The Travelling Detective: Boxed Set Read online

  “Is everything okay?” Dick asked Peggy. He’d learned to ignore Harry long ago.

  “Everything is just fine,” Harry said, before Peggy could answer. “We were just having a goodbye fight.”

  “Goodbye?” Dick asked, his heart skipping a beat.

  “Yes. I’m finally leaving her.” Harry picked up the suitcases and put them in the trunk. He slammed it shut. “She’s all yours.”

  Dick remembered standing there, overwhelmed. This was what he had wanted for years and finally it was happening.

  “Oh, and by the way,” Harry continued. “I’ve taken all the money out of the savings account. I want to be fair so I get the money and the car, you can have the property.”

  “But both places have large mortgages,” Peggy gasped. “I won’t be able to make the payments. How will I live?”

  “There’s the checking account.”

  “It only has three hundred dollars in it. You can’t expect me to keep up the payments and live on that.”

  “Why not? You have a job.”

  “I don’t earn enough money.”

  Harry shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a way.”

  “You can’t leave her like that!” Dick interrupted, angrily, knowing that the words were in total contradiction to his feelings.

  “I can leave her any way I want.” Harry stepped towards Dick. “Do you want to make something out of it?”

  Dick knew he was no match for Harry, but his anger got the best of him. He swung his right fist at Harry who dodged it easily.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Harry taunted. He quickly jabbed Dick in the stomach.

  The pain was fierce and Dick folded over, sinking to his knees on the ground. He heard Peggy screaming as she kneeled beside him. “Dick. Dick. Are you okay?” But worse than the pain was the humiliation of Harry laughing over him as he said, snidely. “Your boyfriend is nothing but a pansy.”

  It took an extreme effort to come to his feet, but Dick managed, swaying a little as he stared Harry hard in the face.

  “He may not be able to fight like you,” Peggy hissed. “But at least he’s a gentleman when it comes to women.”

  “Yeah, so much of a gentleman that he’s never married one of them.” Harry eyed Dick. “He’s probably never even slept with one.”

  Dick felt his anger building again. “I don’t have to sleep with a bunch of women to prove I’m a man.”

  “Why you …” Harry raised his fist.

  “Harry, if you’re leaving, then go,” Peggy said resolutely, stepping between them.

  Harry stared at her, and Dick was sure he was going to hit her. Dick already had his hands on Peggy’s shoulders to move her aside when Harry said. “Right. I’ve got a real woman waiting for me.”

  “Where are you going to be?” Peggy asked. “I’ll need your signature if I sell one of the places. How can I get in touch with you?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Harry climbed into the car. “I don’t want you to get in touch with me. I don’t want to see or hear from you again.”

  “But Harry.” Her voice became frantic. “My hands will be tied when it comes to the properties.”

  Harry cocked his head to the side and smiled slightly. “Just think of it as a little something to remember me by.” He drove away, laughing uproariously.

  Dick stayed with Peggy for most of the day. They talked about what she was going to do, how she was going to keep from losing both the acreage and the house in town. He offered to lend her some money, though he would have gladly just given it to her. But she was a proud woman and would only borrow money as a last resort. Towards evening, she asked him to leave so she could contact her daughter, Shirley.

  There was no way he could do any work by then so he’d gone back into town. On his way home he’d stopped and bought a bottle. He’d thought he needed a drink to celebrate the fact that Harry was finally out of Peggy’s life and also to obliterate his embarrassment. Harry had hit him in front of Peggy and he had not been able to retaliate. The truth was that she had stepped in to save him from more of a beating. Her “… he’s a gentleman …” had sounded so lame. If only he’d managed one good punch.

  Even though she was never aware of it, Dick had always kept an eye on Peggy. He knew the good times she’d had as well as the troubles. He knew about each and every one of Harry’s affairs. He also knew that Peggy had put up with Harry’s womanizing because she didn’t have enough confidence in herself to raise Shirley alone. When Shirley moved out he had expected her to leave and he was ready to step in and help her when she did. After a year, when it dawned on him that she wasn’t going to leave Harry, he’d gone through alternating periods of disbelief, anger and then resignation. It finally occurred to him that maybe she was never meant to be his, and he had turned to the bottle for the second time in his life. Then when Harry left, Dick quit drinking again. Sitting at the table that night, with the bottle in front of him, he’d asked himself if he really wanted to drink it when he was so close to winning Peggy back. His answer was a definite no. The bottle stayed unopened for three days and then he threw it away.

  It had only taken a couple of days for word to spread through town that Harry and the minister’s wife, Julia, had run off together. And, as far as Dick knew, no one had heard from them since.

  Now, nine years later, as he stared at a bottle once more he asked himself if he wanted to become a drunk or if he wanted to help Peggy through this? He opted for the latter. To make sure he didn’t change his mind, he opened the cap and poured the rye down the sink.

  * * * *

  The next morning Elizabeth was up at seven-thirty. She liked to get on the road as soon as the places she planned on visiting opened, and keep going until the last one on her list closed or until it was too dark to take pictures. Today her first stop, the Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump Interpretive Centre, didn’t open until nine. She had a shower, dressed and picked up her laptop and camera case.

  As she slipped quietly down the stairs with Chevy, she could smell bacon frying. Now would be a good time to visit with Shirley, help her prepare breakfast, and maybe get some answers to the questions that had been swirling in her head. She was itching to know what Peggy and Shirley had discussed last night, whether they had any ideas about the identity of the skeleton.

  The thought filled her with the same excitement she’d felt during the investigation last summer. She knew she might be jumping the gun a bit, because she wasn’t sure if the police were even calling it a murder investigation yet.

  “Hey,” her practical voice scolded her, “Get back to work. This isn’t the real reason you are here.” She was here to write an article on the Crowsnest Highway, and not just on speculation either. This time there was a magazine editor who wanted it. So last night she had had the freedom to probe into the mystery of the bones. Today, with her tight schedule, she didn’t.

  With that in mind Elizabeth took a deep breath and whispered. “I am not a detective. I am a travel writer.” Although this didn’t lessen her curiosity, she made up her mind to refrain from bringing up the subject with Shirley, and to keep to her itinerary. She pushed open the door.

  “I knew I heard someone,” Shirley said, turning towards her. “Who were you talking to?”

  Elizabeth reddened and stammered. “I just stopped to say I wouldn’t be here for breakfast.”

  “Oh?” Shirley smiled. “You’re not avoiding us because of the skeleton, are you?”

  “Not at all,” Elizabeth hastened to reply. “I like to travel while the sun is shining.”

  “Well, can I make you something to eat along the way?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ll buy a sandwich somewhere.”

  “Here take these.” Shirley broke two bananas off a bunch sitting on the counter and tossed them at her.

  “Thanks,” Elizabeth said. “See you later.”

  She’d slept so deeply she hadn’t heard anyone come in during the night but they must
have done so because there was another vehicle in the parking lot beside hers. She let Chevy run for a few minutes while she plugged her laptop into the cigarette lighter and took her camera out of the case. Both generally sat on the makeshift sleeping mattress. She didn’t know how he did it but Chevy managed to sleep around them while she was driving.

  Elizabeth stopped to gas up at a self-serve with a confectionery. After filling her tank she went in to pay and to buy a small carton of chocolate milk.

  When she entered a man was talking with the woman behind the counter. The store was small so it wasn’t hard to overhear their conversation as she looked for the cooler.

  “Did you hear that Dick Pearson found a skeleton in one of the septic tanks he was draining on the Wilson place?” the man asked.

  “A skeleton? No way!”

  “Yup.”

  “Yuck. What a place to die.”

  “From what I heard the skull looked like, he was probably dead before he was thrown in there.”

  “Was it a man?”

  Elizabeth was all ears. Was that known already?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who did it, do the police know?”

  “They haven’t said, but I have my own ideas.”

  Elizabeth found the cooler and took out a carton of chocolate milk. She then began to wander the aisles as if looking for something else. This was worth listening to.

  “Like what?” the woman asked.

  “Well, I always expected Harry Wilson’s temper would get the better of him one day.”

  “Are you saying Harry killed someone?”

  Elizabeth stopped in front of the dog treats. She glanced up the aisle in time to see the man shrug. “It could be possible.”

  “Do the police know who it is?”

  “Not so far. They’re sending the bones to a lab today to find out how old the person was and if it was male or female. They were out to question Peggy last night at Shirley’s place.”

  “Serves her right. If she hadn’t sold that acreage to those people for the hog barn, none of this would be happening.”

  The man shrugged again. “Probably not.”

  “Why were they having the tanks pumped out in the first place? It’s not like that smell is going to be noticeable once the hogs are there.”

  “They wanted to get rid of them and the buildings before they started construction.”

  Elizabeth took the milk carton and small package of dog treats to the counter. The man stepped back out of the way. She wondered how he knew so much. After all, the bones had only been found yesterday afternoon.

  She pulled out her credit card to pay for the gas and her purchases.

  “Is that your red Tracker?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you the writer who is doing the article on Fort Macleod?” He peered at her.

  “I’m writing about the Crowsnest Highway,” Elizabeth said, warily. Were there two writers in town or had the story changed in the telling?

  The man quickly stepped forward. “Were you with Peggy when the skeleton was found?”

  “We didn’t find it,” Elizabeth corrected. She signed the credit card slip.

  “But you were there when they were taking the bones out of the septic tank, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty gruesome, I’ll bet.” He was getting the second hand thrill that goes with being in close proximity to someone who had experienced something macabre.

  Elizabeth didn’t reply. She didn’t want to add to the rumours that seemed to be circulating already.

  “What did the police say to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right. You wouldn’t know anything,” he said dismissively and then in the next breath asked eagerly. “What did they say to Peggy?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.” Elizabeth reached out to take the bag from the woman.

  “Are you going to write about the murder?” he continued.

  “What murder?” She turned to him.

  “The skeleton. Someone killed him or her.”

  “What makes you think so?” she asked, knowing she was probably sounding just like him, all eager to know the details.

  “Why else would it be there?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “‘Cause if you’re writing about it my name is Buddy Turner and I knew Harry Wilson for many years.”

  “And you think he could have committed murder?”

  “If you saw his temper in action, you would too.”

  He’d gone from asking questions to giving information and Elizabeth couldn’t curb her desire to stay and learn more. “Really?” she asked.

  “Yes. He was always getting drunk and fighting with someone.”

  “For no reason?”

  “I think because he liked it. We even got into a scrap once over a pool game. I accused him of cheating, which he was, and he challenged me to go outside. I was a lot younger then and I took him up on it. He only had to hit me twice before I admitted I was wrong, even though I wasn’t.”

  Harry sounded like a real bastard. However, she really didn’t have time to hear more.

  She thanked the clerk and as she was leaving the woman called out after her. “My name is Carol Whitmore, if you’re interested for the article.”

  Elizabeth drove out of town on the westbound section of the Crowsnest Highway, known in town as Jerry Potts Boulevard. At the junction with Highway 2, she went north. She wanted to include Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump in her article even though it wasn’t on the highway.

  “Turn left unto Secondary Highway 785, also called Spring Point Road,” she spoke into her computer.

  She usually said “turn left” or “turn right” because it was easier for the person who was using the article as a guide to understand. It was possible to get east and west or north and south mixed up, especially on a winding road. Her intention was to give enough information to get the reader started on his or her own explorations. There were highway signs marking the places she mentioned, and she included, with the article, a map of the highway showing the towns and attractions. To keep down the word count, she didn’t give distances.

  As she drove she went over the conversation at the convenience store. Buddy had given her an idea when he asked her if she was going to write about the discovery of the skeleton. She liked writing or she wouldn’t be here and she liked reading mystery stories. So, why couldn’t she write one of her own? There was nothing to stop her. She toyed with the idea until she reached the parking lot of the interpretive centre, right on nine o’clock.

  When she was planning her trips, she calculated the distances between places and how long it would take to drive them. Then she’d factor in the amount of time she could stay at each attraction. Today, she hoped to get in on the last Bellevue Mine tour which started at five-thirty. That meant she had eight hours for her driving and sightseeing. Should be doable.

  The cool of the early morning was slowly being replaced by the heat of the day and there were no tall trees for shade. She wasn’t sure how long she would be so Elizabeth put the vehicle in neutral and pulled on the emergency brake. She turned the air conditioning on low. This was another reason she liked her Tracker. She could keep Chevy cool without using too much gas. She had heard so many stories about animals being left in vehicles on hot days and dying from heat stroke. She would not do that to her cockapoo.

  With Chevy comfortable, she climbed up the hill to the interpretive center, which was built into the rock wall to blend in with its surroundings. She was the first customer of the day. She went into the building, and was quite impressed by the exhibits on the history of the native people from the area. Since she was the only visitor she was able to move freely, describing what she saw into her recorder.

  “Look up and see the buffalo poised to fall headlong over a cliff,” she said, then. “Check inside the native tepee.”

  Then she came upon a pile of buffalo skulls behind glass. Her first thought wa
s of the human skull found yesterday but she pushed that out of her mind as she took pictures of them.

  She’d learned that Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump was one of the oldest, largest and most elaborate buffalo jumps in North America. Here indigenous peoples had practiced the buffalo hunting techniques that were developed on the North American plains approximately 5,700 years ago.

  Elizabeth followed the stairs up until she was level with the top of the cliffs. She left the building and walked the Upper Trail. She knew that over a number of days, a herd of buffalo was slowly lured across the prairie by braves wrapped in buffalo hides. Other hunters were positioned along the way to keep them moving in the right direction. When they neared the cliff, some positioned themselves among stone men, constructed from layered rocks, to make a large funnel.

  Then the hunters yelled and waved the hides to start them running, funneling them toward the cliff. The buffalo gained momentum; the front rows could not stop at the edge of the cliff and were impelled over by the rush from the ones behind. Those that survived the fall were killed by men waiting at the bottom. She marvelled at their ingenuity and imagined the large herd churning up dust as it galloped unsuspectingly towards death. A railing set back from the edge prevented her from seeing over the cliffs but she leaned out as far as she dared.

  Elizabeth left the top of the jump and returned to the entrance, where she picked up some more information brochures. She loved to collect brochures, had been doing it since she was old enough to travel with her parents. She could read them any time and be taken back to the places she had visited. Sherry used to get so annoyed with her because they would clutter up the room they shared.

  Reading the interpretive signs along the paths below the cliffs she learned that the buffalo had to be skinned quickly so they would cool and the meat wouldn’t spoil, and that, because of the layers of bones that built up over the years, the jump was much shorter than when it was first used. Again she was reminded of the bones found yesterday and again she redirected her thoughts, this time to how the jump had received its name from a native legend.

  During the mid-1800s one young hunter wanted to observe the buffalo as they plunged over the cliff. He hid himself near the base and watched as they tumbled past him. The hunt was good and as the carcasses piled up, he became trapped between them and the rock wall. When his people started the butchering, they found him with his skull crushed and named the place Head-Smashed-In.