BLACK WATER by Rosemary McCracken
A Pat Tierney Mystery
When Pat Tierney's daughter, Tracy, asks her to help find Tracy's partner, Jamie Collins, their mother-daughter relationship is stretched to the limits. Pat heads out to cottage country where an elderly man, who killed Jamie’s sister in an impaired driving accident years ago, has perished in a suspicious fire. Unfortunately, Jamie is the prime suspect.
Pat takes charge at the new branch her investment firm has opened in the seemingly idyllic community where Jamie grew up, and her search for Tracy's missing sweetheart takes her through a maze of fraud, drugs, bikers and murder.
Once again, Pat proves that her family can always count on her.
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PROLOGUE
I killed her sister. Can she forgive me?
Lyle gripped the
wheel of the black minivan. Beside him, Ross was yakking about the AA meeting
they'd just attended.
Will she help me?
A thaw earlier that
week had left the highway clear, but the temperature had plummeted the night
before. The minivan's heater was
cranked up full blast.
"Crazy
weather," Ross said. "One day, you figure it's time to dig out the
summer clothes, next day it's colder than a witch's tit. Must be all that
global warming crap."
Lyle sneezed and
reached for a tissue in the box on his lap.
"Bless
you," Ross said.
"Fine thing
to come down with a cold today," Lyle grumbled.
"Yeah, like
the missus was sayin'..."
Lyle tuned out
Ross as they approached Braeloch. Told
the Collins girl I was sorry. But that weren't enough for her. Wouldn't let it be.
Told her I'd sic the law on her. She backed off then.
Lyle pulled up in
front of Ross's bungalow. "Here you go."
"Thanks. Be
seein' you next week, then." Ross stepped out the van and gave a wave.
"Take care of that cold."
Lyle gave him a
curt nod and drove back to the highway. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Almost nine. He'd made it back in good
time from the six o'clock meeting.
Wish Ross wouldn't talk so much, but he's all right. Thank God for
the AA fellas. Got me through the worst of it. Confession with Father Brisebois
set me square with the Lord, but it wasn't the same as goin' over it with the
guys. Father, he's a good man but he don't understand how the devil can live in
a bottle. Pull you in and suck out your soul. The boys do, though. They been
there.
Lyle slowed down
as his headlights picked out the edge of his driveway.
She should've got the letter by now. She's gotta understand. She's
gotta help me stop this thief from taking from good folks like Pearl. She's a
big-shot lawyer now, so to catch a thief, that's her job.
He braked suddenly
as he pulled into the driveway. He blinked and stared through the windshield.
The garage door
was open.
No way. That sucker was down when I left. Gettin' old but I ain't
senile.
He rolled down his
window and stuck his head out. He squinted as he tried to see into the depths
of the garage where the headlight beams didn't reach. Tools on the tool rack,
snow blower, lawnmower. All in their proper places as far as he could tell.
"Anyone in
there? Show yourself if you know what's good fer ya!"
He sneezed and
reached for another tissue. Just what I
need. Damn punks! He rolled up the window and pulled into the garage.
He heard a
metallic clatter behind him as he got out of the minivan. He gasped as the wooden
garage door slammed down with a thud. He made his way cautiously toward it in
the pitch-black garage.
"Hey!"
He pounded on the garage door. "Hey!"
He groped to find
the chain for the overhead ceiling light and yanked it. In the bulb's dim glow,
he saw a large stain on the floor.
What the…
He touched the
walls. Damp.
He held his
fingertips against his nose. Gasoline.
With my cold, I couldn't smell it. The place is soaked in it.
He staggered as
pain shot through him. He clutched his chest and bent over. Then he
straightened, breathing deeply.
He heard a whoosh
as he lurched toward the garage door. Flames licked its bottom and side edges.
He fumbled for the metal handle then jerked his hand away when he found it. It
was hot.
He groped in his
jacket pockets, pulled out a pair of gloves and groaned. Wool. No insulation. No leather palms.
He slipped them on
but he needed something more for protection. A rag. If I get it around the glove, maybe I can grab the handle.
He stumbled and
reached out to the wall on his right. Gotta
be one around here. If I could just…
He spilled the
contents of a plastic storage box on the floor. Half-full paint and varnish
cans clanked as they hit the concrete. No
rags.
Flames danced on
the door and surged up the walls. He groped for the van's door handle and
pulled himself inside. Get her started.
Maybe I can crash through.
He fumbled for his
key and stuck it into the ignition. He was about to start the engine when he
gagged, clutched his chest and gasped in pain.
He slumped against
the steering wheel, unable to lift his hand to the ignition. He knew that when
the flames hit the gas tank, the minivan would become a fireball.
Lord, please make it quick.
CHAPTER ONE
I was chilled to
the bone when I got home that evening. An Arctic air mass from Nunavut had moved
into central Ontario and held the city of Toronto in a deep freeze. Cars
refused to start. Streetcars broke down all over the city. Pedestrians hurried
along in down-filled coats with scarves over their faces.
If spring was on
its way, there was no sign of it that Friday in March.
Maxie, our golden
retriever, greeted me at the door with a rapturous dance. She wanted to play,
but I was in no mood for games. A note on the kitchen counter told me Laura had
taken her for a walk before she headed out to a party to celebrate the
beginning of winter break.
I crumpled up the
note. Thank goodness for that! The
last thing I wanted to do was walk a dog in sub-zero weather. Or make dinner.
Tommy, my youngest, was with his grandmother that night so I had the evening to
myself.
On the way to the
phone to check voicemail, the hall mirror told me I looked as bedraggled as I
felt. Shoulders slumped, mouth a thin slash across my tense face, short blonde
hair stuck out like a scarecrow's. I looked every one of my forty-seven years.
Maybe even a few more.
I pressed the
button on the phone to activate unheard voicemail.
"Good
afternoon. This is Detective Inspector Stewart Foster of the Ontario Provincial
Police. I'm trying to reach Tracy Tierney."
I swallowed back
the panic that was rising inside me. What did the police want with my daughter?
"Ms. Tierney,
we need to speak with you as soon as possible," the message continued.
"I'm in Toronto today. Please give me a call at…"
I jotted down the
phone number on a notepad, pressed a button to save the message and hung up.
Is Tracy in trouble? I took a deep
breath and tried to stay calm. The police wanted to speak to her, so she was
alive and well. Nothing had happened to her. The call had something to do with
her work. The year before, Tracy had finished law school and she was articling
at a Bay Street firm. She must have asked the police for information. I needed
to give her the message.
Tracy had moved
out four weeks before, which was why I was feeling down. She was twenty-four
years old, and I was all for her setting up a home of her own. It was how she'd
left that bothered me.
The front door
opened and a familiar voice called out, "Mom! You home?"
My heart did a
flip-flop and I hurried into the hall.
Tracy had on her
good black coat and a red cloche hat, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold. She
held a casserole dish in her hands. She gave me a tentative smile.
I blinked back
tears and studied my firstborn. Pretty, heart-shaped face. Serious brown eyes—my
late husband Michael’s eyes. I moved toward her, my arms outstretched.
"Tracy, honey…"
She set down the
dish on the deacon's bench and gave me a hug. "I missed you, Mom."
I wrapped my arms
around her. Tracy is a petite girl. My younger daughter, Laura, towers over
her.
I didn't want to
let her go, but she pulled back. She took off her hat and shook her head. Wavy
brown hair fell around her face. She picked up the dish on the bench.
"Cassoulet. Jamie made it the other night. Have you eaten dinner?"
I moved away at
the mention of Jamie—Jamie Collins, a lawyer at the firm where Tracy was
spending her articling year. The woman my daughter had moved in with.
"Mom, we need
to talk." She led the way into the kitchen.
I remembered the
phone message from the police. "What's wrong?" I asked as I followed
her.
"It's Jamie.
Something's happened to her."
I was relieved
that Tracy was all right. But as I looked at her troubled face, it hit me that
this wasn't just a friend who was in trouble. Jamie was the special person in
my daughter's life. Her partner. "What's happened?"
She sat down at
the table and fixed her eyes on me. "On Wednesday, Jamie got a letter from
a guy called Lyle Critchley. Made her really upset."
"Something to
do with her work?"
"No. Jamie
knew Critchley up north, where she grew up. Near Braeloch, one of those towns
in cottage country."
"I didn't
know she's from up there."
"How would
you?" Her voice rose in irritation. "You haven't spent any time with
her."
I looked up from my computer and saw Tracy and a striking woman with
burgundy hair in the doorway to my office
"Mom, can we come in?"
"Of course." I got out of my chair as they came into the room.
Tracy took the woman's hand. "Mom, I want you to meet Jamie.
Jamie Collins."
I took a step back. My daughter had been talking about Jamie for
weeks. I'd assumed Jamie was a man.
Jamie held out a hand to me. "Tracy thought it was time we
met."
I took her hand and looked at Tracy. She had a smile on her face.
My head was reeling. "Yes, well, I…" I struggled to find
the right words.
Just then, Rose, my administrative assistant, came to the door.
"Keith Kulas on the line, Pat."
My CEO. I dropped Jamie's hand and reached for the phone. Keith's call would give me time to adjust to
this bombshell. "I have to take
this."
The smile left Tracy's face and she stiffened. "We'll leave you to it,
then." She took Jamie's arm.
They walked out of the office without turning back.
My heart sank as I watched them leave.
I tried to make amends. Later that afternoon, I phoned Tracy, hoping
to get a second chance. "Honey, please don't be mad. I had to take the
call. It was important."
"More important than your daughter and her future?" she
asked.
"Of course not. It's just…"
"Just what?"
Just too much to take in at the moment. I didn't say anything.
"Mom?" Tracy's voice rose in a mixture of anger and
sorrow. "Say something."
The call had been a mistake. I should have waited, tried to get my
mind―my emotions―around Tracy and Jamie.
"Mom? Are you still there?"
"Goodbye," I whispered.
"Wait! Mom―"
I placed the receiver in the cradle and began to cry.
I had no inkling of Tracy's orientation. I'd always considered
myself a champion of diversity—religious, racial and sexual. My business
partner and friend, Stéphane Pratt, is openly gay. I have gay and lesbian
clients. But it's easy to be open-minded until your kid comes out.
Three days after their
visit to my office, Tracy moved into Jamie's condo. I threw myself into my work. I didn't tell my friends about Tracy. I
didn't tell Devon, the man in my life. I hoped my daughter would get over her
infatuation. At night, I tossed and turned in bed, sometimes crying into my
pillow.
What had I done wrong?
"Listen to
me, Mom," Tracy said. "I'm talking to you."
I looked at her.
She was right. I hadn't given Jamie a chance. Sure, I phoned my daughter every
couple of days to see how she was, but I called her at the office. I either got
her voicemail―my messages went unanswered―or a curt response that she had to
run off to an "important meeting."
"Ten years
ago, Lyle Critchley killed Jamie's younger sister."
That got my
attention.
"Drunk
driving. Her family never forgave him."
I stared at her.
I'd have trouble forgiving someone who'd mowed down one of my girls.
"And then,
out of nowhere, he writes Jamie this letter. He wanted her help."
"Legal
help?"
"I'm not
sure. She'd run the letter through the shredder by the time I got home. She was
that mad at him."
"I don't
blame her."
Tracy looked
surprised, then pleased. She seemed to relax a little. "She spent the rest
of the evening on the computer. Yesterday morning, she called me at work and
asked to borrow my car."
"She was
going to see Lyle?"
"I don't
know. She said she'd tell me all about it that evening, but she never came home
and she hasn't called. She doesn't answer her cell. She didn't take her laptop
with her, but I've sent her emails because she's probably hit an Internet café.
She hasn't answered them. And I found a voicemail at home tonight from someone
at her office who wanted to know if she was feeling better. She must've called
in sick."
Her eyes grew large. "Mom, I watched the news when I got home
today. There was a fire near Braeloch last night. Lyle Critchley was killed in
it. The police found traces of an accelerant. They're calling it a
murder."
I gripped Tracy's
hand—hard. That was why the police had called her. Jamie had taken the Honda
Civic that was registered in Tracy's name.
"She has your
car," I said.
She pulled her
hand away. "So? She doesn't have a car. Jamie's a greenie. Walks and bikes
wherever she can."
"There's a
voicemail for you from the OPP. Maybe they found your car and traced it to this
address and phone number."
She went over to
the phone and listened to the message. "They want to talk to me."
She turned to face
me. "What if they've arrested Jamie? She and her family hated Lyle. But,
Mom, she didn't…Jamie wouldn't hurt a fly."
"You'd better
call them."
Tracy went to the
phone, and I let Maxie out on the back deck. When I returned to the kitchen,
she was leaving a voicemail message giving the number at the condo and her cell
phone number.
"I'll heat up
Jamie's cassoulet," I said when she got off the phone.
"Vegetarian?" I assumed the environmentally conscious Jamie wouldn't
eat meat.
Tracy gave me a
little smile. "Of course. Beans, carrots, tomatoes. It's good."
First I'd heard
that she liked vegetarian fare. But then I hadn't done a very good job of
keeping up with her life, had I?
She sat down at
the kitchen table. "Look, I handled it badly. I shouldn't have sprung
Jamie on you at your office. I should have sat down with you and told you about
us."
I turned on the
microwave and sat down across from her.
She reached over
and took my hand. "For a long time, I was pretty confused. I didn't even
come out to myself until my first year at law school. But I've come to terms
with who I am." She smiled. "And now it's wonderful to have Jamie in
my life."
She squeezed my
hand. "The old Tracy was unhappy because she was keeping a secret from
you."
And I'd thought we
had no secrets. I love my girls and I don't want them to keep things from me.
Something inside
me shifted. I had to show Tracy that I was worthy of her trust. I decided that
I'd get to know Jamie. If she was the one for Tracy, I'd stand by her choice.
"You've
talked to Laura?" I asked.
"She's cool.
Thinks I'm crazy not to be hot for guys, but it's my life, she says."
I had to smile at
that. Laura had been boy-crazy since she was twelve.
Tracy touched my
cheek. "Mom, I'm out. It's official. Do you good to talk to a friend―or
two."
My eyes started to
tear up. Then the doorbell rang.
Through the front
window I saw two men in overcoats on the porch. Both were tall and poised with
apparent military bearing. A cold blast of air hit me when I opened the door. I
pulled up the collar of my suit jacket. "Yes?"
"Ontario
Provincial Police," the older of the two men said with a pronounced Scottish
burr. He was in his late fifties, with a gray moustache and gray eyes sinking
into the folds of skin around them. He showed me his badge. "I'm Detective
Inspector Stewart Foster and this is Detective Lew Anders. We're looking for
Tracy Tierney."
"I'm Tracy
Tierney," my daughter said behind me.
"We have some
questions to ask you. May we come in?"
Tracy was the
first to speak when we were seated in the family room. "What's this
about?" she asked.
Foster fixed his
eyes on her. "Your car was found in Braeloch this morning."
I studied his face
for a sign of what was coming, but he kept it neutral.
"Can you
account for your whereabouts around nine last night?" he asked.
Tracy paused.
"I got home at seven-thirty. I ate dinner then I watched some
television."
Anders, a big,
fair-haired man with a ruddy complexion, wrote this down in his notebook.
"You were
home, too?" Foster asked me.
"Yes," I
replied.
"I wasn't
here," Tracy said. "This is my mother's home. I was at my place
downtown."
"Tracy moved
in with a friend a few weeks ago," I said. "They have a condo on The
Esplanade."
He frowned.
"The address on your car registration is here."
Tracy made a face.
"I haven't got around to changing it," she mumbled.
I flashed her my
no-nonsense look. Tracy is a lawyer. She should have done the paperwork.
"Was anyone
with you last night?" he asked her.
"No. I was
alone all evening."
"A man died in
a fire in his garage last night," he said. "Outside the town of
Braeloch in Glencoe Highlands Township. A car similar to yours was seen on his
property earlier in the day. Can someone confirm that you were in Toronto last
night?"
Tracy was thinking
hard. "I was at the office till seven with a couple of lawyers. How long
would it take me to get to Braeloch? Three hours? And I'd be caught in traffic
leaving the city. I couldn't be there by nine."
"Then how did
your car get to the parking lot in Braeloch?" he asked.
She just looked at
him. The foolish girl was trying to cover up for Jamie.
"You have no
idea how your car found its way to Braeloch?" he asked.
She looked down at
her hands.
I'd had enough. My
daughter was being treated as a suspect in a murder investigation. "Tracy
lent her car to a friend yesterday."
She shot daggers
at me with her glare. Foster sat up straighter on the sofa.
"Who is this
friend?" he wanted to know.
She didn't reply.
"Ms. Tierney,
we can charge you with obstructing a murder investigation. I will repeat my
question. Who did you lend your car to yesterday?"
"Jamie
Collins," she said.
"And where
can we reach Mr. Collins?"
"Ms.
Collins." She looked at him defiantly. "Jamie's the woman I live
with. My partner."
"Is Ms.
Collins at home right now?" he asked without missing a beat.
"I haven't
seen her since yesterday morning." Her voice broke in mid-sentence.
Foster paused for
a few moments. "Describe Ms. Collins."
"Jamie has
red hair," she said. "Burgundy, I guess you'd call it."
Foster nodded at
Anders who scribbled in his notebook.
"Tell them
about the letter," I said.
If Tracy's look
could have killed, I would have been six feet under. Foster nodded at Anders
again.
"What about
this letter, Ms. Tierney?"
She didn't answer
for a few moments. "Jamie got a letter from Lyle Critchley," she said
slowly. "He wanted her help."
"What kind of
help?"
"I don't
know. She'd put the letter through the shredder before I got in, and she spent
the rest of the night on her computer."
"What day did
this letter arrive?" Foster asked.
"Wednesday."
"And she
drove up north in your car on Thursday?"
"Jamie called
me at work yesterday and asked if she could use my car. She didn't say where
she was going."
"You don't
know where she is?"
"I told you I
haven't spoken to her since yesterday morning. But I'll try the condo
now."
She picked up the
cordless phone on the end table and hit some buttons. "No one's
answering."
Anders took down
the address of the condo, Tracy's phone numbers and the names of the colleagues
she was with on Thursday afternoon. He told her that forensics would check out
her car, and she could pick it up at police headquarters in Orillia in a few
days.
"And we'll
need to take a look at Ms. Collins's home computers," Foster said.
"Right
now?" Tracy asked. "I was about to have dinner with my mother."
"The sooner
the better," Anders said. "This is a murder investigation."
Foster looked at
his watch. "We'll meet you in your condo lobby at nine."
At the door, he
handed Tracy his card. "Don't leave Toronto without letting us know."
When the door
closed behind them, Tracy turned to me. Anger flashed in her eyes. "Now
you've done it!"
I opened my mouth
to protest when she spat out, "You've had it in for Jamie since you met
her. So you told them she took my car and you told them about Lyle's
letter."
"Tracy—"
"They'll
charge her with killing him."
She held her hands over her face. I tried to put my arms around her,
but she pushed me away. "We should have gotten married, then I wouldn't
have to testify against her. We've
been talking about it. We thought maybe this summer."
Marriage? That was news to me, but I'd been completely out of the loop. I
gripped her elbow and led her back to the kitchen where I sat her down at the
table. I pulled up a chair beside her.
"We had to
tell the officers who drove your car up there," I said. "You know
that. And it will all work out. I'm sure it was a coincidence that Jamie went
up there on the day Lyle was killed. She'll turn up, and she'll tell them where
she was and who she was with."
But my brave words
belied my thoughts. Anger and other strong emotions can provoke anyone into a
violent act. Even someone who wouldn't hurt a fly.
"I'm going to
Braeloch," Tracy said through her tears.
"Tracy, the
officers told you not to leave city without telling them."
"I don't
care."
"And even if
they gave you the go-ahead, they'd follow every move you made. They'd think
you'd lead them to Jamie."
She brushed away
her tears with the back of her hand. "But they wouldn't follow you. Mom,
will you go up there and look for her? Tomorrow's Saturday. You'd have the
weekend to find out what's going on. I'll come over tomorrow morning and stay
here with Tommy."
I was about to say
that if I found Jamie, I had no idea what I could do to help her. But Tracy's pleading
eyes were cutting me to my very soul. I had to let her know that she could
count on me. Any time. Like right
now. It was important that I restore my daughter’s faith in me.
I nodded.
"I'll see what I can do."
I gave Jamie's
cassoulet a few more minutes in the microwave. While the dish was spinning,
Tracy phoned Jamie's mother in Braeloch and told her that I'd come by her home
late the next morning. Veronica Collins said she hadn't heard from her daughter
in more than a week.
When we sat down
at the table, neither of us felt like eating. "Jamie went to see Lyle
about something he told her in that letter," Tracy said, her eyes wide
with concern. "So whoever killed him would want her out of the way,
too."
I'd been thinking
along those lines, but I didn't want to add to her worries. I told her the
killer probably didn't know about the letter. "And whatever Lyle told
Jamie might have nothing to do with why he was killed."
She didn't buy
that. "She knows way too much."
"She's
dropped out of sight to check up on what Lyle told her."
"Maybe. And
thanks to you, the police are looking for her." She gave me a sidelong
glance. "And when they find out about the feud between the Collins family
and Lyle—"
"Feud?"
"There were a
lot of bad feelings."
Of course there
were. He killed the Collins girl.
"When they
do, they won't look any farther for Lyle's killer."
We were going
around in circles. "We don't know that," I said. "They may have
several irons in the fire by now."
I pushed my chair
back from the table. "I'll drive you over to the condo."
"What's
Veronica like?" I asked Tracy when we were in the car.
"I've never
met her. Tonight was the first time I spoke to her."
I couldn't believe
my ears. Tracy had talked about marriage, but she'd never met her intended's
family.
"Jamie
doesn't go back to Braeloch much. Says it brings back memories of her
sister…and Lyle. She took Veronica to New York this Christmas."
"At some
point, you'll have to meet her."
"I guess.
We'll probably drive up there this summer."
On
your honeymoon?
