Authors: Vicki Delany

Tags: #FIC050000, #book

A Winter Kill (7 page)

Some people just can't drive in the freakin' snow.

Johnstone radioed to say he'd take it, but I knew he'd need backup.

I helped Sergeant Malan get Brian Fitzpatrick into a cell. Then I left. I was sorry to have been called away.

* * *

I was off the next day and slept until noon.

I made coffee and a bagel with peanut butter and sat down at my computer. Outside my window a bright sun shone in a blue sky. Fresh snow sparkled like chips of glass. We'd gotten more than a foot in the night, and trees sagged under the weight. I finished my breakfast and was checking the news in
The Globe and Mail
when my cell phone rang.

“Are you up?” Paul Malan asked.

“Yes.”

“You deserve to hear the results of our interview with Brian Fitzpatrick. Can I come around?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I rushed to get into the shower and get dressed. I was tying my wet hair back when the door buzzer sounded.

Malan had stopped at Miss Lily's CafÃ©. He carried two cups of hot coffee and a bag of fresh pastries.

“What happened?” I asked, before he even sat down at the table in my tiny kitchen.

“You did a good job, Nicole. Your instincts were spot-on.”

I blushed with pleasure.

He took the top off his coffee cup. Steam rose. He ripped open the paper bag and took out a couple of Danishes and two muffins. “Fitzpatrick made a full confession. By the time his lawyer arrived, he'd told us the whole story. I guess he thought if he explained it all to me, I'd understand.”

I took a bran muffin.

“Jason told his father he was going to marry Maureen. He wouldn't be taking the football scholarship. Fitzpatrick pretended to understand, but he was furious. He was running out of time. He felt he had no choice but to act. His dreams would be over if Jason stayed around because of her. After dinner Jason went to his room to do homework. He left his phone on the kitchen table. Brian looked up Maureen's number and called her.

“He says it was an accident. But I think we can get him for premeditated murder. He told Maureen he wanted to make her an offer. Said he'd like to take her for a coffee and talk about it. She waited for him outside Stephanie Reynolds's house. Brian picked her up and drove her to a quiet spot near the Picton airfield. He offered her money to tell Jason it was over. She was to quit school and leave town for a year. Twenty thousand dollars if she'd have an abortion. Ten thousand if not. He thought Jason would come to his senses if Maureen left him.” He sipped at his coffee.

“I assume Maureen said no.”

“She told Brian she was in love with Jason. They were planning a life together. They and their child. He couldn't bear to think that his son was throwing his life away for her.

“She got out of the car, said she was feeling sick. She turned her back on him. He reached out and grabbed her scarf and twisted. Next thing he knew, she was dead.”

I left out a long puff of air.

“He says he wanted to take her to the hospital. But he realized he'd be charged with killing her.”

“No kidding.”

“No kidding. So he left her by the side of the road. He wanted it to look like she'd been out for a walk and got picked up by some guy. Anyone going for a walk that night would have dressed very warmly, but Maureen wasn't wearing her gloves. He tried to make it look like a rape and started taking her pants off. A car came along and frightened him off.”

“No,” I said. “He wasn't trying to make it look like rape. More like a casual screw in the backseat of a car. One last chance to make Jason believe Maureen was a slut.”

“You're probably right about that.” He drank his coffee and took a bite out of an apple Danish.

“What's so sad,” I said, “is that Brian Fitzpatrick was right all along.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jason wanted to study for a law degree. He'd come home after class to a screaming baby. And its sixteen-year-old mother. Tired and lonely. Angry because she wasn't having fun like other girls her age.”

“What do you think they should have done?”

I shook my head. “Jason and Maureen had nothing but bad choices. It's a tragedy all around.”

I got up and went to stand at the window. The roofs of the houses were piled with snow. Smoke rose from chimneys. The snowplow pushed its way up the street. I heard a siren getting closer. An OPP cruiser sped by. Its lights were flashing.

I went back to the table and finished my muffin.

VICKI DELANY
is one of Canada's most prolific and varied crime writers. Her work includes stand-alone novels of psychological suspense
,
the Smith & Winters series and the Klondike Mystery series. Vicki enjoys the rural life in bucolic Prince Edward County, Ontario, where she grows vegetables, shovels snow and rarely wears a watch. For more information, visit
www.vickidelany.com
.

The following is an excerpt from
Orchestrated Murder,
an exciting Rapid Reads novel by Rick Blechta.

978-1-55469-885-1Â Â Â $9.95 pb

Something is terribly wrong at Symphony Hall. Luigi Spadafini, the symphony's star conductor, has been murdered. With the mayor and several big shots from the symphony's board of directors demanding a speedy resolution of the crisis, Detective Lieutenant Pratt faces a seemingly endless list of suspects with good reasons to want the egotistical, philandering Spadafini dead. But surely they didn't all kill him! Or did they?

CHAPTER ONE

P
ratt felt like pounding his head on his desk. Why couldn't McDonnell just leave him alone today?

He felt every one of his fifty-four years as he walked past all the empty desks to the office of the man who ran the Homicide Division. His desk was as far away from the office as he could get it.

“What can I do for you?” Pratt asked.

Captain McDonnell looked up from the papers on his desk. “There's a problem at Symphony Hall. A big problem.”

“What?”

“I've just had a call from upstairs. Appears someone's murdered the damn conductor.”

“Luigi Spadafini?”

“Yesâif he's the conductor. I thought it would be right up your alley. You like this kind of music so much.”

“Thanks,” Pratt answered glumly.

What he wanted at the moment was a good nap, not another job. The previous night he'd been wrapping up a tricky case and got exactly three hours' sleep on a sofa in an empty office he'd found. He had the stiff neck to prove it too.

“The chief wants you to tread lightly. That's the other reason I'm sending you. You know how to act around the symphony set.”

“Anything else?”

McDonnell shook his head. “Nope. Just hustle down there. Once the press gets hold of the news, all hell's going to break loose.” As Pratt turned to go, his boss added, “Take Ellis with you. Show him the ropes. This promises to be a little out of the ordinary.”

Just great. Saddled with the greenest member of the squad. Pratt didn't even know the kid's first name and didn't care to. Hopefully the young pup wouldn't screw anything up.

As he went back to his desk, the captain called, “Good job last night, Pratt. You did us proud.”

Pratt bit his tongue. Then why not let someone else handle this job and let him go home?

Pratt let Ellis drive across town to the city's latest municipal wonder. Built four years earlier to a lot of taxpayer squawking, Symphony Hall was beautiful outside but cold and sterile. Inside, though, it was all wood, and the sound quality was lovely. He'd heard Beethoven's Fifth Symphony there the previous month, and it had been a concert he'd remember for a long time. Spadafini had been very impressive.

Now Pratt's head felt as if it was stuffed with sawdust. Great way to begin an investigation.

Ellis was a good-looking lad. Tall and still lanky, a lot like Pratt when he'd been that age. Thirty years later, he'd lost most of his hair and put on a good fifty pounds. At least he didn't need glassesâyet.

Making conversation, he asked, “How long have you been in Homicide?

“Two weeks, sir,” Ellis answered.

“Seen any action yet?”

“Only that domestic murder last Friday. Terrible situation. Mostly I've been pushing papers.”

“So I heard.”

“I wanted to say that it's an honor to be working with you.”

“I don't need buttering up, Ellis. You're here to make my life easier. Keep your eyes and ears open and try to stay out of my way.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“And another thing: stop calling me âsir.' Pratt will do.”

The coast was still clear as they pulled up at the backstage entrance. Surprisingly, the media hadn't arrived yet. A beat cop Pratt recognized was standing next to the door, looking bored.

“Glad to have you aboard, sir,” he said. “It's a madhouse in there, I hear.”

“It's going to be a madhouse out here too. Don't let anyone in, and don't tell them anything.”

“Right.”

Later on Pratt was sorry that he had just rushed by. He might have retired on the spot if he'd known about the unholy mess he was walking into.

At the vacant security desk just inside, a sergeant Pratt knew was waiting. Next to him stood a man wearing a suit and tie, even though it was Saturday morning. He looked to be in his late thirties, medium height, slightly overweight.

“Glad they sent you, Pratt,” the sergeant said as they shook hands. “This is Michael Browne. He's the symphony's manager. He's the one who called the murder in.”

Pratt knew Browne had to be competent to have this sort of job. At the moment, he looked pretty rattled and on edge.

More handshaking as Pratt introduced Ellis.

“The situation is a real mess,” the sergeant added.

“Blood?” the detective asked. He hated the bloody ones.

“No, no. It's the suspect list.”

“What about it?”

“The entire orchestra has confessed.”

Titles in the Series