And We Shall Have Snow Read online

  “How was she killed?” Sam Mendes raised his pencil, ready to write it all down.

  “They’re still doing lab tests, but she suffered a blow to the back of the head that caused serious injury.”

  “There was a wood stove with fire irons at the house, and an axe and a maul in the woodshed.” Constable Mendes was flipping back through his notes.

  “They’ve been examined,” said Roxanne. “They’re clean. The body was frozen and then cut up into several parts, head, both arms and legs, each of which was also severed above the knee. The torso was cut into two parts horizontally across the midsection. The pieces were stuffed into black plastic garbage bags, strong ones, each one padded with newspaper, old copies of the Winnipeg Free Press from between December 30 and January 10, the outside pages missing. The ones we found had no prints. Ms. Magnusson’s clothing and boots were also stuffed into the bags. Different ones. Two rings had been left on her fingers. Theft does not appear to have been a factor in this murder. We believe the bags were collected by the garbage truck in Cullen Village on Monday, January 22, as part of the regular curbside pickup and deposited at the Cullen landfill site. The truck driver and his assistant noticed nothing unusual.”

  “She’d been left out at someone’s curb for the weekly garbage pickup?” Matt asked.

  “Or outside several houses. She had been frozen then cut up, probably with a band saw. That could help us narrow things down.”

  “The butcher will have one of those,” said the sergeant.

  “There was that break-in at the school during the holidays, just after New Year. There might be one in the shop there,” added Mendes.

  “Could be one at Cullen Village.” Matt Stavros was leaning forward on his elbows, his coffee between his hands. “There’s a men’s group gets together once a week to do carpentry in someone’s workshop. Want me to find out?”

  “You do that, constable. The car was found yesterday, in the long-term parking lot at Winnipeg airport.”

  “Surveillance cameras?”

  “Yes. But the video’s not much use. You’ve seen it, Izzy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Izzy had viewed it in Winnipeg as part of her training. “It was snowing and dark when the SUV was dropped off and it was left at the far end of the lot. The picture’s fuzzy. There’s just a blur. It looks like it was just one person, though. Someone not very tall.”

  “The vehicle was locked,” Roxanne continued, “but the keys were in the glove box, as were the insurance papers. There was a packed suitcase and a travel bag in the back. Stella Magnusson’s wallet was in the side pocket of the bag. All her credit cards appear to be there, with two hundred dollars in cash. There are plane tickets, for Dublin then London, Milan and Paris, and a passport. There’s no sign of a cellphone, a tablet or a personal laptop. The vehicle appears to have been wiped clean of all fingerprints. It’s still being examined.”

  “When was it dropped off?” Matt asked.

  “Saturday, just after 1:00 am. She was seen the Thursday evening before by a couple called Smedley, so we believe that for now death happened between late Thursday night and Friday, January 19. Probably sometime that Friday, since the car wasn’t dropped off until early Saturday morning. Has anyone reported anything suspicious?”

  “Not much. No one saw anything or heard anything. A couple and two sons live next door, on a farm. The Andreychuks. There’s been some friction between them and the victim before.” Mendes again.

  “Let’s call her by her name—Stella Magnusson,” Roxanne said firmly. At least one constable shifted uneasily in his chair. It looked like she was one of those politically correct types.

  “We had complaints from both sides, Corporal,” said Sergeant Gilchrist. “Stella does this StarFest thing, every year, in June, on her land. Concerts. Big crowds. John Andreychuk’s a farmer. Complained about the noise, people tramping over his fields, disturbing his cows and calves. Traffic. Cars parked everywhere. You could see his point. He tried to get her closed down. Didn’t work.”

  “And what did she complain about?”

  “She thought he was trying to scare her off, to get her to sell and move out. Said she found a dead fox once, on her doorstep. Got some funny phone calls, hang-ups. A skinned coyote was left, hanging on a tree at the edge of her wood. A cat disappeared. Andreychuk swore blind it wasn’t him. That was all about four or five years ago, though. And it stopped. There’s been nothing since.”

  “Brad Andreychuk’s a nut case,” Constable Mendes contributed. “The oldest son. He’s been in a few fights over the years, but no one’s pressed charges so we haven’t been able to hang anything on him. There’s a younger boy at the University in Winnipeg. Stays in the city most of the time. There’s nobody much else out there.”

  “She lived out there by herself?”

  “Yep, but she was usually away for about three months in the winter and in the summer she had people around her place a lot of the time. She hired staff for the festival, mostly students. And there’s a bunch of volunteers. We’ve got lists of them, and of board members.”

  “Make sure Izzy has them all,” said Roxanne. Izzy glanced up from her laptop and grinned. Roach rolled his eyes.

  Bill Gilchrist leaned forward. He knew local history. “She inherited that place from her uncles, her mother’s brothers. Her father was from an old Icelandic family, been around Fiskar Bay from the start, but her mom was Ukrainian. Farmers. The uncles were bachelors, lived out there together all their lives. Nice old guys, but quiet. Kept themselves to themselves. One died right after the other and there was no one else to leave the land to. Nobody expected Stella Magnusson to move back but she did. It must have been nearly ten years ago.”

  “She came from here?”

  “Oh yeah. Went to Fiskar Bay High School, but she cleared off right after she graduated. Got to be thirty-odd years ago,” he added. Izzy had returned to clicking away on her keyboard.

  “So she would have been thirty-seven when she came back? That would have made her forty-seven now?” Matt Stavros had done the math fast. “She looked younger than that. My aunt lives out here. Delphia Stavros. She’s one of the women who were at the dump when the body was discovered. There’s a bunch of artists in the area. According to her and her friends, Stella Magnusson wasn’t much liked by some of them. And there had been a lot of guys in Stella’s life. It’s all just rumour but I’ll give you some notes, Izzy.” He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. “My aunt’s partner is Annie Chan. She paints. She did a drawing of Stella’s head.”

  “The Annie Chan? Isn’t she famous?” Roxanne was surprised. She didn’t know much about art but she recognized the name.

  “That’s the one.” He found the photograph and passed the phone to her.

  “Well, look at this. That’s amazing.” Roxanne held it up so they could see. Except for Izzy, they appeared unimpressed. “We could use a printout, life-size, Izzy.” She checked the time. She had learned enough for now. She wanted to get started, to begin to get a sense of how the residents who toughed out the long, cold months here lived. She needed a context in which to place Stella Magnusson and the person who had killed her. “If you hear of anything that can help us, we’re right upstairs,” she said, closing the meeting.

  By the time she was ready to leave, Izzy was putting notes and photographs on the whiteboard.

  “Where do I find the Andreychuk farm, Izzy?”

  “I’ll show you.” Izzy went to her laptop and pulled up a map on her screen. “Don’t trust GPS out here, ma’am. Doesn’t work. You’re likely to end up in the middle of a field.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Roxanne. “How about you drive me? It’ll give me a chance to look around.”

  “Sure! Want me to get a car?” Izzy was already reaching for her parka. It looked like she was itching to get out.

  “No. You can dr
ive mine. It’s less obvious. I’ll see you out there.” She handed Izzy the car keys, took her coat and went back downstairs. Bill Gilchrist was in his office. He looked up from his desk as she knocked and entered.

  “You guys are going to want Stavros, aren’t you?” he said. “It makes sense. He’s the smartest of the bunch. Apart from Izzy. I’m not surprised you snagged her. A bit of a whizz on all that techie stuff is our Izzy. And she’s local. Knows everybody.”

  “How come she’s here, back where she grew up?” The RCMP didn’t encourage its members to work on their home turf and it wasn’t considered a good career move.

  “Her mom got cancer. Right when Izzy was graduating from the Depot. She came back to help out. Her mom got better. So Izzy’s stuck here for now. Do her good to work with you,” he said, “but I’ll miss having her around down here. She’s more fun than Kathy Isfeld.”

  “I’ll tell Sergeant Donohue,” she said, wrapping a scarf around her neck. “Do you want to tell Stavros yourself?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Roxanne looked out the front window. She could see exhaust fumes puffing from the back of her car. Izzy was warming it up. She straightened her back. Now the work really began.

  6

  Roxanne watched out the car window while Izzy McBain drove towards the Andreychuk farm. The road followed the lakeshore, then turned inland, where it ran straight, crossing snow-covered farmland. They passed farmhouses surrounded by trees, stands of spruce and willow planted to break the prairie wind, silos, grain bins, a tiny Ukrainian church with an onion dome, disused and dilapidated, the occasional old barn falling into ruin. There were no signs of life apart from a pair of ravens devouring a bloody, grey-furred mess in the middle of the road. The birds flew up into the trees and watched as they drove by. A sign appeared at the side of the road. Cullen Village Environmental Waste Disposal. The dump. “Want to have a look?” Izzy swung left through a gate and stopped beside Archie Huminski’s shack.

  Smoke rose vertically from the chimney but there was no sign of Archie. Izzy drove up the hill to the top and parked the car. Fat gulls strutted around, then soared to hover overhead as Roxanne and Izzy got out. Roxanne looked over the edge of the hill. To the right, a green and white tanker truck was discharging waste through a long hose into a sewage lagoon. At the bottom of the hill was the usual debris and white grocery bags flapped everywhere, snagged on twigs, on protruding posts, on scraps of metal. Izzy joined her. She looked down at the heap of waste below.

  “Pretty sick, isn’t it, sending someone’s body off to a place like this,” she said.

  Roxanne was wishing she’d changed into a winter parka. Her city coat wasn’t warm enough out here. “Whoever did it planned it carefully. It’s smart. It took a complicated mind to dream it up, don’t you think?”

  Izzy kicked a stray can over the edge. It bounced to the bottom. “Yes, but it didn’t work, did it? We found the body. Maybe whoever did it isn’t as smart as they think they are.”

  “We hope. You’re right about it being a bleak place to bury someone, though. Whoever did it must have hated her.” Roxanne pulled her collar up, then shoved her gloved hands deep into her pockets. “Let’s go.”

  By the time they climbed back into the car, a truck had pulled in. Archie Huminski got out.

  “Hey, Izzy McBain, where’s the uniform?” He was a gnome of a man with a weathered, wrinkled face. He reached in the window to shake Roxanne’s hand. His was large and firm.

  “Major Crimes, eh? Tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on and you ladies can come have a cup of coffee. Get warmed up.”

  Izzy turned off the engine. Roxanne realized that refusing wasn’t going to be an option. She followed Izzy into the shack. A wood stove in the corner kept it warm. They loosened their coats. Roxanne made a point of not removing hers. She didn’t intend to stay long.

  “You can have tea or instant.” Archie lifted mugs down from a shelf. They didn’t look too clean. Roxanne pretended not to notice. The kettle simmered on the stove.

  “You girls going to visit the Andreychuks next?”

  “Maybe,” said Izzy.

  So, Roxanne wondered, did the locals, like the police at the detachment, have Brad Andreychuk pegged as the most likely suspect? Archie’s next words confirmed it.

  “That Bradley’s a bad one. Has been ever since he was a kid. Used to see him out there on the farm, riding around on a quad taking pot shots at squirrels when he can’t have been more than twelve.”

  “Did he know Stella Magnusson?” Roxanne asked.

  “Sure. His dad tried to get her to sell up and move. You guys know all about that, right? Stella didn’t leave though. Toughed it out, gotta say that for her. Have a cookie. Chocolate chip. The missus makes them.” He opened a tin and passed it to them. Roxanne thought she’d better take one. They looked okay. Izzy took two.

  “Did you know her?”

  “Knew who she was. Used to drive in here in that big yellow Toyota like she owned the place. Never stopped to say hello. Thought she was too cool for the likes of me. She didn’t come by much these days. Jeremy Andreychuk, Brad’s brother, he usually brought her garbage over in the summer. He worked for her at her StarFest thing. Jeremy’s not like his brother. He’s at the university. Going to be an engineer. Nice lad, Jeremy, always stops and says hello.

  “Now, you know George Smedley? He used to hang around Stella’s place. You could talk to him. And Angus, him that was here when they found the body, he could maybe tell you something. George’ll be at his place this afternoon. Men’s group. You could catch him there.”

  Roxanne made a mental note of that. She finished her coffee as soon as she could and stood up to go. Archie walked them out to the car.

  “Stop by, lady. Anytime.”

  “We got to go inside the dump shack!” Izzy crowed as she drove away. “My mom will be so impressed! It’s a guy place. Women never get through the door.”

  Roxanne pulled out her phone. Matt Stavros could head over to Cullen Village this afternoon and check out this men’s group.

  It didn’t take long to reach the Andreychuk farm. Izzy drove into a driveway surrounded by buildings and trees. There was a large barn, a garage, a Quonset hut, outbuildings, grain bins. The house was single storey, a simple bungalow. Prairie farmers liked to spend their money on their farms, not their houses. And vehicles. Izzy pulled in beside two shiny new trucks and a late-model car. A couple of snowmobiles stood near the house.

  The door was opened by a tall, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties. He wore jeans, an old sweater, socks, no shoes.

  “Corporal Calloway of the RCMP and Constable McBain,” Roxanne announced, flashing her ID. “We need to ask you some questions regarding the remains that were found at the dump.”

  “Mom!” he hollered. “Police, back again. Hi, Izzy. How come you’re not wearing the suit?”

  “Hey, Bradley.” Izzy looked uncomfortable. Roxanne wondered if she wished that she was back in uniform, with the authority it brought. Brad didn’t invite them in. The woman who appeared behind him was large, very large, so wide that Roxanne wondered how she could walk. She appeared no more pleased to see them than her son had been.

  “You police have been here already,” she said. “We’ve told you everything we know.”

  “I’m heading out, Ma,” said her son, turning back into the house.

  “You need to stay for now.” Roxanne put her foot inside the door. She could smell meat cooking, and vegetables. Cabbage.

  “It’s Mrs. Andreychuk, isn’t it?” The woman did not smile. She stood there like a mountain, immoveable. Her husband appeared in the corridor behind her. He was taller and lean, wearing work clothes.

  “Better let them in, Maggie.”

  He led the way into a living room. It was tidy and brown. The furniture was large and rust coloured, the rug in varyin
g shades of taupe, the walls, beige. A large television set occupied a corner. The ceiling was stained nicotine yellow with a large chandelier at the centre. Under the smell of the food there was a whiff of stale cigarette smoke. A few framed family photographs decorated the walls, some black and white, others old, sepia ones.

  “Brad, you stick around!” Andreychuk yelled. The son came out of another door that seemed to lead from the kitchen, his jacket already slung on his back. He flopped down into a large armchair and swung one leg over the arm. His father pulled a chair out from below a rectangular wooden table and sat, indicating that Roxanne and Izzy could take the chairs opposite. His wife lowered her gargantuan size onto the sofa. She took up more than half of its width. Roxanne wondered if she could get out of it without help.

  “Isabel, how’s your mom?” asked the woman on the sofa.

  “Doing well, thanks.” Izzy remained standing, close to the door. Roxanne took a chair.

  “You in charge of this now?” asked John Andreychuk. He reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and pulled an ashtray towards himself, then lit one and tossed the pack to his son. He didn’t take his eyes off Roxanne. Bradley lit up too.

  “I’m leading local investigations, Mr. Andreychuk. Corporal Roxanne Calloway.” She heard Brad half humming, whistling through his teeth, “Roxaaaaane.” That song, by the Police. She’d heard it before, many times. She ignored him. Izzy didn’t.

  “Shut it, Brad.”

  Bradley laughed. Gotya, his eyes said. He drew on his cigarette. Roxanne carried on regardless. She was formal. Official. Polite.

  “The officers who were here before asked if you had seen anything or anyone suspicious in the days before we discovered Ms. Magnusson’s body. I wanted to find out what you knew about her, since you were such close neighbours.”