By Hope Thompson

“You cannot see him,” the nurse said to Detective Harry Harp and Constable Terry Becker. “He’s having tests.”

After driving to the Golden Villa Retirement Centre to see Stanley Barley, they had discovered that the old man had been admitted to hospital earlier in the day. Harp asked the nurse how long they would have to wait.

“Take a seat,” she said wearily.

The two men sat down in the waiting area and Becker flipped open a fishing magazine. Harp leaned back and let his thoughts drift to Brigitte Cave, the librarian he’d met two days earlier. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. And then he wondered if that was how Rand felt about Irene Barley.

But did it happen that way? Did Stanley Barley catch Rand Carlyle with his wife and then murder him in a jealous rage?

Goofy music interrupted his thoughts. Across from him, a boy played an electronic device, thumbs jabbing frantically. Next to the boy sat a white-haired man whose leg was in a cast, and in the corner, two men sat close together, both looking at their phones and talking quietly. Harp considered their neat hair and fitted clothes and the lines in his forehead deepened. Then he remembered the numerology project—begun by the original detective on the case, George Maclem. The gender tally for the night of the murder was 12 men and 10 women. If everyone paired up, two men would be left out. Suddenly, an unmistakable feeling of clarity filled Harp’s mind.

“I have it!” he said.

“Listen,” Becker whispered.

The hospital’s public address system crackled through the air: “Repeat: Adam Barley to reception.”

Harp and Becker rushed to the nurse’s station and she looked up at them suspiciously. “So, which one of you officers is Adam Barley?”

Harp said, “Neither. We just want to talk to him.”

“First the father, now, the son.” The nurse rolled her eyes. “Make up your minds.”

Suddenly, Harp remembered his revelation and turned to Becker. But at the same moment, a door opened behind where the constable was standing. It was the door to the men’s room and a man stepped out. He was tall and thin with white-blond hair. He walked around the two detectives.

“I’m Adam Barley,” he said to the nurse.

She looked up. “Doctor wants to see you but he’s just this minute been called into Emergency.” She nodded over his shoulder. “And these gentlemen here….”

Adam turned to find Harp holding out his police ID card.

“Mr. Barley?” The detective introduced himself and Becker. “Could we have a word?”

Harp directed him to a private alcove away from the main waiting area.

“What’s this about?” Adam Barley said with undisguised nervousness.

Harp said, “We’re investigating the murder of Rand Carlyle.”

Barley nodded, eyes on the floor, fingers twitching.

“When did you last see your father?” Harp said.

Barley looked surprised. “Years ago. We’re not that close.”

“Why? What happened?” Becker said.

Barley shrugged, “Life, I don’t know.”

The constable frowned.

“Mr. Barley, tell us about August 1970,” Harp said.

“I worked at Pines End. My parents got me the job. And I hated it.”

“What was so bad about it?” Becker said.

“I was 16 and I had to wait on guests my own age. It was humiliating.”

“What about Rand Carlyle?” Harp said.

“What about him?”

Becker said, “We know you took him fishing. You must have been friendly with him.”

“My job was to do what people asked—get towels, drinks, take them fishing, whatever.”

Harp was silent for a moment. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Barley?”

“I’m an accountant. Why?”

“You’re married?” Harp said.

“No,” Barley said. “I live alone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have just driven six hours and I’d like to see my father.”

 “And we have a murder to solve.” Harp faced him. “What were you doing on the night of August 1, 1970?”

Barley scowled. “I don’t remember. Probably fetching drinks for people! It was Simcoe Day. There was a bonfire, I remember that.”

“Did you see Rand?”

“No!” Barley cried then took a breath and spoke calmly. “I don’t remember.”

To Harp, the man was somehow incomplete as if something had stunted his growth. The detective wondered if it was the truth. “Mr. Barley,” Harp said. “I believe you knew Rand Carlyle extremely well. In fact, I believe you knew him—intimately.”

Becker’s eyes shot open.

Barley launched from his seat. “I am not going to sit here being accused of—indecency!” He turned to leave but Becker was on his feet blocking his exit.

“We just want the truth, Mr. Barley.” Becker gently touched Barley’s elbow. “Please?”

Barley stared at the young constable’s hand then sat down.

“Look, I knew Mr. Carlyle. And I liked him—though certainly not as you suggested.” He ran his hand over his face. “He was a lot nicer to me than those kids. He was kind.” The man looked up. His face was filled with confused emotion. “He didn’t deserve to die!”

Harp’s eyes glinted. “But his killer thought differently. His killer was filled with so much ferocious hate that he drove an ice pick into Randolph Carlyle’s back.”

Barley winced.

“Then buried his body in an old fridge in a little meadow in the woods.”

Adam Barley’s face softened as if remembering something long forgotten.

“I believe your father saw you and Rand together and that drove him to kill—.”

Barley leapt to his feet. “NO!”

Just then, the nurse rushed towards them. “Mr. Barley? Come with me.” She waved at him. “Your father’s taken a turn.”

A few minutes later, Adam Barley stood beside his father’s hospital bed. A breathing mask covered Stanley Barley’s face and tubes and wires crisscrossed his body. Adam looked down at him and thought about what the detective had said.

Tears stinging his eyes, Adam squeezed his father’s hand as the heartbeat monitor pulsed erratically.

August 1, 1970 – 4 PM

Adam Barley was well aware that guests would be asking for drinks and that the hateful Cat Wilson would be whistling for him and that he had to collect wood for the bonfire and do a million other things. But he didn’t care because, he, Adam Barley, was in love.

Turn at the boulder then over the fallen tree and up the slope. He knew the way to the little meadow by heart. He also knew that Rand was already there because he could smell his cologne.

Pushing aside bushes, he stepped into the sunlit meadow where Rand lay waiting.

Adam joined him and they stared up at the sky. Except for the sounds of insects and rustling leaves the forest was silent. Then a twig snapped.

“What was that?” Adam whispered, eyes wide.

Rand pulled him close. “That’s the sound of my heart beating crazily for you.”

At the edge of the meadow, a woman peered through the bushes. Her face was twisted by horror at the sight of what Randolph Carlyle was doing to her boy—her dear sweet boy.

Irene Barley’s eyes narrowed as she realized what she had to do.

By Hope Thompson

After their interview with 90-year-old Stan Barley, the former caretaker of Pines End, Detective Harry Harp and Constable Terry Becker stopped in at the local café. The two men sat huddled in a corner booth staring down mugs of coffee.

Becker peeled the wrapping off a muffin and took a bite.

“What do you make of Stan Barley?” Harp said.

“He’s grumpy.” Becker pulled a serviette from the dispenser on the table and wiped his fingers. “But that could just be old age talking.”

“Or guilt.” Harp took a sip of coffee. “I’m pretty sure he knows more than he’s saying.” The detective wrapped his fingers around his coffee mug. “Remember what Crystal Corrigan said about antiques?”

Becker nodded. “Sure. They were all over Pines End—even in the kitchen. Muir was so stingy, stuff wasn’t updated and a lot of the antiques were still in use, like the old fridges. So?”

Harp raised a finger. “Crystal didn’t remember the ice pick but it could have been part of the antiques lying around. Look—let’s say it was. Then Stan had the means. And very likely the opportunity.”

Becker nodded. “But what about motive?”

Ten minutes later, the two men were back at their office in the Spruce County Police Department. On a white board, Becker had written the names of all guests and staff and next to each name was a note. “Deceased” was written beside most names.

Fingers clattering over his keyboard, Becker leaned back grinning.

“Thank god for online obituaries!” The constable said.

Harp’s desk was covered in the scrawled pages of his ongoing numerology project. He looked up, blinking.

“Just found Trudy Carlyle’s obituary. She died four years ago. Predeceased by her husband and daughters, Emily and Lily.” Becker jumped up and added the information beside their names.

“Everyone who was an adult at the time of the murder is deceased—except for Stan.” Becker sat down and started typing again. “And I’ve tracked down the teenage guests—just waiting on the Moort twins and Adam Barley to get back….”

Harp squinted at the white board, not listening.

“Is—something the matter?” Becker said.

Trance like, the detective picked up a marker and drew lines between names. Becker grimaced as Harp destroyed his neat list.

“I get it,” Harp said. “I get the numbers thing!” He frantically drew lines between Mr. and Mrs. Muir, the lodge owners, between the Carlyle’s, between Cat Wilson and Brett Penzler. The detective spun around.

“Matchmaking!”

“Huh?” Becker said, walking over.

“If we eliminate the Wilson baby, there are 12 males and 10 females. With the most obvious pairings, the Penzler and Moort dads are left out.”

“Left out of what?” Becker scratched his head.

“Of romance! Remember what Brigitte said? People go on vacation for a lot of reasons and romance is one of them.”

Becker’s eyes narrowed. “You think it was a crime of passion?”

“What if Stan’s wife, Irene, was having an affair with Rand Carlyle? And Stan found out….” Harp gestured a plunging motion. “And killed Rand.”

“Solid motive,” Becker said.

Harp flipped through the original case papers. “Says here, Maclem found empty booze bottles on the lawn. It was concluded that Rand was drunk, stumbled into the water and drowned. But I don’t think Maclem believed that.”

Becker nodded. “Doesn’t the file say Rand was keyed up? Excited? The man was looking for love. Maybe he walked into the woods to find Irene Barley.”

Becker put his fingers together like the preacher in ‘Night Of The Hunter’. “But instead, he found hate. I mean, in the form of death.”

Harp’s eyes flashed. “Stan could easily have spied on the party at the fire pit and when he saw Rand leave, all he had to do was follow him. And Rand was stabbed in the back.” The detective sat down. “This wasn’t a confrontation. This was the swift elimination of a problem.”

Just then Harp’s phone buzzed and he answered it. The detective looked momentarily confused then thanked the caller and hung up.

He shrugged. “Cat Wilson’s back.”

“And the cat came back….” Becker said, grinning.

A couple of minutes later, the two men sat down across from the tanned retiree.  

Harp smiled. “What can we do for you today, Ms. Wilson?”

“Call me Cat,” she said brusquely. “Now I want to add to my earlier statement thingy. Just to be completely honest.” She shifted in her chair. “There was a kid called ‘dogsbody’. I don’t know his name, anyway, my sister and I were, well, rather cruel to him.” She threw her head back. “Nothing criminal. Just mean. As kids can be.”

Harp’s forehead creased. “Why?”

Cat was silent. “He was a local kid and we were from the city and we just, well, we felt superior.” She smiled widely. “Of course, I’ve changed, I mean, I live here. I love Spruce County!”

Becker’s eyes narrowed. “His name is Albert Barley.”

“Oh,” Cat said quietly. “Oh, of course! His mother and father worked there.”

Harp leaned forward. “Do you remember seeing Rand Carlyle with either of them?”

Cat shook her head. “I just remember the father—a big man. Gruff.” She shivered.

A few minutes later, the interview ended and the two men sat alone in the meeting room.

“Interesting,” Harp said.

“Prejudice is interesting?” Becker pointed at the door Cat Wilson had just exited through.

Harp said, “No. But think of Stan. He discovers Rand Carlyle with his wife. And Rand is from the city! Rand could have had that same superior attitude.”

Becker looked out the window. “Stan would have hated him even more.”

“Let’s talk to him.” Harp stood up. “And this time, let’s get the truth.”

August 1, 1970 – 10:00 PM

As the fire died down, people drifted into the lodge. Before Rand Carlyle joined the flow, he cast a look over his shoulder at his wife, Trudy. She was deep in conversation with Mrs. Wilson, the flames casting an orange glow over both women’s faces.

Perfect, thought Rand with a sly smile.

As other guests crossed the terrace and entered the lodge, Rand stepped to the left and disappeared into the darkness. The route through the woods to the little meadow was familiar, even in the dark. He’d made the same trip once already that day and many times during the week, ever since the first meeting, the first moments of connection. Yes, it was dangerous but the danger just made the whole enterprise more exciting. He turned at the little building and stepped into the forest as a woodland chorus played around him—a croak and a buzz here, a rustle there. Then another sound: quick footsteps. Rand smiled and started to turn—when sharp metal sunk into his back and searing pain made him freeze. He stumbled forward grabbing at the air, then collapsed on the forest floor. Filling with blood, his throat constricted and he gasped, breathing in the damp scent of moss and pine bark and his mind began to close and as it did, he held on to one image—the face of love—until that, too, was gone.