawa. The house was a mess...not just the dishes from last night, but she’d let things go after working late all week on that damn meth case.

She wanted the house to look nice for Tim, who hadn’t seen it since her father’s funeral. Andy, with help from Grant, had transformed the drab little farmhouse. A wrap-around porch, shutters, new siding and attractive plantings set the place off as a storybook cottage against a background of maples and firs.

Just after 2:00 P.M. Tim called, saying he was a half hour away. Andy got a load of herself in the mirror and deemed she needed all that time to get it together. She had barely set the phone down before it rang again. Damn!

Hello?

Andy, Roger VanBourne.

VanBourne was the Detachment Commander for the OPP in Thessalon, forty minutes east of St. Joseph. He’d been instrumental in convincing Andy to leave Windsor, and join the OPP.

Roger, I’m in a rush. Is this important?

No...well, yes. Can I call you later?

She released a sigh. Go ahead.

Remember the ‘unusual circumstances’ death you had there on St. Joe last month?

She did, but just vaguely, having been so wrapped up in her own caseload. Some Italian guy, was it?

Vincent Acardi. He lived on the mainland there ... Desbarats.

And...? She carried the phone up to the bedroom as she talked.

...and I’m shorthanded, covered over with a load of crap here, and no progress for a month on the Acardi death.

Roger! I’m up to my ears with my own cases, one in particular. Anyway, you’d have to clear it through my boss. She put the phone on speaker, and set it on the bathroom sink while she looked at yesterday’s mascara in her mirrored image. Ugh!

It just makes so much sense, you being right there. I’ll call Nolan, if you don’t mind. Nolan Roberts was Van Bourne’s counterpart at the Sault Detachment, and Andy’s boss.

Suit yourself, Roger, but I don’t see it happening. That ended the call. She turned her attention to doing something about her hair and face.

Back downstairs, she found the mess in the kitchen to be more clutter than anything else. It was only a matter of throwing it all in the dishwasher. By the time the fully packed Honda Civic rolled into the yard, the house looked good.

She went out to meet the car and the two young men who emerged.

Mom! The voice was a little deeper than she remembered. A tall figure unwound from the rider’s seat onto the driveway. It had been a year since she had seen Tim, due to a summer he’d spent in Montreal on an internship.

Timothy Adkins introduced the driver, who helped with the unloading before declining an invitation to stay longer. It was at least another four hours to Wawa.

I can’t believe what you’ve done here, Mom.

Andy stared at her son. His face had matured. Who is this self-confident person, so recently a callow college kid? Forget your bags. Come sit with me in the kitchen and catch up. Grant will be here soon, and I want you alone for a while.

They talked over mugs of hot chocolate Andy brewed. Tim was concerned about money, specifically the tuition at the University of Ottawa Law School. There were other, more expensive law schools, but still a lot, and a cop’s pay was modest enough.

We agreed to borrow against my equity line of credit. You can pay me back when you’re a rich, big-time lawyer.

Tim stood and peered out the window to the back yard. So—tell me about this guy you’re seeing.

The comment surprised her. She took a moment before answering. Grant Stacey and I grew up together. We were ... close when I left home for university. For some reason we went separate ways. I think—I know—we’ve always regretted it. She watched him continue to stare out the window.

He kept his gaze on the yard and changed the subject. What happened to the old garage that stood back there?

She told him she’d had Grant tear it down, and how the local historical society convinced her to save the two hundred year old foundation. It predates the war of 1812, and even has ties to our family. I’m afraid I’m stuck with that pile of stones.

Their talk was cut short by the sound of a car out front. It was Grant, back early from his trip to Bruce Mines. Tim joined her on the front porch, where she introduced the two men. Stacey was charming, and Tim civil, but not effusive.

Andy watched her grown son as they talked. He had his father’s good looks—the straight flax colored hair, prominent chin. But there was more substance to the son than to the mercurial, egocentricity that was Tyler Adkins.

Tyler’s verbal abuse and infidelity had led to Andy’s divorcing him while Tim was still a toddler. Her husband of three years hadn’t officially been diagnosed as a narcissist, but Andy was sure that was only because he refused to see an analyst.

The afternoon went well enough with Andy and Stacey doing most of the talking. They had dinner at Stacey’s house, Grant proudly showing off his extensive tool shop in the converted barn/garage. Tim did his best to wax enthusiastic, but Andy knew her son was pure liberal arts. After dinner, Tim begged off a nightcap, citing the long drive from Toronto.

The next day Stacey wisely let mother and son have the day to themselves. For his entire life, Tim had coped with a working mom. It had been eight years of schooling away from home. Stacey insisted Andy spend this day with Tim before his, once more, leaving home. As it turned out Tim slept in until noon.

You’re quiet, she said, as he munched on a tuna salad sandwich she prepared for him.