Murder in the Great Big Playground 

A tale of real estate, murder, politics and really great powder: Chapter 10

click to enlarge Illustration by Meghan Reid.
  • Illustration by Meghan Reid.

Rory slid under the bed, flicking open the stained black book to the last entry. “Jee-sus.”

The pilot had recorded flying two heli-skiing clients, Darren Baker and Minerva St. James, and a 220lb “food-drop” package up to Joffre, dropping them off to “cache the supplies” with orders to return in two hours for a client pick-up at a lower elevation.

Rory wormed his head and shoulders deeper under the bed frame, to wrestle forth the pile of potatoes, and see what other dark treasures were stashed under the house-cleaner’s temporary nest.

The angry strains of Beethoven’s 9 th suddenly reverberated through the house, followed by an aggressive rapping at the door. Rory recoiled, smashing his head on the underside of the bedframe.

Janna jumped to her feet and shimmied into her clothes like a girl practiced to changing in co-ed locker rooms. She raced for the front door, leaving Rory mumbling something unintelligible behind her.

Ellie Veraceli unholstered her RCMP-issued sidearm. “One more time,” she nodded to her companion.

Carly Hughes rapped hard for the third time on Minty St. James’ front door, just as Janna swung it open, her prepared peaches-and-sweetness smile sliding from her face as she caught the glint of Ellie’s gun. “What the …??”

Behind her, Rory was holding the Pilot Log out like an offering, “Janna, it was your grandmother.”

Carly and Ellie moved into the foyer, closing the door firmly behind them.

“I’ll take that,” said Ellie, eyeing the black book. “And whatever else you found under the bed.”

Rory stepped back, putting the book behind his back. “Aren’t you supposed to be over video-taping the tree-cutting party at Lot 1/9 so you can log all the local insurgents and hippies into your Olympic watchlist files?”

Ellie’s eyes once-overed Rory’s state of undress. Scowled, “And aren’t you supposed to be doing anything apart from having sex with minors?”

“I’m 19,” pouted Janna, pushing her not insubstantial chest forward.

“Yeah, well, you always had a thing for age-inappropriate female athletes,” Ellie spat at her old flame.

Carly, sensing an enhanced level of stress in the air exacerbated by Ellie’s still unholstered gun and the funk of Rory’s three-day stale sweat, stepped between the two women. “Folks, let’s stay focused. Janna, we’re sorry to uhh, invade your privacy, but when we heard movement in the house, we thought maybe the suspects had beaten us to the evidence.”

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