And We Shall Have Snow Page 17

  “So that’s when you became a nurse?”

  “That was my dad’s idea. I wasn’t given a choice. He really wanted what was best for me, but I didn’t like nursing. Then I met Panda and I was able to quit.”

  The lower floor of the house was built on an open plan. The kitchen area was behind a counter, the table set in front of it, opposite a large wood stove that warmed the whole house. Tall windows faced into the blackness of a dark wood. The nearest neighbours were a couple of kilometres away. Annie’s paintings hung on either side of the room, brightening the room with their rich colour.

  “Annie’s studio is upstairs,” said Matt as the meal drew to a close. “Can you take Izzy and Roxanne up to have a look?”

  “No.” Annie stopped clearing dishes from the table. “Not right now. I’m working on something.”

  “What is it you’re doing?” Matt sounded surprised. Was Annie usually so reluctant to show people her work? “Is it something to do with the case? Like the drawing you did of Stella?”

  “Never you mind.” The corners of Annie’s mouth flickered. She picked up the used bowls and moved towards the kitchen. “You’re not going to see it right now.” Then she turned and smiled at them all. “It’s going to be a surprise. Maybe when you find the murderer I’ll let you have a look.”

  “It’ll be finished long before then at the rate they’re going,” said Panda. “Let’s move over to the sofa. Have you ever eaten Chinese candy?”

  Izzy and Matt sat down. Roxanne stopped to study a painting on the wall. It was darker than the rest, browns and black with vivid splashes of yellow and purple. Panda passed around a bowl of little wrapped candies. “Did you know,” she began, “that George Smedley’s taken off down to the States for the night and left poor Phyllis home, all on her own?”

  “He’s what?” Izzy and Matt said, simultaneously. Roxanne stared at Panda. “He’s gone where?”

  “Oh, just down to Pembina to pick up some stuff for work.” Panda was delighted by the reaction. “Maybe he’ll go as far as Grand Forks. He’s supposed to be back tomorrow.”

  “What else do you know, Panda?” Roxanne asked.

  “Nothing. Phyllis is at home right now, playing Scrabble with Sasha Rosenberg and Margo Wishart. She’s fine. Wow. You really think George Smedley did it?”

  18

  There were fingerprints all over the StarFest binder that George Smedley had left at the detachment earlier for Izzy McBain. None of them belonged to a person of that name. Most of them matched someone named George Devine. He had a record, going way back. He’d done time, twice, in Nova Scotia for fraud. Most recently, he’d been taking on different identities, cheating people, mainly women with money. His last victim had been divorced. He’d robbed her of most of her life savings before he got caught. His mug shot showed a little man with thinning hair several shades lighter than George Smedley’s. He had a trimmed beard but otherwise looked exactly like him. Margo and Sasha had been right to be suspicious after all.

  Emails buzzed back and forth between the Fiskar Bay RCMP detachment and Brian Donohue in Winnipeg. Soon, a picture emerged of a man who had taken the identity of someone who was dead by getting a copy of the death certificate and building a life from there. The original George Smedley had been a market gardener, near Ottawa, with a reputation as a herbalist, dead ten years. Devine had taken his name and his interests and built a new persona. He had done some online courses in alternative medicine while he was in jail, and became Dr. George Smedley, naturopath.

  His car was found sitting in the parking lot behind a holistic health centre in a fashionable area just south of Winnipeg’s downtown. That was where George had rented an office. He met clients there twice weekly. The car had been left there sometime on Sunday, when the place was closed. He definitely had not driven south to Pembina, North Dakota.

  “We’ve got airport security and the border guys all watching out for him, but I doubt we’ll catch him. He’ll have changed his appearance,” Brian told Roxanne over the phone.

  “Shaved off the moustache?”

  “Maybe added a beard again. More hair. Dyed it. He probably had another identity ready to use in an emergency. He’s thought this all through beforehand. The car’s been parked where there are no surveillance cameras. He’s had an escape route all figured out.”

  “How would he have left the office? By cab?”

  “We’re checking. There’s a hotel within walking distance. He could have picked one up there. Or taken a bus. Sunday service is slow but he’d have been close to a major bus route. It’s been hours. He’s long gone. It’s not going to be easy to track him. Do you think he’s the killer?”

  “No, I don’t.” Roxanne had already given that some consideration. “There’s nothing in his record that points to violence. He’s a liar. A fraud. A thief. But he always talks his way out of trouble. Even in jail, he avoided fights. He doesn’t get physical.”

  “He could have got into something that pushed him too far this time,” said Brian.

  “And if he did, he would have needed help to dispose of those bodies. Devine has always worked alone in the past. He’s a loner. This would be way out of character. I need to get to Cullen Village and talk to his wife.”

  “I’ll keep checking in,” said Brian. “If you need me, holler.”

  Phyllis had slept in. She was still in her pyjamas and a fluffy pink housecoat when she answered the door.

  “Goodness, Corporal, it’s you again. And Constable Stavros! Did you need to speak to George? He isn’t here.” She paused, a worried look on her face. “Nothing’s happened, has it? He’s all right?”

  Roxanne and Matt assured her that to their knowledge George was alive and well. They soon found themselves in the Smedleys’ pastel living room, seated in overstuffed armchairs.

  The news that George Smedley was an alias, that the man she had married was a fraud, appeared to come as a surprise, but Phyllis recovered remarkably quickly. She opened up her iPad straight away to check her bank account. Their joint savings account had been cleaned out. Almost $10,000 was gone.

  “George insisted that we should always have ready cash available in case of an emergency,” she said. She did have investments of her own, she told them. She was quite sure he would not have had any way to access that money.

  “My son, Ross, is an investment banker. He takes good care of my portfolio. George would never have been able to get at it.”

  She had paid for his car. It had cost more than $40,000. It was news to her that the car was, in fact, leased. George must have pocketed the cash. She had also given him money to set up his business, to pay for furnishings and supplies. She had no idea that the space he had rented came already furnished, so another $25,000 was gone.

  “He told me that he had gone into business with his previous wife, that they had run a health clinic. She managed it poorly and that was one of the reasons they split up. He said that the divorce settlement had left him with very little money,” she explained. “I wonder if there ever was another wife, apart from the women he’s cheated?”

  Roxanne told her about his criminal record and the time he had spent in jail.

  “Oh, Corporal, I do feel foolish. My son is going to be so annoyed about this. Ross never wanted me to marry George. He said that he was a fraud right from the start. That he was after my money. He didn’t come to the wedding. Now it looks like he was right. I wonder if I’m legally married, if George Smedley doesn’t exist?”

  Roxanne wasn’t sure. “Is he named as a beneficiary in your will?”

  “I’ll need to change it! I was going to leave this house to him, and a living allowance. Ross advised me not to leave him a chunk of money. I’m going to have to talk to my lawyer.”

  “Did George know what you were going to leave him?”

  “Not really.” Phyllis gave her a sly look. “I just
told him I’d leave him a little something.”

  “When did you last hear from him?”

  “He emailed last night. Look.” Phyllis opened up her email and turned the iPad screen so that Roxanne could see it.

  “Night night, sleep tight. See you tomorrow. XXX George,” Roxanne read. It had been sent from his iPhone.

  “Can you forward that to me?” Matt asked Phyllis, taking out his own phone. He gave her his contact information.

  “Your house will have to be searched by a team from the Forensic Identification Unit,” Roxanne said. “They’re on their way here from the city.”

  “I hope they aren’t going to make a mess. He took his laptop with him, but his office is through there. His lab, he called it.” Phyllis waved towards the end of the hallway. Roxanne wondered why Phyllis was not more upset. There were no tears, no outrage. Phyllis seemed more concerned with the practicalities of what should have been devastating news.

  “Your husband used medicinal herbs?” Roxanne asked. “He grew some of them in your back garden?”

  “Oh, yes. Rosemary. Lovage. Echinacea. Mint. All kinds of things.”

  “Wolfsbane?”

  “I don’t know that one,” she said.

  “Blue,” said Roxanne. “About three, four feet high. Bell-like flowers.”

  “Like delphiniums?” Phyllis’s face lit up. “We have those, out at the back. I love delphiniums.”

  “You’ve been sick recently, Mrs. Smedley. Your husband always treated your illness himself?”

  Phyllis smiled a confidential smile. “Well, Corporal, he liked to think he did. I just went along with it to keep him happy. But I still went to my old doctor in the city for check-ups. She’s a lovely woman. I didn’t want to lose her as my doctor. I didn’t tell George, didn’t want to sound like I didn’t believe that he could cure everything that ailed me using naturopathy. Not that his treatments weren’t helpful, often they were. But I did think I should see a regular doctor as well, so I did. On the quiet. I’d tell George that I was going to visit an old friend. Well, I was, wasn’t I?”

  “Did you tell your doctor about these fainting spells you have? Like yesterday?”

  “Oh yes. I have panic attacks. I’ve had them before. I’m not good at handling stress. She gave me a prescription. I keep the pills in an old purse in my closet. George never knew I had them. Do you want to see them?”

  “In a moment. Has something been stressing you out lately, Mrs. Smedley?”

  “Corporal, how can you ask that? Since poor Stella was murdered I’ve just been a bag of nerves.”

  “And the medications your husband gave you. Did you take them?”

  “Yes, I did. I don’t think they made much difference. I often don’t take my other pills though—the ones my real doctor prescribed. They make me feel woozy. I should have taken one before I went to that funeral, then I wouldn’t have had that embarrassing turn. I’ve been taking them since then. George thought he’d cured me.”

  That also explained her present calm demeanour. Phyllis was sedated.

  “Mrs. Smedley,” Roxanne asked, “do you know where your husband was on the evening of January 19th and also on the 29th?”

  Phyllis looked perplexed. “Why are you asking that? Aren’t those the dates of the murders? Stella’s and Angus Smith’s? What are you suggesting, Corporal?”

  “We need to ask.” Roxanne gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

  “You think he’s a murderer? That’s just ridiculous, if you don’t mind my saying so. George may be a bit dishonest but he’s not capable of killing anyone.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Look, Corporal. I always knew there was something wrong with George’s story. I thought he might not be telling me the exact truth. But you know what, I liked him. I enjoyed his company. He took good care of me, and I like being married. I hated being a widow. I am surprised that he was breaking the law as badly as you say he was, and it does look like he has stolen quite a lot of money from me. But George is a wuss, Corporal. He’s a total wimp. I lived with him for almost three years. I know that. He’d never be able to kill anyone. He’s just doesn’t have it in him to do that.”

  “January 19th and 29th?” Roxanne reminded her. Phyllis reached for her iPad and opened the calendar.

  “There we are! We didn’t go anywhere on the 19th, so we must have been here, at home. Together. I would remember if he’d gone out anywhere without me. It hardly ever happened. And on January 29th, we went into Winnipeg for a matinee concert and then had dinner. We didn’t get home until after nine. We’re usually in bed by ten. Are we about done here, Corporal? I’d like to get dressed before your forensic colleagues arrive, and I do need to call my son and also my lawyer.” She rose to her feet.

  Roxanne stood too. Black and white framed photographs on the walls, mostly shots of the lake, caught her attention. Pelicans swooped in to land. Narrow wooden swimming piers stretched out over the water. She spotted a photograph on the far wall, in a prime spot.

  “Isn’t that Stella Magnusson?” There was no mistaking the high cheekbones, the shining blonde hair reflecting stage lights.

  “I took that at StarFest a couple of years ago,” Phyllis said proudly. “It was in last year’s brochure. Stella was so appreciative.”

  “Constable Stavros will wait until the Ident team arrives. Would you like to call a friend? Maybe you would prefer to get out of the house while they search?”

  Phyllis’s spine stiffened. “I’m not going anywhere, Corporal. I’m staying here to keep an eye on things. I’ll expect a full inventory and a receipt for anything you decide to remove. Will your people take long? I might want some company this evening. I think I might cook dinner and invite some friends over. Tell them the news myself.”

  Matt’s eyes widened in alarm. Panda Stavros would probably know more than they did before the night was over.

  “You know what? I think I am hungry. Constable, would you like some lunch? A sandwich? Corporal, you can stay and have one too, if you like.”

  “No, thank you.” Roxanne made her way to the door. “You’ll be sure to let us know if you think of anything? Or if you hear from him again?”

  “Oh, I doubt I will. I think he’s gone.” It was the first time, in the whole interview, that she had looked sad. She still hadn’t shed a single tear.

  By the time Roxanne got back to the office, there was more information for her. The payments on the car lease were two months in arrears, as was the rent for George’s office space. There were traces of hair in a sink in his office, so the moustache was probably gone. Would his wife have a photograph of him as he was now, without facial hair? Probably not, she thought. They’d check his old files. Perhaps get a forensic artist onto it. The clothes he had been wearing as George Smedley were hanging in a closet in his office. No one else had been near the place that Sunday to see him come and go. There was no sign of a laptop. His work files remained, but it did not appear as though he had had many clients. All his bookings had been made through a shared front desk. There were boxes of manufactured food supplements in a cupboard and bottles of pills and liquids with Latin names. Those had been taken to the lab.

  What else might he have done to cover his tracks? Moved money around online? There was no report of anyone like him being seen boarding a plane, a train, a bus, or renting a car. George Smedley had quietly and efficiently vanished.

  19

  “She just refused to leave.”

  It was the following morning and Matt was telling Roxanne and Izzy about his afternoon at Phyllis Smedley’s.

  “The Ident guys really wanted her out of there. She wasn’t having any. ‘I was married to a lawyer,’ she said. ‘He was partners with Alexander Lazar, the well-known criminal lawyer. I expect you’ve heard of him. I am going to call him, he’ll be happy to advise me. Do I n
eed to ask him to have a word with you?’”

  It was no empty threat. Lazar was well-known in the courts as a tough negotiator.

  “You should have seen her,” Matt continued. “‘It’s not as if there’s been a murder here, is it? It’s not an actual crime scene. You only need to remove items that are in his office, don’t you?’ They took out box after box. It was like a little chemistry lab in there. He was grinding up dried herbs and putting them into capsules. No computer, though. He must have used the laptop and that’s disappeared with him. They couldn’t find any records. Nothing like that.”

  “They searched the rest of the house too?”

  “Yup. The bathroom. And the bedroom. She sat in the corner directing traffic. ‘That’s George’s night table. That’s George’s closet.’ Then she found out they were going to dig up her delphiniums. They had to clear away the snow and hack at the roots with an axe. They were frozen solid. ‘What on earth do they think they’re doing, Constable?’ she asked. I just acted dumb. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her that we thought her husband might be trying to poison her.”

  Roxanne had driven out first thing to Sprucewood Hall to meet Izzy’s mother. The walking track would be fine for running and the price was certainly right. She’d arrived too late to run though. There had already been walkers striding around the circuit. She’d picked up a schedule and the promised key. She could get there early most days and put in a few laps before the regulars arrived.

  She had checked in with Brian Donohue. George’s email to Phyllis on Monday night had been sent from Pearson International Airport, Toronto, he told her. It was now Wednesday. George could have gone anywhere in the world from there, assuming he had a passport for whatever identity he had assumed. The materials taken from the Smedley house would take some time to analyse. They could find no banking information in the name of George Smedley apart from his joint account with Phyllis, or anything recent in the name of George Devine. It was frustrating how easily he had disappeared.