The Inheritance: Andy Blake Mystery, #6

By Richard Whitten Barnes

Mysterious graves, a golden pendant, a fourteen-year-old abduction, and a huge intestate inheritance add up to foul play and intrigue for Detective Andrea Blake.

Two shallow and secluded graves are discovered practically in Detective Andy Blake's back yard. She has her hands full finding out who the elderly woman and younger man were, when, and how they died.

Meanwhile, her partner is hiding a secret that may hold the answers but would likely end his career if exposed.

The two cases merge to a climax that will change Andy's life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613094860

Book preview

Prologue

October 12, 2007

It was barely October, and she could sense winter coming in this Northern Ontario city of Sault Ste. Marie. Verna Chance pulled the shawl up over her thin dressing gown and around her frail shoulders in defense of the sudden chill from Lake Superior to the west of town.

She rose from the porch chair and edged a walker back inside her elegant home on River Road. It was getting dark. Time to fix something to eat. It wouldn’t be much. Nothing seemed to appeal to her these days, now three years since Del had passed.

By the time she’d soft-boiled an egg and forced it and some toast down with a cup of tea, the view through the kitchen window down to the river was lost in darkness. Her few dishes done, she parked the walker by Del’s old recliner in the den and eased into it. It was Tuesday; something good on TV, she thought. Jeopardy was on, her favorite.

Verna thought she heard the back door open and close. It must be Edna, she thought. Odd time for her to show up. The next-door neighbor usually let herself in with a key and checked on her in the mornings as she had today. But Edna liked this show, too. They could watch together.

In here, dear! She pushed up the volume on the remote to hear the introductions. One of the contestants was from Canada.

She felt a presence behind her. There was a moment of confusion and lack of vision before she sensed something opaque blocking her view, something heavy wrapped around her head. A steel grip from behind pinned her to the chair. It was hard to breathe!

She struggled at first, clawing upward to feel the neck and head of someone, but the air was warm and wet. Breathe! It became impossible! Her grasp slowly fell away. A heavy pall of helplessness, dizziness, then darkness overwhelmed her. Del! she tried to call, but her lungs failed.

And then she felt nothing.

One Day Earlier

Norman Chance should have been on top of the world. At the age of fifty-two, he’d been working for the past twenty years behind the scenes to advance the vote for the New Democratic Party (NDP). The Algoma-Manitoulin-Kapuskasing district had been Liberal since 1987, and he, one of the unseen political pros that make things happen, had been chipping away at them in the vote for the 39th Assembly of the Provincial Parliament.

The NDP hadn’t won this time but the party bosses in Toronto had begun to listen to him. The NDP had come within five percent of winning today’s election for Member, Provincial Parliament (MPP). It was his leadership that had brought the Party to this point and all felt that victory in the 2011 election would be assured. He was a Party hero...and he was miserable!

Not just miserable. He was scared as well. Norman owed a lot of money. The trouble was that he had borrowed it to pay back gambling debts. He’d always had luck betting on sports but had gotten into a big hole at the beginning of the year. It was a sure-thing bet on the Superbowl.

The Colts had a seven-point edge on the Bears going in and he’d put up $7500 for the Bears to beat the spread. By the end of the first quarter, the Bears were already up 14-6. The Colts looked lethargic, just managing to push the ball over from the one-yard line, then missing the point after. Norman called in another $7500 on the Bears. Another three points were all the Bears would manage for the rest of the game. The Colts went on to win 29-17.

Without admitting to his wife, Gloria, he’d been gambling despite his promises to have quit the habit for over a year, Norman took money from the campaign. After all, it was another nine months until the October election and the ensuing audit of the campaign treasury wouldn’t be until after Christmas. He’d have that time to win it back and more.

But he didn’t. October rolled around and he was into the treasury for $35,000. He didn’t have a tenth of that in available cash. There would be a financial reckoning for the year come January.

Norman’s wife had grown up in the Algoma District on St. Joseph Island before her family moved when she was a teen. She’d always wanted a home on the island. In 2001 she got her wish. Norman was given the Algoma area as a district to develop the NDP. Mortgaged to the hilt, they’d bought an older house that Gloria had always admired on the eastern bluffs overlooking the headwaters to Lake Huron. What money they now had was tied up in that house and all its improvements.

Yes, Norman was desperate.

One

Summer 2021

Andrea Blake pulled her bright yellow Jeep Wrangler onto Highway 547 on a remarkably balmy June morning. Because of the 2020 pandemic, Canada had closed its borders and the usual summer cottagers and tourists would be absent on St. Joseph Island, this place that had been her childhood home and since leaving the Windsor Police ten years earlier. It would seem eerie without the usual summer bustle.

The bright morning was enhanced by last night’s news. Her son, Tim, two years out of law school, had called telling her he was interviewing with the Ministry of the Attorney General for an opening in their Sault Ste. Marie office, of all places.

Andy had raised Tim alone, having divorced his narcissistic father while still at university. It hadn’t been easy having to earn a living, continue with school, and deal with the boy’s father’s meddling in their lives. It was only recently that Andy felt her relationship with Tim was free of Tyler Adkins’ influence.

Andy lived on the southern perimeter of the island and had started taking alternate routes to the bridge at the northern end, giving some variety to her forty-minute drive to work at the Sault Ste. Marie post of the Ontario Provincial Police. Today, she’d take the more scenic and heavily wooded route, turning north on the Base Line Road toward the village of Hilton Beach.

The presence of police is not common in this quiet community, so it was most unusual to see two patrol cars parked at the intersection of Base Line and a rarely used side road.

She thought about stopping, but decided not to poke her nose into something that was within the jurisdiction of the Thessalon OPP.

The route on the Base Line before it rejoined the perimeter highway was soon over. Before long, she was on the bridge to the mainland where, not long ago, the last of the ice had broken up and made its journey downstream to the North Channel of Lake Huron. As she reached Highway 17 heading west toward The Soo, her thought returned to the joy of seeing her son for the first time in twenty-four months.

ANDY ALLOWED HERSELF a smile when she noticed her partner’s desk empty, even though she was a few minutes late as well. She settled in, picking up on a case she’d been working on before a much-appreciated weekend. Twenty minutes passed before she was aware her cell was vibrating, and Arnold Terry’s desk was still empty.

Blake, she answered.

Detective Sergeant Blake? This is the duty nurse at Sault Area Hospital. We have a patient who has asked me to call you.

The male voice was unhurried, even laconic. Terry’s unusual absence told her who that patient must be.

Terry! The name jumped from her lips.

Uh, yeah. He’s in X-ray right now but wanted someone to know. Again, the words slipped lazily out.

Know what, for heaven’s sake?

A pause, then, Well, that he's here, I guess.

In frustration, Andy ended the call, headed for the door, and to the hospital that was little more than walking distance away.

SHE’D WAITED A GOOD forty-five minutes pacing the emergency reception area. Terry was either still in X-ray or they’d carted him off somewhere else. Word finally came and she was directed to an ER room where she found him, his huge frame reclined in a wheelchair, his large domed head supported on a pillow and his leg extended with a cast halfway up his calf.

What on earth...?

Just don’t get started! I was a stupid sonofabitch, and let it go at that!

Okay, tell me. She sighed.

Terry told of taking off with two of his cronies over the weekend to the Gros Cap Conservation Area west of the city to take advantage of a change from the shitty weather we’d been having. The terrain there is not what one might call forgiving, despite its beauty overlooking Whitefish Bay and Lake Superior beyond. Someone’s bright idea of a hike to an outcrop for a better view resulted in Terry landing one of his size twelves on a loose rock and tearing two ligaments in his ankle and foot.

The cast is temporary, he said. I’m getting a permanent one today or tomorrow. Won’t be able to even hobble around on it for a week or so, they say.

All right, Andy said. I won’t say anything. I won’t tell you how a bunch of sixty-somethings shouldn’t be running around rock climbing on your day off.

Yeah, thanks for nothing, Blake. Don’t worry, I can work from home.

She was tempted to counter with, Who’s going to take care of you? You eat all your meals in one of your favorite hang-outs. But she demurred.

They talked a bit longer, but soon comes a time when a visitor to a hospital is both in the way and has nothing more to say. Andy walked back through the hospital parking lot to the OPP office she’d shared with Terry for the past eight years.

ARNOLD TERRY AND ANDY had developed a working relationship over their tenure together. On big, high-profile cases they would work as a team, dividing activities up as their talents and—just as likely—their whims dictated. On more mundane cases: break-ins, white-collar crimes, domestic disturbances, and the like, they would often work alone.

Andy was finishing up going through Terry’s case files when their boss, Nolan Roberts, poked his face around the open door of the office the two detectives shared.

I just heard. He okay?

Andy told him what she knew.

What about his—

Andy cut him short. He says he can work remotely but I know he’ll need help. I’ll do it. I can cope if you give us a body for leg-work.

Like who? Roberts cocked his head with eyes smiling above his Covid mask as if knowing her answer.

Tony, of course. Anthony Cruciani was an OPP constable who had worked other cases with Andy. He was a dependable policeman whom she trusted. Her preference for Cruciani was well-known at the detachment.

He’s a married man, you know, Roberts said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Not you, too! Please! Terry had been teasing her about it, and it was getting old.

Maybe for a few days till Terry’s on his feet. What about your own load?

She’d been dividing her time between a string of thefts from the local Walmart warehouse and testifying at the prosecution of an opioid ring they’d broken up two years earlier. No problem. We’ll have Cruciani!

Roberts laughed, knowing when to quit.

THE SUN WAS STILL HANGING low over the city as Andy drove east on Highway 17 toward home. Another bonus of the onset of summer—a break from winter days of driving to and from work in the dark.

It was dusk as she crossed the bridge and retraced her morning route in reverse. Up ahead flashing blue lights appeared as she topped a rise on Base Line, that same intersection where the two squad cars had sat this morning. They had been joined by a police van. Crime scene tape sealed off access to the dead-end road.

Andy slowed and parked on the shoulder, grabbing her shield from her bag. She exited the Jeep and immediately recognized Sgt. Bert Wheatley from the Thessalon OPP detachment.

He saw her coming. Thought you might show up!

Noticed your guys here this morning. What’s up?

He pointed up the dead-end road. Kids playing in the bush yesterday—found a shallow grave, they said. We had to wait until first light today to check it out.

Andy waited. ...and?

Oh, they were right. Human remains of a female. He seemed amused at the look on Andy’s face. Yeah, pretty exciting for your cozy little island, isn’t it?

What do you know so far?

Wheatley was looking past her. Here comes Ellen. She can fill us both in.

Ellen Bailey’s compact, slightly stocky frame was removing plastic coverings from her hands as she strode toward the police van, then recognized Andy. Thessalon’s crime scene analyst changed course and approached.

Detective Blake!

Andy, she corrected.

Wheatley motioned her closer. What’s the latest, Ellen? Andy hasn’t heard.

Bailey slipped off the plastic cap covering her short hair. They’re removing the body as we speak, but there’s more. She turned attention to Wheatley. Kids found the grave not twenty meters from the road. Another ten meters in, we’ve stumbled on a second grave.

Holy crap! Wheatley stared back in disbelief.

ID on either? Andy asked.

An adult female—in the ground over five years, maybe a lot more. No clothing clues. Small in stature; my guess is an older woman. Again, no personal effects. Buried in her underwear and nightie. We’ll know more when we get them to the Mounties’ lab in the Sault. The other is a male in tee shirt and jeans.

Nothing at all to identify the bodies?

Bailey hunched her shoulders. Nothing obvious. We’ll just have to wait to see the Feds’ report on the remains.

Andy began to feel she was imposing herself on Thessalon’s case.

Well, best of luck. I’m guessing an accurate date for the deaths will be your best bet. She made her goodbyes to the others and returned to her trip home.

It was home in every sense. Andrea Blake had been born and raised in the smallish farmhouse on the Islands perimeter road that backed onto thick bush with a distant view through the trees of Tenby Bay to the south.

After twenty years in the Toronto and Windsor Police services, she’d returned to live in her childhood dwelling. She’d done extensive remodeling, not without a good deal of help from Grant Stacey, whose Lexus sedan was presently parked in her front yard as she turned in from the road.

Grant? she called from her opened window, watched him jump down from the wraparound porch he’d built for her almost ten years earlier. For a man who was well into his fifties, he was lithe and easy in his tall frame.

I called your phone, but it went straight to your messages. I was just dropping off a note. I’m making dinner.

Andy’s life-long on and off relationship with Grant was, once more, on. She was tired after her hectic day of going over Terry’s police files, but didn’t feel like cooking, either.

I left my phone in the car while I...never mind, I’ll tell you later. It’s been quite a day. Go on home. I’ll come in a few.

Andy had her reasons for taking her own car to Grant’s. Dinner would follow drinks which would lead to more drinks, leading to her staying the night. If that were the case, she’d want the overnight bag she kept packed with necessities for such instances. It was a work night, and she didn’t want to double back home to get ready in the morning.

Their relationship had never reached the level of her having as much as a toothbrush at Grant’s. It had been a major thorn in their relationship over the last few years. Grant wanted marriage and, if not, at least cohabitation. She had been adamant. Living alone in her own house gave her the sense of independence she’d acquired since extricating herself from a controlling husband. He was just as adamant, not about to leave the very handsome property he’d inherited from his family, nor the large workshop he had built to house his cars and extensive collection