Excess Baggage: A Lee Smith Mystery

By Jay Forman

Two countries. Three police forces. Four bodies. 

Travel writer Lee Smith joins her brand new husband Jack Hughes and some of his top executives for what Jack claims will be a fun corporate team building adventure; chasing geocaching clues that take them from the Bay

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Apr 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953789419

Jay Forman

Jay Forman was once a relatively sane television producer. Since walking away from the cameras she's been crazy busy adding mother and mystery author to her list of credits. She's now locked her focus on sending Canadian travel writer Lee Smith and Jack Hughes (Lee's best friend with many benefits, not least of which is that he's a billionaire philanthropist) to wherever bodies are found.

Book preview

Jay Forman

EXCESS BAGGAGE

A Lee Smith Mystery

First published by Level Best Books 2021

Copyright © 2021 by Jay Forman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Jay Forman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

COVER PHOTO: Jay Forman

AUTHOR PHOTO CREDIT: Paula Feig

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-953789-41-9

Cover art by Level Best Designs

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

Publisher Logo

For the unforgettable Uncle Bill

Chapter One

46° 5′ 16.87″ N

64° 46′ 37.78″ W

Was Wendy right? Was she crazy to even think of doing it? Sheila had been so sure this morning, but now? Not so much.

She reminded herself that it wasn’t as if she was going to swipe right on Tinder and hook up with a complete stranger, the way Wendy did sometimes.

The old guy in front of her was taking forever. If he didn’t hurry up, she’d be late getting back to work. One by one, by one, by one, he swiped the barcodes on his lottery tickets. He must have wasted over a hundred bucks; all of his tickets were losers. Only one person in the lunchtime line-up had won anything so far, and all he got was a free play.

Sheila knew the chances of her having the $50 million ticket in her hand weren’t great, but that wasn’t the point. If she won anything, even just a free play, it would be a sign. It would make the decision for her.

Wendy was right about one thing—Sheila had never actually met him. But she knew a lot about him—important stuff. He was handsome, rich and single. And he was going to be flying into town today for the first time ever. And Sheila didn’t just know where he’d be staying; she knew exactly where he’d be going after he landed.

She wasn’t supposed to know that bit, but she did.

She also knew he wouldn’t be able to find what he’d be looking for right away. That wouldn’t stop him, though. He’d go back to look for it again later, she was sure of it, even if the park was closed by then. The richest guy in the country could do things like that. He could go anywhere he wanted whenever he wanted. And Sheila knew how to sneak into the park after closing time. She and Wendy and their friends had done it all the time when they were in high school.

Would he think it was too weird if she was waiting for him under the Lover’s Arch? Yeah, that would probably be too much. She’d wait for him at the top of the stairs. That way she wouldn’t have to wear flats to walk on the soggy ocean floor; she could wear her new short black skirt and the killer heels that made her legs look so good. Hair up or down? Probably down. Most guys liked long blonde hair.

She sort of had a legitimate reason to go welcome him to town. Maybe he’d be impressed by her above-the-call-of-duty customer service?

It was a good thing she’d only put the agency’s name on the box of Godiva chocolates she’d sent to his hotel suite. Chocolates from her personally and a surprise welcome greeting in person would be too much. He might think she was stalking him or something.

Coming up next on New Country 96.9, Paul Thomas’ deep DJ voice announced through the convenience store’s speakers, Dean Brody’s ‘Canadian Girls’.

Well, if that wasn’t a sign, what was? Her favourite country artist (he’d even been an adopted Maritimer for a while), singing a song about how great Canadian girls are. Jack liked them so much that he’d married one. But he’d divorced her. Sheila had seen lots of photos of him with famous Canadian women hanging off his arm since his divorce. He hadn’t married any of them, though. And the little blonde woman who’d hurled herself at him in the news clip after his helicopter crash had been identified as his best friend, not his lover or girlfriend or fiancée or wife. From the way she’d wrapped her arms and legs around him, it was obvious that she wanted to be more than just friends. Sheila recognised the woman’s name when she got the email from Jack’s assistant about the hotel bookings, and the email had been very clear—Jack and his ‘friend’ were to be booked into separate rooms. He didn’t want to be more than friends with that woman. Jack was waiting to meet the right one……and who’s to say that Sheila couldn’t be that one? Nobody, that’s who; not even stupid Wendy.

Finally, it was her turn to swipe her ticket.

Winner! Gagnant! The recorded woman’s voice announced as the short calliope-sounding tune played from the lottery machine. Winner! Gagnant!

She’d won ten dollars.

Decision made.

Today was her lucky day.

Chapter Two

43° 38′ 57″ N

79° 22 ′46″ W

How is he? I wanted to burst out of the corner office just as quickly as those three stupid words had flown out of my mouth. Running hard at one of the two walls of glass would give me instant escape, but I didn’t want out desperately enough to tumble down to the street in a seventy-story free-fall.

He’d been locked up in a maximum security prison for almost a quarter of a century. How would anyone be after that? I’d doubted I’d hear ‘He’s just peachy’ in reply to my stupid question.

He’s doing well, and he’s hopeful. We all are. We’re building a very strong case, Mr Peel said as he stood up and leaned over to pick up the slim zippered black document holder that had been lying on his dark mahogany desk since the beginning of our meeting.

Given the cut of his suit, perfectly folded pocket square and gold bar cufflinks, I was willing to bet that it wasn’t cheap imitation alligator skin wrapped around that document holder. When he laid it open flat on the desk, the gold embossed lettering on the inside flap confirmed my suspicions:

EST 1887

SMYTHSON

OF BOND STREET

Nothing cheap came from Bond Street in London.

There was a Bond Street in Toronto that may have existed way back in 1887, but over a century later it still wasn’t populated by luxury stores. It wasn’t even close to the luxurious Yorkville area of the city.

I have a letter from him for you. Mr Peel pulled a wrinkled white envelope out from under the embossed flap. He was going to mail it, but I offered to deliver it to you personally.

I instantly recognised the jerky handwriting on it. It was addressed to me care of Auntie Em’s post office box. In the upper left corner, he’d written his return address:—Stuart Saddler, Millhaven Institution, PO Box 280, Bath, Ontario, K0H 1G0. The back flap of the envelope had been folded over, but it hadn’t been sealed shut.

I didn’t want to touch it.

He’s also hoping that now, with the courts agreeing to hear his appeal, you’ll reply to this one. He asked me to tell you that he understands why you didn’t reply to any of his earlier letters.

Earlier letters?

I watched my hand reach out to take the envelope and then forced my eyes to look anywhere but at it. My first physical connection with Stuart in over twenty years felt like acid searing my fingertips.

Those walls of glass didn’t look that sturdy. Sure, they were probably quadruple-glazed, or maybe even decuple-glazed, but there was an overload of adrenaline pulsing through me and an all too familiar urge to flee was tempting me to take a run at them.

The waves of heat coming off the pavement down below made the ant-sized people who were scurrying around look blurry. Even the streetcar that was moving along King Street looked like it was wobbling on its tracks. I looked up and over the buildings that were south of King Street, all the way to Lake Ontario. A ferry was heading over to Hanlan’s Point on the island; two little kayaks were bobbing in its wake at the eastern end of the runway at Billy Bishop Airport. On the far side of the island I could see a sailboat’s sail that was striped like a rainbow, possibly because it was Pride Week. Beyond the colourful sail was nothing but open water. That’s where I wanted to be—on water, away from the cars and double-parked delivery trucks and taxis and streetcars, away from the throngs of people, away from Mr Peel and his overpriced colleagues. Hopefully, Jack was taking me somewhere where I could be on water. I jammed the envelope into my backpack and wiped my fingers, hard, against my thigh.

And, if you’ll allow me, he asked me to transfer an audio file to your cell phone. He was very insistent about it.

No way. That was not going to happen. I might—might—read the letter, but I sure as hell didn’t want to hear Stuart’s voice.

There’s a song that he wants you to have.

That sounded like Stuart. We’d always bonded over music. Did prison inmates have access to iTunes? Or iPods? They hadn’t even been invented when Stuart was locked up. What had he been doing for music? He needed it just as much as I did.

Mr Peel held out his hand. Your phone?

A song couldn’t hurt. It was just notes and instruments, right? Okay. I felt the scorch of the envelope again when my fingers brushed against it as I rummaged in my backpack for my phone. I’d let him transfer the song, but that didn’t mean I’d listen to it.

It only took Mr Peel a minute to transfer the audio file. He handed my phone back and immediately looked down at his Patek Philippe. Jack had a watch just like it. Thank you for coming today.

He’d probably just noted the end of his billable hour with me. Would he bill me for taking up space in his office when I’d had to sit there for almost an hour waiting for him to get out of the meeting he was still in during our scheduled time?

Who was paying his bill? And why hadn’t I wondered about that before? If Jack was signing the cheques, I’d kill him. Not kill him as in murder him, though. That was Stuart’s forte, not mine. When will you decide about me testifying?

Soon. How long will you be gone?

I don’t know. I didn’t even know where we were going. A week. Maybe two.

I would have thought you’d have everything all planned out and booked in advance in your profession.

I usually did. This trip’s different.

And after this one? Will you be staying home for the rest of the summer?

I’m not sure. I’d deliberately not booked any work trips over the summer because I thought I should spend some time with my new husband. Our jobs had sent both Jack and me bopping all over the world since our wedding nine months earlier. I’d naively thought Jack would take some time off, too, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d scheduled the annual corporate team-building vacation for his top executives and he’d talked me into going with him. I never should have turned down the offer from the adventure company to write about their Haida Gwaii tour. I could have been kayaking off the coast of British Columbia. Instead, I was in downtown Toronto during a brutal heat wave.

The receptionist who’d thought I was a bicycle courier when I arrived wished me a pleasant day as I bolted past her desk in the main foyer. I moved more slowly when I had to retrace my steps back to her desk to ask her how to work the elevators. Whatever happened to elevators with just an up and a down button? The six elevators that went all the way up to the offices of Peel, Elias, Deepak & Samad LLP didn’t have any buttons beside their doors. Nope, they had what looked like a big iPad stuck on the wall and my only touch screen options were the even floors between the 70th and 50th floors and at the bottom of the screen was ‘Concourse/Lobby’. I wanted concourse. I didn’t want lobby.

There was a television news crew in that lobby, on their way to interview the famous lawyer who was now representing the infamous serial killer known as Mr Clean. I most definitely didn’t want our paths to cross.

The receptionist told me that the elevator would decide where it let me off, that I had no choice in the matter. All of the elevators were double-decker, so I had a 50/50 chance of the doors opening to the lobby.

I had to wait for the elevator with an unknown destination to arrive and was alone as I whooshed down to ground level. I kept my fingers tightly crossed when the elevator slowed down and then stopped. The doors opened. Across from my elevator was another bank of elevators. I tentatively stepped out to see which floor I’d landed on and heard the doors slide closed behind me, leaving me in the lobby. I could have made a run for the escalators down to the concourse level, but they were out of service for maintenance. Maybe there was a stairway?

If there was, I never saw it.

What I did see was the news crew. I recognised the craggy-faced reporter who’d been covering the crime beat for CBC News since shortly after the invention of colour TV. Something in the way he looked at me for just a second too long as we passed each other told me that he recognised me, too.

I picked up my pace, bent my head down, hugged my backpack tightly to my chest and dug around in it to find the baseball cap I’d worn into the building. But it wasn’t there. I remembered taking it off in Mr Peel’s office. Damn. And damn Stuart for his genes. I looked too much like him to deny our hereditary link.

Miss Saddler? Lee Saddler? Craggy-face caught up to me.

Who? I didn’t slow down.

You’re Stuart Saddler’s daughter, right?

His camerawoman had run in front of us and was lifting her camera up onto her shoulder as she turned around to walk backwards.

Sorry, you’ve got the wrong person. Maybe I should dye my hair black for the next few months? Or cut it really short? It would be easier than constantly keeping my blondeness tucked up into a baseball cap. I didn’t even like baseball caps. Then again, maybe there wouldn’t be any reporters trying to find me wherever Jack was taking me?

I just want to ask you a few questions, Lee, it won’t take long.

I told you, you’ve got the wrong person. Technically, I wasn’t lying. I wasn’t Lee Saddler anymore. I’d legally changed my name right after Stuart was convicted. Thankfully, Craggy-face didn’t know what I’d changed it to.

Miss Smith! Lee! I heard the familiar voice of Mr Peel’s receptionist call out from somewhere behind me. You forgot your baseball cap.

You changed your last name to Smith?

Leave me alone! I broke into a run and almost knocked over a real bicycle courier as I bolted into the quarter-section of the revolving door he’d just stepped out of.

The people in the other three-quarters of the spinning door were shuffling slowly, and there wasn’t anything I could do to speed them up.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! I’d let panic obliterate the calm demeanour that Uncle Doug had taught me to fake. I should have just said ‘No comment’ and walked slowly, calmly. Instead, I’d let them see, and maybe even record, how rattled I was.

When my section of the revolving door finally opened to the outside world, I slammed into the oppressive wall of heat and humidity that was blanketing most of southern Ontario. The air tasted horrible and there was a smog alert in place. Why would anyone choose to live in a city that had to routinely issue Do Not Breathe advisories every summer?

It smelled even worse in the subway car that I forced my way into just as the doors were closing. I’d managed to jam myself in with the rest of the human sardines in one of the cars that didn’t have air conditioning.

By the time I made it uptown to York Mills station where I’d parked my car, I was more thankful than I’d ever been for the luxury of the SUV that Jack had helped me buy. Audis had great air conditioning. I cranked the temperature down to Arctic level and was just about to jack the tunes up when curiosity got the better of me.

It was easy to find the song that Mr Peel had downloaded; it was the top one on my ‘Recently Added’ list, but the title was disconcertingly ambiguous—Songs for Lee. Two songs? How much damage could six minutes and ten seconds do to my psyche? My finger was hovering over the Play button on my centre console when I was literally saved by the bell—or rather, the cha-ching ringtone of an incoming call from Jack. His phone number came up on the dash screen.

How did it go?

It went. I didn’t want to think about everything that had been said in my meeting, let alone talk about it. Jack didn’t need to know about the letter Mr Peel had given me, or the ‘earlier letters’, or the reporter recognizing me. Or about the DNA sample I’d been asked to give.

I heard Jack sigh. Okay, I won’t push. You can tell me about it when you’re ready.

It was a good thing Jack was a patient man, because it would be a long, long time before I’d be ready to talk to him about it. He couldn’t understand that I didn’t want my previous Saddler life to touch our present Smith/Hughes life. I was probably kidding myself, thinking I could keep him out of it, but I had to try. "How did your Good Morning America interview go?"

It went.

I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of reacting to his obvious ploy to make me feel guilty for not giving him more than that in response to his question. And I knew I wouldn’t have to wait long for him to tell me more.

The interviewer kept wanting to talk about the mugger. She didn’t want to talk about the new mine at all.

Well, duh! Canada’s wealthiest bachelor, a diamond magnate no less, thwarts an armed robber? That’s big news.

No, it’s not. And I didn’t thwart him. The undercover cop who was walking by did.

That’s boring.

I didn’t think so at the time. And I’ll have you know that I’m a very happily married man.

Damn right, you are, but she doesn’t know that. His interview would have turned into a ‘what it’s like to be married to Mr Clean’s daughter/does she think he’s guilty/did she lie on the stand’ exposé if the Good Morning America woman had known that Jack and I were married and the last thing he needed was to be bombarded with the questions I’d been dodging most of my life.

Where are you?

Just about to get onto the 401, but traffic’s not moving on it. I don’t how long it’ll take me to get to the airport. Where are you?

We took off from LaGuardia about thirty minutes ago, so we should be landing at Pearson within the hour.

Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?

I still don’t know. Adaya’s sending out the first clue at noon; everyone’s supposed to be at the airport by then.

What did she tell the others about me?

She listed you on the itinerary as my best friend since high school.

Her description was accurate and vague enough, but Jack’s executives probably wouldn’t buy it for long. They’re going to know we’re more than best buddies when they see us going into the same hotel room every night.

We’re not sharing a room.

Like hell, we’re not. Keeping our secret safe was one thing, but it wasn’t worth breaking one of the cardinal rules of our marriage—if we were in the same city, we were in the same bed.

Adaya came up with a great idea.

Good for her.

She booked us into rooms that are right beside the fire exits, but one floor apart. You can sneak up to my room—

Or you can come down to my room—

I’ll have a suite.

Of course you will. Adaya probably booked the room next to the ice machine for me.

I really had to get a grip on my attitude toward Adaya. She was the best assistant Jack had ever had, and she was a very nice person. If only she wasn’t so stunningly beautiful. And her name came out of Jack’s mouth too much for my liking. Adaya this, Adaya that—‘so smart, so organized, don’t know what I’d do without her’—you’d hire another assistant, Jack; that’s what you’d do. Preferably a male assistant; or a female one with a hideous facial deformity, like maybe an extra nose or third eye, definitely with some sort of oozing skin disease, and six or seven hundred extra pounds hanging off a gargantuan manly frame.

I was being stupid. Knowing that, admitting it to myself, didn’t improve my mood any. Neither did the almost stationary traffic. A motorcyclist decided to treat the dotted white line between my car and the van in the next lane as his own private skinny lane and almost clipped my side-view mirror. You jerk! I slammed my palm against the steering wheel and blasted him with the horn.

What did I do?

I wasn’t yelling at you. An idiot on a motorcycle was cutting between the lanes.

If traffic’s that bad, why don’t you go up to the 407?

Because it’s a toll highway.

You know who you married, right? We can afford a toll charge.

It’s the principle of the thing. I refuse to pay for something when I can get it free somewhere else. I heard the beep of another call coming in and looked at the screen on the dash. Auntie Em’s calling. I should take it.

Okay, see you in a bit. Drive safe.

Fly safe.

Auntie Em didn’t bother with pleasantries when I answered her call.

How did they find out that your last name is Smith?

Who’s they? The sinking feeling in my gut told me that I already knew the answer to that question.

A reporter just called me.

What did you say?

Nothing. I hung up. Then I went out and locked the gate at the end of our lane. How did they find out?

I told her far more than I hadn’t told Jack about my meeting with Mr Peel. And he gave me a letter from Stuart.

Have you read it?

No.

Are you going to?

I haven’t decided. The weird thing is he said Stuart sent me other letters before. Do you know anything about that? She waited too long to answer. Seriously? You knew? It was a good thing that traffic was at a standstill. I was gripping the steering wheel so hard that my arms were shaking and my foot was pushing down on the brake pedal so hard that my calf muscles were cramping. If that foot had been on the accelerator when Auntie Em didn’t answer my question, I wouldn’t have cared how high the speedometer went. Why didn’t you—

I didn’t know. Not for certain.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Betsy said something a few months ago when I was in picking up our mail. It was right after Stuart’s appeal started making headlines. I give you my word it was the first time I’d heard anything about—

What did she say? I let my death grip on the steering wheel relax a bit.

She wanted to know if I thought Stuart would start writing to you again.

Did you ask her what she was talking about?

Of course not. You know she’s more town crier than postmistress. I didn’t want her making something out of it and getting everyone’s tongues wagging. I just fluffed it off and got out of there.

If Stuart did write to me before, where did those letters go? You’re the one who picks up the mail.

I didn’t use to.

Uncle Doug. He always stopped by the post office on his way home from the detachment when his shift ended. And, like Jack, he always felt an annoying need to protect me from any kind of hurt. I could easily imagine him thinking he was doing me a favour by keeping the letters from me. Do you think Uncle Doug read them?

Probably.

Would he have thrown them out?

Auntie Em laughed. That man never threw anything out.

So where are they?

I’m afraid that may be a secret he took to his grave. We’ve been through all of his things. Unless—

Unless what?

There were those boxes that he brought home from work.

I thought you were going to call Will about those.

I forgot to.

She said those three words too quickly. And I knew why. "Auntie Em, he can’t get