Pride and Murder: Nancy Sharpe Mystery, #2

By K.J. McFadyen

Pride is in full swing in the Royal City. Colour, visitors and music crowd the streets as people come to enjoy the festivities. Perhaps the only thing that could bring down the mood is a dead body. 

 

When a member of the local LGBT community turns up dead in a downtown parking lot, Detective Beale calls in retired Nancy Sharpe to investigate. The only problem is that no one knows why the victim would be there given his disdain for the annual celebration. Michael Lafond may have been big, loud and proud but he always said he'd never be caught dead at Pride.

 

He was wrong. 

 

Now Nancy's investigation must peel back the covers on the Royal City's marginalised people to find a killer. Could the culprit be hiding amongst the artistic competitors, bigoted protestors, professional rivals, conspiring roommates or faithless paramours which plagued the victim's life? And can Nancy discover the true price of one man's pride?

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.J. McFadyen
• Release date: Jun 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9781068863011

K.J. McFadyen

Kevin McFadyen is a world traveller, a poor eater, a happy napper and occasional writer. He prefers Earl Gray to English Breakfast but has been considering whether or not he should adopt a crippling addiction to coffee instead. His love for stories started way back in his distant childhood when he enjoyed the classics: J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Robert Aspirin and Lynn Abbey, Ursula Le Guin, Stephen King, Piers Anthony, Clive Cussler, H.P. Lovecraft and a slew more that aren't currently on the nearby bookshelf. While video and boardgames may have supplanted some of his reading time, Kevin has committed his life and sanity to the crafting of his own narratives. Having accumulated a number of short stories, this persistent scribbler has turned to publishing books. The Red Sabre series is a steampunk fantasy set in a wild west-like world full of train mercenaries. The books follow an ensemble cast of diverse characters in this epic adventure. His second series focuses on a retired detective inspector, Nancy Sharpe. These are light-hearted mysteries set in modern times with a real-life feel to them. Kevin continues to share his ideas on writing, media and life in the jointly owned blog: https://kmcfadyen.com/

Book preview

Chapter 1

Nothing motivated the dark heart of man harder than hunger. For Scott Sharpe, the scent of the Cajun spice sweet potatoes spurred him against adversity. He shuffle-juggled the grease-soaked paper bag, careless of the oil dripping upon his custom leather vest. His other hand, bedecked in gold painted rings with gaudy gemstones, balanced a carry-out tray of two large milkshakes. Somewhere between the two, a single set of keys slipped and tumbled well away from the lock it paired with.

Then the seal sticker coated in palm oil slid through his fingers and the darkened paper began to tear from the weight of the fried food inside. Scott tried to stay visions of his Four Guys meal spilling about his sneakers. He hugged the entire meal against his custom sewn tunic, mindless of the grease soaking into the treated leather.

I don’t even know what half of these open, he grumbled, failing to get another key to turn the lock.

At last, he found the elusive soul that unbarred condo 415. Just as he angled the front door open with his hip, the bag split down its side and Scott had a split second to choose between his meal and his drinks.

He let the milkshakes go. The paper cups were squashed beneath the weight of their own contents and the greedy pull of gravity. Pink slush splattered over the welcome mat and sprayed up the floorboards and walls. Mail, uncollected since his last visit and unceremoniously dumped in the front entry, turned a delectable shade of rose.  He briefly mourned the loss of the strawberry drinks but spared not a thought for the city’s envelopes underneath. It’s not like a crisp utility bill charged less.

Damn it. Mother! I’ve brought you lunch! He wrapped the hem of his tunic with the bold leather stitching around the oozing side of the take-out bag. Also, I’m afraid I made a bit of a mess.

With sleeves now left to sop up the grease, Scott kicked his stained boots across the foyer floor.

I got you Rocky’s! Your favourite: two classic hot dogs!

They were somewhere in the bag buried beneath the mountain of sweating sweet potato fries. He thought a double layered bag would contain the notorious fast food’s artery clogging veneer. It hadn’t. He briefly wondered if the oil had eaten through his chilli dog box, spilling its delicious condiments over his mother’s wieners.

He was sure it wouldn’t be a problem. She’d just slather it in ketchup anyway. He doubted she would even notice.

He beelined for the kitchen. It’s a good thing too. I completely forgot the parade was this week. I swear, the festival gets longer every year. The downtown is positively choked. Scott gasped as he noted a sly fry slip from his coddling arms. He quickly dumped his payload on the counter and scooped up the stray crisp. He hadn’t timed it but surely it fell within the three second rule.

God only knows the route they’ve planned this year. I thought they marched them down Gordon to the university. But they’ve taken over Norfolk Street! It took almost twenty minutes to get into the church parking lot. And we’d reserved the grounds for our run. But it was impossible to hear each other over the crowds and protestors. Can you imagine them going right past the Basilica? The deacon will be in a right tear. He sorted through the survivors, splitting the pile of fries, hot dogs, chili dog, two cheeseburgers and double sized order of onion rings into two piles. Then he shifted everything away from the hot dogs. He counted out ten fries from the mound and set them aside.

Anyway, best you stay indoors. It’s madness out there. Man, Pride just gets crazier and crazier. You know, I saw a woman marching down the street with her breasts flapping out, free in the breeze. Can’t remember the last time I saw some lady bare-chested since the courts repealed the decency laws on discriminatory grounds. He pulled out a plate then juggled it between his grease slicked palms. Scott managed to direct it onto the counter as it slid from his grip. Surely that crack was there before.

At least this woman was younger. I think. Hard to say through the deep tan. Probably only fifty years old. Dyke, I presume. He paused, reflecting. I think it was a woman. He shrugged, scooping up his fries and mounding them on the plate. He reached for a second, recalled his initial struggle and elected to wash his hands first. Then he fetched a ladle to attack the crawling chilli.

Haven’t seen so many vuvuzelas either. The tambourines are less surprising. And less distracting. But they’ve got yards of streamers to compensate. We’re going to reschedule the run. Maybe look at doing it where there are less crowds. Scoot shook his head. And you wouldn’t believe the crowds. Looks like it doubled over last year. Completely outnumbers the counter protestors. They’ve got them separated on either side of the street. Or, I think, that was the plan.

He licked the excess sweet chilli from his fingers as he looked over the fruits of his labour. One massive pile of spicy sweet potato beside a delectable plate of cheesy, chilli goodness. But something was missing. He leaned over, poking through the remaining ungathered fries. He prodded the chilli mound. He even lifted his hamburger bun.

No matter where he looked though, he had no idea where the hot dog buns had disappeared. Scott wondered if somehow they got lost when he consolidated the food into a single bag for easier transport.

Shrugging, Scott tossed the naked wieners in a small dish and rummaged through the fridge for the ketchup.

I think at this point they’re playing with the counter protestors. Like a cat with its food. I swear I saw some suspiciously large nuns amongst them. And I may not have attended Catholic school but I’m pretty sure their uniforms don’t normally include rhinestone garters. He found no less than two ketchup bottles. Both the plastic and glass ones were practically empty. Scott frowned, thrumming his fingers against the door. Then he merely shrugged, took both, and placed them beside the bunless wieners.

Anyway, I can throw a kettle on for you as well. Festivities will likely continue for the remainder of the week. But I’ll make sure to keep your food well stocked. I’ve been thinking, there’s the new delivery apps that will bring your groceries right to your door. Might not be a bad idea to give them a try now. He carried the plates over to the small card table at the end of the counter. There’re things out there, mom, that I’m sure would just stop your heart at your age. You’d think the cool weather would discourage the nudity, but it almost seems like they want to start a northern Folsom or something.

He paused when he thought he heard his mother respond. But as he listened, he realised that it was just a broadcast. Mother! Scott called. I was also hoping you could do a load of laundry. I missed one meeting with my friends already and I’m going to need this outfit cleaned if I get time off to attend the next.

With the plate of fries in hand, he went to investigate. He stepped into the TV room, noticing his mother’s chair conspicuously empty. The set had been left on, however, and the news was gleefully in the midst of the Pride celebration, surrounded with bright balloons, banners and confetti.

But despite the colourful rainbow, a strobing red and blue drowned out the rest of the spectrum. Scott reached for the remote with his glistening fingers. But his eyes did not leave the scrolling marquee at the bottom.

Body Found At City’s Jubilant Gay Festival!

Oh no, Scott groaned as the remote controller slipped from his fingers. Not again.

Chapter 2

Music blared. Streamers streamed. Confetti scattered the asphalt like a brilliant Pollock painting. Handbills and paper flags were caught up in the stamping of feet, jangle of bangled wrists and the calls of people crammed into the city’s old downtown core. Shops plastered rainbows in every window. Pink triangle stickers decorated lamp posts. Plastic cups accumulated along the stone foundations of shops. Pictures of women with too big hair, too much makeup and not a lot of clothes were stapled to whatever walls would hold them.

It was like a trip to Vegas but without the five-hour flight or bright lights of gaudy casinos. 

To compensate, every open window blasted a different bubbly pop song.

Nancy slipped past parents walking their children dressed in glimmering sequins and sparkling face paint. It was hard to ignore the changing face of Pride since she worked crowd control back on the force. All kinds of individuals paraded around in bright wigs. Stalls crowded the sidewalks selling all manner of things like tubes of mascara, eye lashes thicker than veils, press on nails the size of sabre tooth cat talons, teeth covers whiter than Chiclets, earrings the size of dinner plates, heels that made stilts jealous, pads for shoulders, pads for hips, pads for pads.

Nancy knew she was old because she didn’t recognize what half the stuff was used for.

Several teenage girls worked through the crowd, stopping plain clothes same-sex couples and snapping selfies with them. Several leather clad biker ladies were practically mobbed by a throng of eager visitors like they were animals in a zoo. In fact, the more Nancy scanned the crowd, the less of the traditional attendees she spotted.

She passed beneath the dour Basilica of Our Lady Immaculate with its gothic spires stained in dark streams of black dirt like mascara caught in the rain. A tight knot of disgruntled individuals gathered on the steps, shouting at everyone beneath them. They waved signs reminding passersby that the church was not a fan of fun or celebrations. Their clothing was a uniform drab as though all the colour had been sucked from the cloth and spewed onto the street. For the most part, the rest of the city ignored them. A few counter protestors had gathered on the other side, dancing to music, waving streamers and having a literal gay old time.

A bored city clerk sat on a chair buffing her nails and kept a respectful distance between the two sides. But the sheer difference in scale between the two sides did more to ensure peace than her disinterested yawns.

Nancy paused before Larry and Ron’s Parlour. The barber shop was a two storey, red brick converted historic building with a little copper plaque for authenticity. Two large rainbow flags hung from its upper windows. The black accented front window and door had colourful chalk scrawled over it to brighten the glum exterior. A large moustache decal in the door’s window had strips of multihued stickies attached in long, overlapping strips. Even the barber’s pole had streamers dangling from its bottom.

Standing before the door was the first police officer that Nancy had seen since she had stepped off the bus.

Well, she had less stepped rather than rode the wave of people as they unloaded into the temporary stop now that the new downtown bus terminal was cut off by the parade.

Inspector Sharpe! the junior officer exclaimed. Nancy adjusted her shoulder bag as the man stepped from the cement steps and offered his hand. He was on the slightly dumpy side, clearly a few years out from having to pass the physical. His brown hair curled like a cherubim's wig from the brim of his cap and he adjusted a pair of large prescription glasses that sat crooked over a toothy smile.

Just Nancy, if you will. I’m retired. You must be Officer Windrum. His hands were soft and delicate as he took Nancy’s. His short-trimmed beard lent the mere spectre of maturity to an otherwise age resistant face. His crystal blue eyes were particularly piercing as they looked Nancy over.

Such a pleasure! he whispered. When I was told to expect a consultant, I had no idea it would be you!

You must be new, Nancy said without a hint of condescension.

The officer nodded emphatically. Oh yes! Just transferred here three months ago! So glad to be gone from Geraldton, let me tell you! Nothing but bush and mosquitoes up there. Nope! And a three-hour drive to civilization! If you’d call Lakehead civilization.

Ah yes, remote work, Nancy nodded. It’s nice to hear that it is still used as a rite of passage these days.

Well, this isn’t the capital but it’s far more lively, Officer Windrum grinned. And I had no idea it was the residence of the effable Missus Nancy Sharpe! You know, they still use your cases for training on the force!

I believe one or two have mentioned it, Nancy nodded. Awfully kind of them to remember the contributions of us retirees. She reached into her bag. Candy?

Oh, yes! Wonderful! Officer Windrum took the strawberry wrapper and the hard candy vanished in an instant. His grin grew impossibly larger. Wow, I can’t wait to tell my wife that I got to work with Nancy Sharpe on a case!

Is she on the force too?

Oh, not at all. Lawyer. Lives over in the big city. He waved vaguely in a direction that was not here. I’m hoping to get transferred eventually. But, you know, everyone wants to work in Toronto. And there’s not a whole lot of lawyering to do around here.

You’d be surprised, Nancy said.

Officer Windrum merely blinked at her. Oh yeah?

So you were radioed about my coming? Nancy asked.

Yes. Of course! he laughed. Here I am all star-struck like a little boy. I get nervous around celebrities you see. He leaned. Why, you should have seen me when I got to meet Shari Lewis. I was a gibbering wreck for not just my seventh or eighth but also my ninth birthday! He wiped his eye. Oh, what a continuous surprise that was.

Nancy nodded. That’s lovely. She tried to peek into the barber shop behind Officer Windrum. I don’t mean to press but... I don’t know how well this scene can be secured; what with such a crowd of visitors. A shout punctuated her point and she turned to find a celebrant snapping a photo of them on the steps before waving and moving on.

Oh, this isn’t it, Officer Windrum said. L.A.R’s Parlour was just kind enough to let me sit on the stoop. Officer Windrum stepped down and waved. Right this way. Right this way!

He led Nancy around the exterior of the house. A simple wood fence separated a line of scraggly bushes and the sidewalk from the lot behind. The yellow police tape was really the only thing that made it remarkable and, in the short time it had been rolled out, it was now braided with red, orange, green, blue and violet into a very colourful rope.

No reporters? Nancy asked as Officer Windrum fiddled with the rather rudimentary gate latch.

Brass is entreating them down at the station for a public announcement. He tapped his nose and gave a wink. Nancy wasn’t sure what he meant. Besides, it’s well fenced. Not much to see but some wood and plastic He shrugged. The local rag probably got what it could already.

With a clack the latch opened and the gate whined on rusted hinges. He lifted the police tape unnecessarily for Nancy. After you.

She walked comfortably underneath. Officer Windrum struggled to get around without ripping it. He walked away with a light dusting of glitter on his shoulder.

What have we here? Nancy asked. She stepped into a fairly wide parking lot. It clearly shared space—and dumpsters—with the neighbouring tenements and businesses. Three rotted garbage bins occupied two of the corners with a pair of new residential bins lined neatly at the lot’s entrance. Currently, a large police van conveniently blocked the street entrance. Nancy peered up at the lonely brick house flanking the exit. With white limestone quoins and shapely bay windows, it provided a lovely facade to the grotesque extensions jutting out its back. Not a single speck of Pride was found on its weathered siding.

Well, about two cars. That’s a 2014 Ford Focus and we’ve a white Chevrolet Silverado. I suppose technically it would be one car and one truck.

Nancy stared at Officer Windrum while he pointed out the trapped vehicles.

He offered no further clarification.

Nancy rocked on her heels. So... I presume that forensics has been through already.

Oh, for the body! Of course! Officer Windrum’s laugh was a bundle of nervousness and freneticism. Sorry. I’m really making a fool of myself in front of the imperious Nancy Sharpe! He paused. I shouldn’t have called you that. He couldn’t help but look down at her with his extra foot and a half of height. I wanted to say peerless. His face flushed a bright scarlet as he jabbered a few more apologies.

It’s perfectly ducky, Nancy said, resting a hand on his arm. He jumped like she had jabbed him with a taser. He responded with a nervous chuckle and apology. She reached into her bag and popped out another candy. I’m really not that famous. You don’t need to be so anxious. She waited for him to pop the second candy in his mouth. Just breathe.

He followed her instructions as she calmed him down. Then she motioned to the parking lot. Where was he found?

It was over here. Officer Windrum stumbled across the cracked asphalt, making a point to highlight the large potholes as he waved Nancy along. Well, the feet were. I got to see it. Him. I suppose. We’re supposed to use pronouns. He paused, looking towards the fence and the blocked street beyond. I presume it was a him. I shouldn’t assume pronouns. It was definitely a person. And they were dead. A dead person, if you will.

Was there identification recovered from the scene? Nancy asked while Officer Windrum led her to the crooked dumpsters. Colourful posters stuck out from the top amongst a pile of empty bottles and cocktail mixers. Nancy noted they lay against the back fence almost equidistant from the three rear entrances which they served. He pointed between the two. There was a large stain on the ground. It was hard to tell whether it was blood or rot.

Oh, my notes! He patted about his pockets. He frowned. I thought I took down some of this information. His fingers prodded his rear pockets. Now where did I put it?

Nancy nodded. She poked through her bag and pulled out her own notepad. She tapped the tip of her pen against her tongue. She wasn’t sure why but when she was on the force, her commanding officer did it all the time and she had just adopted the habit herself.

She looked over the edges of the dumpsters. Presumably forensics would have swabbed them down for particulars and trace evidence. But she didn’t notice any telltale blood stains. There were a few sparkling streaks and an excessive amount of confetti.

Looks like the death of a pinata, Nancy said.

Nope, I can definitely confirm it was a person, Officer Windrum said, freeing his radio and choking out a crackled call. After a moment, he was connected and reported that Nancy had arrived.

Put her on! the radio squawked.

Officer Windrum held the clunky device out for her.

Oh, that’s sweet. But I’m not as young as I used to be, she said. Instead, Nancy leaned into the device. Inspector Beale? Is that you?

Missus Sharpe? I presume you’ve found the place fine?

Yes, Detective. I met Officer Windrum. I see that you’ve had analysis run through the scene already.

Yes, well, it took some time to get clearance for consultation, Detective Beale replied. Especially for you, given your background. As you can understand.

It is no bother, Nancy assured. If it isn’t asking too much, I would appreciate perusing the report when it is finished.

Of course, of course. I thought you might like to see the space yourself and, well, given the timing, the city is hoping to reopen the area as soon as possible. I couldn’t arrange more than—

Nancy nodded. Then she watched as the radio began to drift away from her. She caught Officer Windrum distractedly trying to dislodge some of the candy from his teeth. He flushed, flustered and flung the radio back in her direction.

—and they’re hoping to re-open for an age restricted entertainment venue by tonight. We’ve taken plenty of photographs, naturally. But I understand nothing replaces seeing the space itself for you old bloods.

That’s awfully kind of you, Nancy nodded. I’m surprised that the city approved an expedited processing of a crime scene.

Detective Beale cleared his throat of annoyance. Yes, well, the councillors argued that interfering with the celebrations would raise concerns by the participants. They want to minimise our presence for the festival.

It sounds like you don’t agree, Nancy said.

I think finding the guilty party is more important than... well... a party.

Nancy nodded. Well, we aren’t just officers of justice. We are civil servants for the community.

And I’m sure the council doesn’t want to lose the revenue of a very busy and very profitable Pride.

I suppose not. Nancy looked down at the crook between the dumpsters. So, what have you learned of the victim?

She could hear the rustle of papers over the static of the radio. He has been identified as Michael Etienne Lafond: forty-two-year-old Caucasian male, one hundred and ninety-five centimetres tall, approximately ninety-nine kilograms heavy with green eyes and bleached blonde hair. Autopsy results are still pending. The body was discovered with numerous contusions, cuts and welts. Blood beneath the fingernails suggests he defended himself, possibly obtaining DNA samples of the perpetrator. These have been sent off for processing. Likely won’t get results for a week.

A week?

The radio crackled. That’s right. Low priority. Given the location, initial assumption is that he was involved in a drunken brawl late at night. Head trauma suggests he was possibly knocked into the nearby dumpsters and suffered the fatal blow. There was a long pause. Obviously, we’ll know more once the reports are finalised.

I see, Nancy said. She looked over the dumpsters again.

Given the time of year, we’re kind of hoping you’ll be able to ask around downtown. Ascertain who he was with last night and who likely got in the fight with him. We should be able to bring the suspect in, get a DNA swab and wrap this up shortly.

Mhmm, Nancy said, nodding. She scribbled in her notepad. She looked all over the dumpster. Then she turned to Officer Windrum. I presume the dumpsters were processed as well?

He withdrew his finger from his mouth, inspecting the nail for any more sugar. I assume so. He reinserted it for another excavation and gave Nancy a non-committal shrug.

How tall would you say you are?

Five foot ten. Officer Windrum shifted. But I like to think of myself as shy of six feet.

Could you stand here? Nancy asked. She moved Officer Windrum between the dumpsters. She frowned. The feet you say?

Shy of six.

No, you saw his feet? Nancy asked.

Yup. Right before they tossed him in the body bag. Legs just jutting out like he had been crushed by Dorothy’s house or something.

Right here?

Officer Windrum nodded emphatically.

Would you care to show me?

Officer Windrum shook his head emphatically. Ground looks awfully dirty.

It does, Nancy said. And your suit is lovingly starched.

Every Tuesday!

How much was sticking out, do you wager? She cleared her throat at the junior officer’s blank look. Of his feet.

Well, the feet were.

And the legs?

It was mostly feet.

Barefoot?

Oh, no! Officer Windrum laughed. Can you imagine?

Yes, Nancy said. Do you recall the shoes he was wearing?

I’m not really a sneakerhead.

Nancy nodded. So, you don’t remember anything about them? Colour? Condition?

They were black. It was dark. Officer Windrum shrugged again.

Were they particularly nice shoes? Nancy prodded.

Oh, no. Like, you wouldn’t wear them to a wedding. Thick soles. Uh... laces?

That’s ducky, Nancy nodded as she scribbled.

Officer Windrum gave a low whistle. Wow, you really are thorough, eh? None of the other officers cared this much about his shoes. Officer Windrum concentrated for a moment. I also recall seeing a raccoon run along the fence. Nancy looked up as Windrum pointed behind him. Right along there. Scampered across and into the backlot. Fat little sucker! Probably like thirteen and a half kilograms.

The raccoon, I presume.

That’s right!

Nancy closed her notebook and stuffed it back into her large shoulder bag. Well, I suppose that is it then. I shouldn’t hold up the city if they’re meaning to reopen this place. She leaned back into the radio. Detective Beale? Are you still there?

His reply was the same as a customer that had been shuffled from three different hold queues while waiting to return a defective pair of sneakers. If you have any further questions, Officer Windrum will be more than pleased to assist you.

I just wanted to confirm that crime scene photos had been taken, Nancy said. She looked around the lot. I assume I won’t be getting another chance to come and visit?

We processed the scene per procedure.

Wonderful. Nancy took a moment and looked up at the neighbouring structure. This is the Albion, correct? She didn’t await Officer Windrum’s reply before slowly counting her footsteps to the side entrance. She turned around, returned to the dumpsters and repeated the process to the blocked entrance. She then scribbled in her notebook. You can tell the detective he has been most helpful.

He’s already hung up, Officer Windrum replied.

Nancy looked around the lot. It was pretty empty. I assume forensics was thorough.

Had the whole lot of us with flashlights combing the ground! Officer Windrum nodded. He adjusted his glasses. Really strains the eyes. And back. Didn’t find much beyond some broken glass.

Bottle?

Nope, glass. Officer Windrum rocked on his feet. Nancy took one last survey of the scene. He let a low whistle in the silence. Soooo, we interviewing folks now?

What’s that?

Like barkeeps and the like. Find out where he was drinking? See if we can’t find his drinking partner? That’s... uh... what Detective Beale wanted, right? He flushed again. I didn’t mean to pry. Or eavesdrop.

You were holding the radio, Nancy said.

I’m terribly sorry.

Nancy shook her head. "Well, for one, I’m afraid the bars will likely be quite busy. And there are more than a few around here. I think I’ll wait to hear from the toxicology report whether