‘Everybody knows…’
Yeah, everybody but me, apparently. Well, and Detective MacKay, I suppose.
They had been in the backroom of Perry’s bookshop, amidst all the boxes of books and other odds and ends for over twenty minutes now, but Perry Halliday wasted little time spilling the beans about the murder on Castlereagh Street. He was adamant, fired up, and eager to talk. Watching Perry animatedly work his way through the details surrounding the murder, Patrick recognized that it was almost as if for the first time in the bookstore owner’s life, he had been provided the opportunity to do something great—something meaningful—and he wasn’t about to let that opportunity sail by him. Although, his emotions were getting the better of him.
Patrick asked, “You mind running through it again for me one more time, Mr. Halliday? A little bit more slowly this time around?”
Perry sighed, the enthusiasm draining from his face. “Seriously?”
Ava touched Perry’s hand for reassurance. “Perry, just do as he says.”
Perry leaned back in his chair, seemingly exhausted, and clenched his jaw. “All right. One more time. But only because Ava asked me so nicely, so listen closely.” He composed himself again, sitting upright, and smoothed out the tablecloth with his fingertips. “We’re a small town, Mr. Sullivan. We’ve got, what? Fifteen thousand people in our township?”
“Fourteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine now,” Patrick quipped in return.
“Well, sure, if you want to get smart about it. But, by the time you take out the villages of Glendale, Homer, McNab, Queenston, St. Davids, and Virgil, our population drops dramatically. Old Town itself is quite small. Everybody knows everybody around here. Which also means everybody knows everybody’s dirty little secrets. And if they don’t, well, it won’t be a secret much longer. Somebody’ll see to that, I’m sure.”
“I get it, Perry. You’re a small town. That’s not the part I’m fuzzy on.”
Perry tilted his head to the ceiling and let out a long sigh. “Well, what is it then?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “How do you know who killed Marc Wagner, Mr. Halliday?” He’d also learned over those twenty some-odd minutes that the victim had a name: Marc Wagner.
“It’s like I told you already.”
Ava smiled. “Perry…”
Perry took a deep breath. “All right, there are only four apartments in your building. Two up, two down. Mrs. Travis lives in 1A.”
“The lady from St. Marks Church,” Patrick said.
“That’s right. In 1B, you’ve got Millie Swanson.”
“The mechanic.”
“In 2A, you’ve got Jennifer Donovan.”
Patrick looked to Ava. “Who’s she again?”
“College student. She works at the clothing store,” Ava answered.
“That leaves your apartment, Patrick. 2B.”
“Marc Wagner’s apartment,” he finished for him. “But what I don’t get is, who’s to say the victim isn’t the student, the old lady, or even the grease monkey? How do you know it’s Marc Wagner?”
Perry squirmed in his seat. “Weren’t you two listening at all? It’s not Mrs. Travis because the Bryant Sisters would have mentioned it when they were in earlier today. They all go to the same St. Mark’s Church together. Trust me, if ol’ Mrs. Travis kicked the bucket, we’d know about it. Heck, the town would probably throw her a parade down Queen Street in remembrance. She’s just that kind of lady.”
“And the other two?”
“I saw Jennifer when I was on my way to meet you, Patrick,” Ava said. “We passed each other on my way to the café. She was probably on her way to work.”
Patrick rubbed at his chin. “That’s assuming she arrived there safely, Ava. For all we know, she could have received a phone call or something and had to head back to her apartment.”
“Fine. Maybe I got it all wrong,” Perry said, throwing his hands up in the air. “It’s not Marc. It’s Jennifer.”
Ava gave Perry sympathetic eyes. “Perry…”
“No, you guys want to hear this or not? I haven’t got time for this, you know. I closed the store early for this and now you don’t even want to hear what I have to say? Either you listen to what I have to say or you don’t.”
“All right, all right,” Patrick said, trying his hardest to calm the jittery bookshop owner down. “Cool your jets. Okay, so let’s say you’re right. Let’s say our victim is this artist, Marc Wagner. What I don’t get though, Perry, is why you think…” Patrick looked down at his notepad. He had been taking notes since Perry started talking. “Why you think this Jean Claude Michaud person is the one who killed Marc Wagner. Did I miss that part of the story?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Ava winked at Patrick and smiled. “Who’s he again?”
Perry saw red. “Gosh… I think I need a drink.”
Ava giggled. “I’m only kidding around, Perry. Honest.”
Perry was quiet for a moment and Patrick could tell that his patience was wearing thin. If they didn’t let him get on with it, they’d lose him for good in another minute or two. “Jean Claude Michaud, Perry.”
“Yeah,” Perry said, licking his lips and searching the room for an imaginary drink that had never presented itself. “A few years back, Wagner and Michaud were the best of friends. They’re both artists so they’re kindred spirits. Inseparable even, some would say.”
“So, what happened?”
“Greed. Ego,” Perry told them. “That’s what happened. You see, at one point the two of them had made a name for themselves in town. Sure, we have other artists here. Sophia Cervelli for one. But none of them were as prestigious as Michaud and Wagner. Michaud painted abstract and Wagner, wildlife. Well, that all changed about a year ago when there’s talk of a printing press wanting to do reproductions of their paintings.
“Michaud felt that it would cheapen the legitimate art market in town, but Wagner didn’t care. He only saw the dollar signs. Money and recognition is a powerful motivator if you’re one of those creative types. Things were fine for a while. Wagner had heard Michaud’s side of it and they both agreed that it wouldn’t go any further. As far as Michaud knew, the deal was dead. There was nothing to worry about.”
Patrick leaned forward, putting the notepad and pen aside for now. “I sense a but coming along here…”
“And you’d be right,” Perry said. “You can imagine Michaud’s surprise when one day he receives a letter from some swanky gallery in Toronto inviting him to give a talk on his new exhibition. What exhibition, he wonders. I don’t have any paintings in Toronto, he says. It turns out, Wagner had broken his promise and had been lying to him the whole time. He’d gone behind Michaud’s back, made some secret handshakes, and cut deals for the two of them. There was one thing he didn’t factor into his plans, though.”
“And what’s that?”
“Well, the curator at the swanky gallery had taken a particular interest in Michaud’s work. This guy had a thing for abstract paintings, I guess, and said that they ‘spoke’ to him. Somewhere along the way, some wires got crossed between the curator and Wagner. And Wagner thought he was getting the exhibition. Not Michaud.
“Next thing you know, the two of them are out in the streets, arguing and making a scene. Causing a ruckus. That sort of thing. It’s pandemonium. We’re talking screaming, shouting… Heck, Michaud even tore up some of his canvases and torched some of the paintings right there in the street! The cops had to come down and break the whole thing up. By the end of it, their friendship was finished and there was nothing left but a smoldering sidewalk and shredded canvas.”
Patrick leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his chin. “That’s some story. Can you vouch for any of this, Ava?”
“I don’t remember it so vividly, but yes, I do remember hearing about it a couple of weeks later. It’s not every day we get some party like that spilling out onto our streets. It’s very unbecoming to our town.”
“You don’t believe me?” Perry asked. “All you have to do is head over to the street and see for yourself. Look for that charred area on the sidewalk. I’m sure it’s still there.”
“I believe you, Perry. Take it easy.” It could work. The motive was there. Who wouldn’t want to go after the guy who’d screwed you over and deceived you. Stabbed you in the back like that. “And you honestly believe that there’s no one else? No one else around here that would have a reason to kill Wagner?”
Perry thought on it a moment. “Well…”
“Spit it out, Mr. Halliday.”
“There is one other thing.” Perry drew imaginary circles with his finger on the tabletop. Then he suddenly stopped and looked up at the two of them. “I’ve heard some rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“It may be nothing, but… Oh, how do I put this? I heard he might have been playing for both teams, if you catch my drift.”
Patrick leaned forward on his elbows. “What does that mean?”
Ava said, “He means that it’s possible Wagner was bisexual.”
Patrick sat back quickly. “Oh. Well, not that I’m the judging kind of type but I don’t see how that’s relevant, Perry.”
“It’s relevant,” Perry said, “because I got the impression that the whole thing was very hush, hush. If he were dating someone, nobody would know who that person is, you understand? That’s a pretty big secret to keep in a town like this.” He paused. “The stats aren’t good on this sort of thing either. Gay and bisexual men experience abuse in partner relationships at a rate of 2 in 5, which is comparable to the same amount of domestic violence experienced by women.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “I’m not even going to ask.”
Perry smiled. “Hey, just because I have lots of mystery books here doesn’t mean I don’t have any true crime books. It can get awfully lonely here some days. I have to read something. I read, I learn. Stats, methodology, you name it. It’s my hobby, I guess.”
Patrick chuckled. “No doubt. All right. It might be a good idea to at least consider that he might have had a boyfriend. We’ll need to find out if there’s any truth to that. And you’re not wrong on the stats, by the way. I know from my days working with the police that you always start with the partner.”
“I think it’s best, yes.” Perry leaned forward, exhaling loudly. Then he asked, “So what are we going to do?”
Patrick tilted his head to one side. “We? We aren’t going to do anything.”
“Come on…”
“Sully, you can’t be thinking you’re going to try and do this on your own,” Ava said.
“Watch me,” Patrick told her. “I don’t want you two getting involved. It’s not safe. Besides, you two wouldn’t know the first thing about solving a murder. I can take it from here.”
Perry got up out of his chair and began to pace around the room, flailing his arms. “So that’s how it’s going to be, eh?”
Patrick watched him closely. “Like I said, it’s safer that way, Mr. Halliday. I appreciate you giving me the head start, though. You’ve been very helpful.”
Perry stopped in place and spun in his direction. “Do you even know how he died, Mr. Sullivan? Well, do you?”
Patrick didn’t say anything.
Ava turned to Patrick. “You’re not going to be able to do this alone, Sully. You’ll need us. You’ll need someone to watch your back.”
Patrick looked over at her, staring into those big green eyes of hers. She was probably right, as much as it pained him to believe it. If he had had someone watching his back when he was taking those pictures for that detective back in the city, well… things could have turned out awfully different.
“We can help you,” she continued. “Let us help you. You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t know anybody here. Do you really think you can get people to open up and talk to you? They don’t know you. Why should they trust you?”
Patrick sighed. She was right about that, too. If he started sticking his nose into other people’s business, it was sure to get him nowhere fast. He needed someone that they could trust. Someone who could read between the lines and separate fact from fiction. Someone who could fill in the gaps on town gossip. Someone who knew these people and what kind of lives they led.
“If we’re going to do this,” he now told them both. “We’re going to do it my way. I won’t be able to handle it if something were to go wrong. I’ve been through this sort of thing bef—”
“Now we’re talking!” Perry said, gripping the top of his chair with both hands. He rocked it back and forth with excitement.
“Perry, stop that,” Ava said. “This isn’t a game. This is serious business. Patrick’s right, we need to be careful.”
Perry steadied the chair. “Okay, you’re right. That makes sense.”
Patrick rested his elbows on the table and cracked his knuckles one by one. “How are we going to find out how he was murdered? Who can we talk to?”
Ava smiled. “Oh, I know just the person to see about that. Or rather, persons.”
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