Skip to content
Join our Newsletter

Murder in the Great Big Playground

A tale of real estate, murder, politics, and really great powder: Chapter 8
1511novel
Illustration, Clean Slate, by Justin Ormiston.

Rory rolled down the passenger window of Patti Peterson’s Cadillac and a blast of ice crystals pelted his face. He needed clarity. All he got was stinging pain.

Patti ripped off one of her feathery turquoise gloves and grabbed his thigh. “I know you’re innocent, Rory.”

He squirmed under the pressure of her French manicure. “Um, good.”

“We have to figure out which little Whistler weasel is out to frame you. Did you know that Minty and Messup — sorry — Chuck, were having an affair?”

Rory coughed. Mumbled an affirmation.

“I know what you think. Minty was just some ole cougar, cattin’ around, getting her meow on. Not Minty St. James. She had a plan. And it was all about money. You got any idea what she and Chuck were up to?”

“Er, a development deal?”

Patti removed her claw from Rory’s thigh and suddenly reefed on the steering wheel, causing the Caddy to fishtail into the driveway of his condo. She e-braked to a sliding stop. “Listen up, Sherlock. You want to beat the rap, you have to get a clue, find out who’s pulled the sucker punch. What kind of a P.I. are you, anyways? Be at my house, tonight at seven, everyone will be there. Do you own a razor?”

Rory nodded. What kind of sick revenge did this woman have in mind?

“Then use it. Last thing this town needs is a bunch of bogus Sasquatch sightings.”

Of course, she was right. Unless Rory got his shiznitz together he’d be making long-time pals with a set of steel bars and a cell-mate nicknamed Big Daddy. Rory showered, shaved and splashed with a dash of Brut. He raced around his entire studio suite (it didn’t take long), bundled six half-quaffed bottles of Grand Royal in his arms and then poured them down the sink. Bye-bye fuzzbrain. “No-Go” McDougall was officially dead. Rory P.I. was alive, alive and kicking.

Rory stood in the vestibule of Patti’s monster-home, while her Aussie manservant removed Rory’s ski jacket and hung it up in a mud-room the size of Rory’s studio suite. The open-plan mansion was stuffed to the gills with Whistler’s ruling elite — councillors, the mayor, municipal staff, SLRD reps, two MLAs, developers and real estate agents — in celebration of the new P3 Sewerage System. In a spectacular feat of boondoggelery, Peterson Putridity Purveyors Ltd. — the new private owner of the municipal water treatment centre — had squashed Whistler Water Watch like a turd under its politically-tied boot.

Rory sidled around the edge of the room, scanning for prime suspects, while keeping the furthest possible distance from Janna St. James, on the opposite side. The blonde teen was swirling her unsanctioned merlot like an after-hours hot tub, as she critically surveyed the who’s who of backroom deals and slippery handshakes. Her eyes caught Rory’s. She mouthed something. It looked like “sorry.” Or was it “gory”? He nodded and quickly glanced away.

Lawrence Rumswitz, Rory’s only client, and wannabe big-shot developer, was bellying up to the sewage-themed buffet bar, fishing a sausage out of a flowing river of gravy. You had to give it to Patti, she sure could throw a party; every inch of the place was decked out in shades of brown.

“Mr. Rumswitz,” said Rory. “Ah, I want to apologize for what happened. I’m sorry MuMu had to go through all that.”

“My sweet MuMu,” he said with a sigh, “it’s not the first time she’s been hauled into the precinct, thrown in the tank. Too many Jager-bombs make her, well, feisty.”

“I meant, uh, having to see Mrs. St. James… in my locker. You know, with the bullet wounds and being dead and everything.”

“Right. Yes. Tragic scene. But don’t worry, our lovely host Patti told me you’re golden.”

“Oh. Okay, good stuff. So, what’s keeping you busy in Whistler these days?”

Rumswitz picked a bit of sausage out of the gap between his front teeth. “Mmm, big developments, got a couple massive projects in the works. We’re desperate for crew. Labourers. Framers. Sub-trades. All cash in hand. Know any?”

“I’ll ask around,” said Rory.

“You do that,” said Rumswitz. “MuMu tells me she still wants snowboard lessons.”

“I’m glad.”

“From an Olympian.” Rumswitz winked.

Rory wanted to tell him to get stuffed with a purple Pemberton potato. He was a P.I. now. No-Go was history.

“Um, sure, okay. Call me,” Rory acquiesced, and slipped off through the crowd. He told himself he needed the money, and besides, technically speaking Rumswitz had hired him as a P.I. to keep an eye on MuMu, not as a snowboard instructor. But what the hell, something stank, and it wasn’t just the theme gravy, growing sluggish from the burning hotplates. Was it possible Rumswitz knew about Chuck’s secret stash, hidden way out the back-forty, up the Hurley River Road? Last fall it had taken Chuck all day to find the location again, and that was with the map. Several weeks prior, while out mushroom hunting, Chuck had stumbled across acres and acres of prime B.C. bud. He’d showed Rory the plot, and they’d split the map. But Rory had his doubts. How would they harvest it? Sell it? What would they do with all the cash? He didn’t know squat about money laundering.

Across the room, Rumswitz speared what looked like a meatball out of the gravy river. And then Rory knew: Rumswitz needed an army of workers for his developments… paid in cash. Chuck and Minty must have looked for a developer to run the money. Then again, maybe it wasn’t Rumswitz… Ralph Peterson was just as likely. The town was crawling with sleazebag developers. You couldn’t piss on your left foot without hitting one. If only he could connect Chuck and Minty to… who?

Rory felt a soft pressure on his shoulder. He turned. Janna St. James’s face had become even more beautiful in her grief. She had stopped poofing her hair into the style of a helmet and given up on the pound of foundation. She was au naturel. Janna stared into Rory’s eyes as she pressed something soft into his hands. It had tiny hairs that tickled his palm. A bit of cloth, perhaps, or a feather.

“Don’t look,” she whispered.

“I won’t,” said Rory.

Writer and filmmaker Rebecca Wood Barrett enjoys genre-crossing, and has written feature and short screenplays, documentaries, commercials, short stories, non-fiction, picture books and a children’s novel. She is a cat-person, but has been known to jump the fence for a few very special dogs.



Comments