Gumboots, Gumshoes And Murder

“The Gumboot & Gumshoe Series”

By

Laura Hesse

Running L Productions Parksville, BC

Other books by Laura Hesse

The Holiday Series of Young Adult Novels:

One Frosty Christmas

The Great Pumpkin Ride

A Filly Called Easter

Adult Fiction:

Two Independents

The Thin Line of Reason

Gumboots, Gumshoes & Murder COPYRIGHT© 2011 Laura Hesse

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior written permission of the publisher.

The author and the publisher make no representation, express or implied, with regard to the accuracy of

the information contained in this book. The material is provided for entertainment purposes and the

references are intended to be supportive to the intent of the story. The author and the publisher are not

responsible for any action taken based on the information provided in this book.

All characters in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any

resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Hesse, Laura - 1959

Gumboots, Gumshoes & Murder/by Laura Hesse

ISBN 13 digit: 978- 0-9734013-5-6

ISBN 10 digit: 0-9732013-5-6

CIP:

Printed in Canada

Publisher: Running L Productions

Parksville, BC Canada

www: www.runningLproductions.com

Life is a journey…made complete by family and friends!

Introduction & Acknowledgments

The novel, Gumboots, Gumshoes and Murder, was based on the original screenplay, Gumboots,

which I wrote in 2009. After local Vancouver Island media released details of the optioning of

the movie rights, I was inundated with requests for the novel. With the return of the publishing

rights in 2011, I decided to complete the novel and release it under my own banner, Running L

Productions.

Gumboots, Gumshoes and Murder is the first book in The Gumboot and Gumshoe Series. The unlikely

trio of Sgt. Betty Bruce, Gertrude, and Peaches were just too delicious to ignore and will appear

in the sequels: The Dastardly Mr. Deeds and Murder Most Fowl.

A heartfelt thank-you goes out to all my friends and family who provided constructive criticism

and endless inspiration along the way. You know who you are. Cheers!

Now for the star! A very big round of applause please for Miss Penelope, who appears as

Gertrude on the front cover, and her mum, Bayley Rudd, for agreeing to allow her wonderful

pot-bellied pig to be photographed. Penelope and Bayley, you rock!

My thanks,

Laura Hesse

Gumboots, Gumshoes and Murder

A Pig Named Gertrude

The twenty-foot Bayliner, Just In Time, recklessly careened towards the small passenger

ferry heading towards the docks at Herald Bay on Seal Island. With a few choice words, the

ferry’s captain flipped a switch: two ear-splitting blasts shattered the morning air. The Just In

Time swerved to starboard, narrowly missing the ferry’s bow and sending a cascade of salt

spray over Morris Tweedsmuir and his new six-pack of Alpine Goats.

One goat decided to abandon ship and head-butted the golden lab sitting quietly beside it.

The result was an irate dog owner and Tweedsmuir’s impromptu rendition of River Dance as he

simultaneously tried to manage the five other goats, apologize to the dog owner, and keep the

unruly goat from vaulting over the guardrail into the foaming sea.

It was just another crossing of the Strait of Georgia for the ferry’s captain, the constant trill

of gulls hovering above the gunwales overshadowing the noise from the big diesel engines and

the commotion happening on deck.

Atop a cliff overlooking Herald Bay and the ferry’s eventful passing, a quaint cedar cottage

with wind chimes tinkling in the rafters provided a peaceful oasis for the middle-aged woman

sitting in a rocking chair on the porch snoring lightly beneath a handmade red and blue quilt. A

pot of tea and two china teacups rested on a hand-hewn log table beside her. One cup was

empty, the other filled with cold tea. A sky blue urn was pushed to the back of the table. The

woman suddenly stopped snoring and smiled deliciously, her eye-lids fluttering.

Several strides off in the garden, the woman's pot-bellied pig lifted a mud-covered snout, a

blackened potato in its mouth. The pig grunted, chomping down on the rotten spud as if it were

a delicious piece of cheesecake.

The woman, Betty Bruce, pulled the quilt up to her chin and then began snoring once more.

The pig routed around in the garden, but found nothing more of interest. She wandered up

onto the porch, belly sagging, cloven hooves clickity-clacking over the worn cedar planks. The

sun streaking through the leaves of the nearby Arbutus tree formed crescents of light across the

woman’s brow. The pig chased the flickering light with her lips.

‚Gertrude! That’s enough. Go away and let me sleep!‛

Gertrude grunted and backed up, switching her attention to the back porch door. There was

no movement within the kitchen on the other side of the door.

A soft keening in the distance caused the pig to look up, the sound becoming low and

guttural as its intensity increased. The pig swung its bulk off the porch and dashed across the

garden in answer to the call, flesh jiggling like a water balloon in a child’s hand.

Gertrude barreled down the lane. She tried to slide to a stop, but the sheer force of her girth

slammed her up against the metal gate at the end of the driveway. The metal groaned in

protest. Peaches, the neighbour’s cream-colored Jersey cow, stopped bellowing and stuck her

runny nose between the bottom two rungs of the metal rails. Pig and cow greeted each other,

snout to snout.

Gertrude snuffled the chain that held the gate closed. The chain rattled. It partially slipped

off the curly loop fastener as she continued to worry it with her teeth. The chain finally broke

free and the gate swung open.

With almost human intelligence, the pig glanced back up the lane towards the cottage. The

bristles on her snout stood to attention. No one dashed down the road after her. Not Betty. Not

Archie, Betty’s father. She was free…and the pub was calling.

Gertrude dipped her head, spun around, and then trotted off towards town, Peaches close

on her heels.

At the docks in Herald Bay, seiners, gill netters and the odd small fishing boat bobbed on

their mooring lines as the ferry slowly pulled out. Block and tackle swayed to and fro. Six and

eight-foot high stacks of crab and prawn traps tip-tapped against each other on the deck of a

crab boat as the ferry passed.

On Seal Island, time was effervescent, a gauzy fabric that sometimes floated atop ocean

waves, fluttered on the breeze, or laid static in an endless ticking away of minutes. Everything

was brought in by ferry or barge. There was few services, no transportation other than the odd

old car or truck, and life was as backward or as forward as each resident wanted it to be. In the

summer, artist and market tents dotted the grassy parkland from the entrance of North Shore

Road to the base of the marina.

There were about two hundred permanent residents on the island, the population swelling

to over one thousand in the summer. The island was considered a little big island by some and a

big little island by others. It measured two miles wide and twelve miles long with numerous

small bays and inlets. There were two mountains, The Watchtower, a favorite of lovers and

hikers alike, located in the central part of the island close to Herald Bay, and Mount Beckett

with its jagged rock face and stunning angular pinnacle overlooking the eastern passage

between Seal Island and the mainland.

The Bristling Boar Pub was the only eatery on the island; it overlooked the docks and

marina. A small grocery and hardware store were attached to it, a wooden boardwalk

connecting the three buildings. Above the pub, nestled amidst the Arbutus trees, was a small

weathered church and graveyard.

Gertrude and Peaches exited North Shore Road, making a bee-line for the pub, but were

intercepted by Morris Tweedsmuir leading his goats. The goats took one look at the pig and

cow and bolted in every direction, bleating frantically, yanking Morris off his feet. The goats

spun Morris in circles on the ground as they continued to leap past each other, valiantly trying

to run for the hills.

‚Gertrude, I’m calling your mother on you,‛ Morris shouted, arm and shoulder muscles

bulging.

‚Damn it!‛ Morris screamed, finally letting go of the lines, his arms no longer able to take

the grueling punishment. The goats took off at a run, lead lines whipping out behind them like

possessed garden hoses.

Ignorant of the commotion that she and Peaches had caused, Gertrude climbed up the front

steps of the Bristling Boar and looked into the window just as Reggie Phoenix emerged from the

pub. Reggie’s beard, eyes, curly shoulder length hair, and John Deere baseball cap, were all the

same weathered ball-bearing grey. His nose and ears were permanently sunburned. Deep lines

stretched into infinity across his forehead, but despite his advancing years, his back was still

straight and shoulders broad.

‚Morning, Gert. Hello there, Peaches. Out for yer afternoon constitutional, are ya? Well, pop

by the boat for a beer when you've half a mind, why don't ya?‛

Reggie stopped short, noticing the straddle-legged Morris still sitting dazed in the dirt.

‚What ch’a doing sitting in the middle of the road, Morris?‛

‚Lost my goats thanks to that damned pig and cow.‛

‚I didn’t knowed that Morris had goats,‛ Reggie whispered to Gertrude.

‚What’s that you say, Reg?‛

‚I said to Gertie that I didn’t know you had goats, Morris.‛

‚That’s cause I don’t anymore,‛ Morris finished, pushing himself to his feet. He glared at

Gertrude and then wordlessly stalked off.

‚Strange fella, that Morris,‛ Reggie muttered.

Reggie gave the pig a good-natured pat before heading off towards the docks in a rolling

salty-dog gait, his gumboots flapping and cable knit sweater askew. He took a couple of

slantwise steps sideways as if caught in a non-existent wind before righting himself and

carrying on to his boat to sleep off the one too many pints.

Gertrude returned to her reflection in the pub's window, the dark inquisitive eyes, the rolls

of flesh drooping just beneath them, the porcupine type hairs poking sideways from her wide

snout, fat belly grazing the ground. She grunted in disappointment. No grilled cheese

sandwiches seemed to be emerging from the pub. Perhaps her friend, Eliza, had something for

her.

With Peaches steadfastly following at her heels, Gertrude waddled back up North Shore

Road, startling a herd of wild sheep that had come down from the hills in search of greener

pastures. The head ram made threatening noises, snorting and pawing the ground. Peaches

eyed it stupidly. Gertrude ignored it. The ewes bawled in fear.

The ram leapt forward, curved horns down, and charged Peaches.

Gertrude charged the ram, knocking it to the ground with her sawed off tusks within a few

inches of Peaches’ fragile rib cage. She angrily rolled it over and over in the dirt until she was

satisfied she had made her point. The ram scrambled to its feet. Gertrude stood her ground. The

ram backed off and then, still dazed, dashed back into the brush, its harem of ewes in hot

pursuit.

Gertrude nuzzled Peaches. The cow mooed tenderly and flicked the flies from its rump with

a dirt encrusted tail. Gertrude grunted with pleasure and broke into a jog. Fun was fun, but tea

and biscuits with Eliza was too appealing to ignore.

The odd pair veered left at the hand carved ‚Bone’s Bailiwick‛ sign, trotting up the tree-

lined driveway to Eliza Bone's sprawling gardens and rough-hewn log home.

Row on row of colorful daffodils and tulips surrounded the house. A cherub fountain

gurgled in the middle of the yard. Bees hummed amidst the brilliant white and pink blooms of

flower-laden apple and pear trees. The black earth of the vegetable garden was tilled, although

not yet planted in spots. Chicken wire protected the main garden from deer, the wild sheep

that roamed the island freely, and Eliza’s four-legged friends such as Gertrude and Peaches.

Solar panels adorned the roof of the post and beam log home, the sun beating down on the

wide dark panels powering both the fountain and the appliances in the house. Swallows

flittered to and fro in one corner of the high beams, carefully re-building last year’s nest.

As Peaches examined the flowers, Gertrude examined the house. The front door was open,

the outer screen door pinned back. She squealed a greeting. No answer. Gertrude climbed onto

the porch and then poked her nose through the front doorway. Behind her, Peaches munched

happily on the tulips.

Gertrude stepped hesitantly over the threshold, uncontested. She stopped just inside the

entry. Whiskers quivered. She waited expectantly, but no Eliza. She peeked into the house.

Inside the house, fresh flowers graced the kitchen table. A mixing bowl, hand mixer, spoons

and muffin tin was stacked neatly in the drying rack beside the sink. Gertrude wandered into

the kitchen and snuffled the counter, ruffling the pans. There was nothing of interest.

On a desk in the living room, a computer screen flickered with images of exotic flowers. The

colorful revolving display fascinated the pig and she just had to check them out. She nosed the

computer, enthralled by the changing patterns and pictures. She stared at them for several

minutes before moving on.

Framed photographs of Eliza and her husband, Wally, graced the mantle above the

fireplace: the white haired couple sitting straddle-legged atop an elephant in the Indonesian

jungle, posing on camels like Lawrence of Arabia in desert garb in front of an Egyptian

Pyramid, and holding their hands up in triumph as they prepared to dive off a bungi platform

in New Zealand. Gertrude nosed them all, before returning to the desk.

What was a pig to do? Like all of her kind, Gertrude was inquisitive about the world and for

the first time, there was no Eliza or Wally around to tell her what not to touch.

Gertrude snuffled the papers on the desk. Sheaves of papers slid to the floor. One paper

stood out. It was a poem: the title, all in capitals, "THESE BONES BY ELIZA BONE". Gertrude

pushed it to the floor and stared at the bold handwriting before losing interest and walking over

the page, a muddy cloven print marring the winter white copy paper. Beside the pig’s cloven

print was another print -- a thick black gumboot imprint.

A giant bookcase filled the wall adjacent to the desk. Gertrude knocked several books down:

The Dastardly Mr. Deeds, Murder Most Fowl, and Gumboots and Murder, all written by the same

author, Tiffany Hyde-White. The books were of no interest to her. She remembered she had

tried eating one once and it wasn’t very good.

Gertrude paused.

She was hungry. She wanted tea and cookies. Where was her friend, Eliza?

Gertrude heard an odd noise, like the slurping sound of someone sipping the last drop of

liquid through a straw. She looked around, tracing the origin of the sound.

Across from her was a fish tank. It gurgled and slurped. Gertrude walked towards it.

Oxygen bubbles floated upwards. Oscar fish darted back and forth amidst the wavering

fronds of seaweed. The fish nibbled on a long thin grey strand of hair. More grey hair was being

sucked up into the filter’s intake. As it did, the filter made the slurping sound. The noise made

the pig move closer as her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be.

Gertrude looked into the tank, and then squealed like a banshee.

A face appeared before her beady eyes, white and bloated, its eyes glazed in death. The face

belonged to her friend, petite seventy-five year old, Eliza Bone, merry widow and author of

very bad poetry who hung upside down in the fish tank, flowered panties and varicose veined

legs visible for the world to see.

Morning sun cascaded over Betty. She smiled and opened one eye.

‚Gert? Gertie? Sorry I yelled at you, sweetie.‛

She looked around. No pig.

‚Gertrude? Gertie!‛ Betty called, but still no answering squeal.

Inside the cottage, the phone rang.

‚Dad,‛ Betty called, stretching luxuriously. ‚Can you get that?‛

Not receiving an answer, Betty groaned, tossed aside the quilt, and stood up. She let the

screen door slam shut behind her, unconcerned, as she entered the kitchen.

Three pair of black gumboots rested on a mat beside the kitchen door, yellow rain slickers

hanging on pegs above them. Beside those hung winter jackets, a couple of faded red and black

lumberjack shirts, and a dark waterproof bomber jacket emblazoned with RCMP insignia on the

chest and sleeves. A half-eaten blueberry muffin rested on the kitchen counter.

The phone continued its shrill ring as Betty dashed for the receiver.

‚Hold your horses, I'm coming.‛

Betty picked up the receiver.

‚Hello. Oh, hi, Andy,‛ Betty blushed, catching sight of herself in the kitchen window: faded

shoulder-length blond hair streaked lightly with silver, rosy cheeks, and stenciled laugh-lines

around her eyes. She reddened even further.

‚What? No, Gertrude's not home either.‛ Betty scowled. ‚I see. Well, I expect they're either

down at the restaurant begging for hand-outs or off to Eliza's again. You know how she is, loves

the company. I'll go and fetch them.‛

Betty chuckled as she hung up the phone.

Wearing a navy blue sweater, freshly pressed slacks, and a cat-who-ate-the-cream grin, her

father, spry and agile despite his seventy-six years, gambled into the kitchen flicking a wet bath

towel at his daughter’s bottom.

‚Who was that?‛

‚Andy. Peaches is gone,‛ Betty replied, skipping out of the towel’s reach.

‚Ah, off with Gert again, is she?‛

Betty snagged the towel, tearing it from her father’s grip and snapping it back at him. He

jumped backwards, out of reach. Betty laughed and draped the towel over a kitchen chair.

‚Oooh, you smell good.‛

‚Off to the pub for a pint with the mates.‛

‚Since when did you shower for your mates?‛

‚Never mind, angel puss.‛

‚You didn't answer my question.‛

‚Did you bring your mother in? No, I don't suppose you did. You should treat her better,‛

he chastised his daughter, swinging open the kitchen door and then marching out onto the

porch. He returned with the urn cradled under one arm.

‚It's all right sweetie I won't leave you out there by yourself,‛ he said, caressing the urn like

a lover. He lifted the urn to one ear, tilting his head sideways as if listening. ‚What's that? By

the fire you say? The fire's not lit, how about a sunny spot by the window? That does sound

good, doesn’t it? Okie-dokie.‛

Archie deposited the urn in front of the kitchen window and looked guiltily over his

shoulder at the half-eaten muffin resting on the counter.

‚Ring me up if you see Gertie and Peaches down at the pub, will you,‛ Betty asked, slipping

her feet into her gumboots.

‚Are you heading over to Lizie's?‛

‚Hmmm, if our dastardly duo isn't mooching a beer or grilled cheese off of Reggie or Stew,

they'll be at Lizie's for tea.‛

‚Didn't know anyone could write such bad poetry,‛ Archie replied, slipping on his own

gumboots.

‚And how would you know?‛

‚Let me clear that up for you:

'These Bones, by Eliza Bone'

Boil them up;

Cow, fowl or duck.

Dogs like em;

Men have em.

Suck the marrow;

Until tomorrow.

Holds us up;

Hmm, what luck!”

Archie moaned. ‚Ruddy awful, I say.‛

‚Sounds rather X-rated to me,‛ Betty giggled, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

‚Wait a minute. How come you know all the words?‛

Her father ducked out the door with a boyish grin.

Archie and Betty wandered amiably down the garden path.

‚You sweet on our Eliza, pop?‛

‚Don’t meddle.‛

‚What harm could it do,‛ Betty asked with a chuckle.

‚Your mother wouldn't like it,‛ he grumbled.

‚I don’t think she’d mind, she liked Lizie, besides, I'd never set you up.‛

‚Good. I don't need any help in that department,‛ he replied as they reached the open gate.

Archie held up the chain, his gaze darkening. He shook his head in exasperation and dropped

the chain. ‚That pig is a royal Houdini.‛

Betty shrugged, knowing that he wasn’t that mad at Gertrude. Mother never had taken to

the gentle pig, Betty remembered. Betty had fallen for Gertrude the moment she had laid eyes

on the grey and white bundle of infinite curiosity. Right from the start, the pig was interested in

everything the world had to offer from bubblegum to bumblebees, chocolate to canoes, football

to hockey. Her greatest love was reserved for what people had in their pockets, edible or not.

Archie tugged the gate closed behind them.

‚You really do have a date at the pub, don’t you,‛ Betty asked, breaking out of her reverie.

‚Like I said, never you mind, angel puss, never you mind.‛

‚You’re going to wind up with a reputation if you aren’t careful.‛

‚Too late, I already have one.‛ Archie chuckled. ‚Sometimes I wish this island was bigger.‛

‚Ooooh, I am telling mum.‛

‚You do that. ‘Bout time I had an affair. She accused me of enough of them,‛ Archie

blushed.

Betty smothered a retort. Her mother’s jealousy was undeniable. From three years-old

onwards, Betty had jumped into the fray in defense of her father. A smile at a waitress or a joke

to a neighbor was all it took to send her mother off into a tirade of wildly failing arms and vocal

stretches the envy of an operatic singer.

Betty and her father walked down the winding road towards town, the wind ruffling the

long line of poplars whose leaves were just beginning to unfurl after a long, wet winter. A cloud

of greenish yellow pollen blew across the island from the giant cedar and fir trees that forested

the hillside east of them.

Betty plucked a strand of hair from her face as the wind picked up. Clouds scuttled in,

blocking the warmth of the sun. She shivered involuntarily, the feeling that someone had just

walked over her grave, as her grandmother used to say, getting stronger by the minute.

‚I always wondered how much of mother’s antics was just dramatics?‛

‚Is that what you called them?‛

‚You loved her, no matter how vocal she got, didn’t you?‛ Betty asked, catching herself.

Sometimes, she sounded like her mother.

Archie sighed wearily and affectionately wrapped an arm around his daughter’s shoulder.

On a whim, Archie brushed his lips across his daughter’s cheek.

‚That I did, angel, that I did.‛

The pair stopped at the entrance to Eliza’s lane.

‚Off you go. Tell Lizie that I’ll see her later.‛

‚I will.‛

Archie waved good-bye over his shoulder as he sauntered off leaving Betty to stand alone,

the wind blowing off the Strait causing a bitter chill to sweep over her.

She gazed up at the Bone’s Bailiwick sign and then continued up Eliza’s drive, eyes

downcast. Heaviness wrapped around her like a shroud. Eliza’s husband, Wally, and Betty’s

mother had passed away within days of each other.

Was it any wonder that Lizie and her father wanted to share time together? Was it jealously on behalf

of her mother that was really bothering her or just years of conditioning?

Betty didn’t know the answers.

Betty’s gumboots clumped on the flag-stoned path leading up to the house. There wasn’t a

red, purple or yellow petal left in the garden. ‚Oye, Peaches. Look what you've done to Eliza's

flowers? Fire-up the barbie, she will.‛

The cow bawled mournfully.

‚Where's Gert, Peaches,‛ she queried, giving the cow a rub between the eyes. The cow

merely looked at her dreamily.

‚Gertrude!‛ Betty hollered at the top of her lungs. This wasn’t good. Eliza was going to be

furious when she saw the damage to her garden.

From the open doorway into the house, Gertrude squealed in dismay.

‚What are you doing up there? Don't tell me Eliza invited you in for tea again? I'll have to

have a chat with her about that, won't I?‛

The pig waited patiently as Betty thumped up the stairs. She ruffled Gertrude's coarse hair.

‚What’s up, Gertie. What’s going on,‛ she asked Gertrude as the pig continued to grunt, squeal,

grunt, squeal, as if she was trying to talk.

‚Lizie, I've come for Gert and Peaches. Peaches has made an awful mess out here,‛ Betty

yelled, peeking into the kitchen. No answer. She noticed the muddy cloven-hoofed and

gumboot prints tracking across the doorstep and into the house.

‚Hello, what's this?‛

She shooed the pig behind her, and then instinctively reached for her holster. Her hands

came away empty. Her Smith and Wesson, standard RCMP issue, was locked in the safe at

home.

‚Eliza!‛

There was still no answering yell.

Betty advanced guardedly into the house, Gertrude at her heels. The pig squealed and

nuzzled her leg. The hairs on Betty’s neck stood as straight as the bristles on her pig’s snout.

Betty inched her way along. She noticed the papers and books laying scattered about the

floor and the muddy prints tracking through the house. She carefully picked her way around

the litter and walked cautiously into the living room. She stopped by the fireplace and picked

up a stick of firewood, brandishing it like a bat. Her instincts were screaming at her that

something was wrong.

She heard a loud gurgle. It was like the sound made when the dental hygienist suctioned

the spit from her mouth at the dentist’s office. She searched out the cause of the noise, her gaze

sweeping the room. It came to rest upon the Oscar tank.

‚Oh, Lizie,‛ Betty groaned, her eyes riveted on Eliza’s sightless body floating upside down

in the fish tank.

Betty scooted the pig out of the house and closed the front door behind it. She rested the

piece of firewood against the door. ‚Bloody, ruddy, Hell,‛ she muttered, fighting back tears.

She picked up Eliza’s phone and dialed the local RCMP office on the main island.

‚Dispatch, please.‛

Betty wiped her eyes on a sleeve and sniffled helplessly. She had to get control of herself.

There would be time to grieve later, but not right now.

‚Hi, Pete, glad it's you. Listen, we've a situation over here…. What? No Gertie's fine….

Peaches? No. Not their fault this time.‛ Betty faltered. Her voice broke. ‚I think we might have a

murder on our hands. I'll meet you at the docks. Let me know what ferry you’ll be on.‛ Betty

slid to the floor, her face ashen. ‚It's El…Eliza,‛ she stumbled. ‚Yes, I’ll secure the scene.‛

Betty listened to the sounds of the house as she stood back up and hung up the phone: the

antique grandfather clock in the living room chimed twelve times and the fish tank’s filter still

gurgled maddeningly. Other than that, the only sound was the wind whistling through the

rafters.

‚God, I wish I had my gun,‛ she whispered to the still air, securing the bolt on the door.

Betty stood in uniform, one hand resting on the top of her gun holster, her RCMP cap

providing some cover for her red-rimmed eyes, as a Coroner’s assistant wheeled a gurney

through the front door. She wasn’t on compassionate leave anymore, not with the discovery of

Eliza’s body.

A CSI snapped pictures of the scene while another dusted the tank for fingerprints. Betty

absently noticed that Eliza’s slippers were still on her feet. She also noticed the tipped over stool

and the empty bag of fish food on the floor beside the tank.

Betty switched her attention to the muddy gumboot prints a third CSI was measuring and

snapping photos of: there was a distinct slit on the underside of the right boot sole. It was sharp

and straight, no jagged edges. An axe would do that, Betty mused, maybe a machete.

‚Email me a copy of that boot print, will you?‛ she asked the CSI.

‚Sure. Friend of yours, Sgt. Bruce?‛ the CSI asked.

‚Yes,‛ Betty replied, her voice a faint whisper. She turned away, unable to look at the body

any longer.

‚Hey, Betty, how're you holding up?‛ asked Corporal Peter Singh as he strode across the

room, Doc Forester at his side. Singh gave her a big bear hug.

‚I'm managing, nothing else for it,‛ she said, breaking away.

‚We'll do our best to treat her with respect,‛ Doc Forester offered gently, glancing over at

the body.

The two men walked over to the fish tank.

‚Help me get her out of there, Pete,‛ motioned the doctor.

The pair lifted Eliza's body from the fish tank and gently placed it on a sheet of plastic a CSI

laid on the floor beneath the body. Eliza's slippers fell off. Forester tugged her skirt back down

before examining the body.

‚Betty, other than Gertie's damage, is there anything else in here that seems amiss to you?‛

Betty looked around the room.

‚No. Gertie tossed the bookcase and the office, but that's it other than the hoof prints

everywhere. The gumboot tracks puzzle me. They're men's, size 8 to be exact, with a slash on

the right underside of one boot. They're too big for Eliza and she only wears ladies boots. Those

are hers by the door.‛

‚The flowered ones?‛ asked Pete, walking over to examine the florescent pink gumboots.

They were tiny, almost childlike. He grinned. ‚My three year-old would love these.‛ Singh

blushed, remembering that this was Betty’s friend he was talking about.

‚Lizie liked to make a statement. Black was never her color.‛

Forester cleared his throat.

‚The over-turned stool and bag of fish feed certainly tell a story.‛

‚The stool toppled over on her sending her face first into the tank, I'll bet. She's just a wee

bit of a thing so maybe she couldn't get out,‛ Singh offered.

‚Doesn't explain the boot prints though,‛ returned Forester.

‚If someone found her earlier, they'd have called me. I'm sure of that. Lizie was a neat freak.

She'd never have let someone in with muddy boots. She even has Gert trained to pick up her

feet so she can clean them before she comes in for tea,‛ countered Betty.

‚She let your pig in for tea?‛ Singh asked, incredulous.

Betty smiled sadly.

‚You’re still thinking murder, aren’t you, Bet?‛ Forester asked with a sympathetic glance

towards Betty.

‚Dunno. There's never been a murder on the island.‛

‚None you know of. What about that fellow who runs the still?‛

Betty looked puzzled for a moment, the weight of the world seeming to weigh down her

thoughts and movements.

‚Barney? No, he's a booze hound, not a killer, and a rich booze hound to boot. He's got an

army of lawyers on stand-by. I wouldn't be barking up that tree.‛

‚What about the pot farmer that I heard about?‛ asked Singh.

‚Reggie wouldn't hurt a fly,‛ Betty replied, ‚besides he's given it up for awhile.‛

Doc Forester raised an eyebrow.

‚Could be your Eliza had a gentleman visitor?‛

‚Suppose so. It's 'off' that's all I'm saying. ‚

‚Crime of passion, maybe, although you'd think the murderer would clean up after himself,

unless he was interrupted and had to leave fast. You sure there was no one else here when you

came? Didn't hear anyone running away?‛ Pete asked Betty.

‚Don't be daft, Pete. I checked right after I called you. Besides, Gertie would've let me know

if someone was still here.‛

‚Only a mad man would dare take on that pig of yours,‛ added Doc Forester.

‚Now you're being daft, Doc, Gertrude wouldn’t hurt a fly either.‛

‚Maybe whoever was here just didn't want you to know about it,‛ Pete Singh said,

wandering back towards the door. ‚Any prints outside?‛

‚Lots, all Peaches. She trashed the garden and walkway.‛

Forester bent down and examined Eliza’s body more closely, looking for bruises or other

marks. The flesh was white and pulpy like orange peel. He lifted a strand of white hair from her

forehead to reveal a thin puckered slash. He then measured her body temperature, after that,

the aquarium’s water temperature.

As he put the thermometer into the aquarium, he noticed a bit of blood on the edge of the

glass along with a couple strands of white hair. He motioned his CSI over. The CSI snapped a

picture and then bagged the hair. Forester sighed and straightened up.

‚I'm estimating time of death between 10:30 and 11:30 this morning given the body

temperature and that of the water in the aquarium. There doesn't appear to be any signs of

struggle, nothing on her hands or wrists. No restraint marks. Take a look at this bruise here on

her forehead. It's thin and narrow, matches the side of the tank.‛

‚Yeah, it matches, alright,‛ Singh replied, examining the blood on the lip of the tank. He

stared in at the fish. ‚You need the fish, Doc?‛

‚No. I don't think we need to go that far. It seems pretty cut and dry. I won't commit

completely until after the autopsy, but I'm fairly certain that we'll be ruling this accidental, even

with the gumboot tracks. There is just nothing here to indicate foul play,‛ said Forester,

signaling his assistant to move the body into the body bag.

‚Doesn't seem right, drowning in a fish tank,‛ Betty concluded, a commotion erupting

behind her. Betty turned to see her father struggling to get past the officer blocking the

doorway. She strode quickly across the room towards him.

Archie’s face was pale. He watched in shock as the Coroner’s assistant closed up the zipper

on the body bag.

‚What's going on? Is that Eliza they're zipping up?‛

‚I'm sorry, Dad,‛ Betty said, gently taking his hands in hers and leading him away. The

hands cradled between hers trembled.

‚It can't be. We talked this morning.‛

‚Shhh,‛ cautioned Betty, continuing down the stairs and into the garden. ‚What time did

you talk?‛

‚After breakfast, 8:30 or so,‛ answered Archie, without thinking.

‚Are you sure you didn't drop by later this morning? It's alright if you did, I just need to

know.‛

‚We talked on the phone. That's how I knew about that damn poem. Lizie had just finished

writing it and couldn’t wait to read it to me,‛ Archie replied hesitantly.

‚Are you sure?‛

‚Of course I'm sure! What is this? What happened to Lizie, Betty?‛

‚She drowned. Freak accident.‛

‚Drowned? Impossible, Lizie was planning on swimming the channel. She swam almost

every day, even bought herself a wetsuit so she could practice in the cove all winter. Drowning

isn't an option, it's just not.‛

‚What channel? You mean the Strait, don’t you?‛

‚Don't be a twit! The English Channel. Wanted to swim it since she was a girl, but wound

up marrying Wally and moving to Canada. She never had time. There's never enough ruddy

time!‛

‚I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't know.‛

‚She didn’t want people to laugh so she kept it a secret. Agent 007 stuff, she said.‛

‚But she didn't keep it from you?‛ Betty winced, hearing the interrogating tone in her voice.

‚Am I a suspect then? Thought you said it was accidental?‛

‚Sorry, pop. I just can't believe it either.‛

Archie glowered at his daughter. The look pierced Betty’s heart.

‚Lizie was my friend too, Dad,‛ Betty gently reminded him.

‚Betty! I need you in the house, please. We'll get these reports finished and look after your

friend,‛ Constable Singh called from the porch.

‚Go do the job that isn't yours to do anymore,‛ Archie seethed, tears falling. ‚You do right

by Eliza. She was special. It's a great loss...a really great loss.‛

‚I will.‛

Archie stalked off.

Betty wandered back to the house, but not without a concerned backward glance at her

retreating father. Unable to help herself, she looked down at his boot tracks: no slit on the sole.

She let out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding and climbed up the last step onto the

porch.

‚What’s happening here?‛Andy McDowell yelled as he entered the garden. ‚Where’s

Eliza?‛

The boyishly handsome author of a multitude of bodice-ripping Harlequin Romances,

reluctant member of the Seal Island Vagabond Writers Association, and wearer of gumboots,

stopped Betty in mid-stride as she was about to disappear through the doorway.

Archie grabbed Andy’s arm, swinging him unceremoniously to a stop as Andy almost ran

up the front steps. Gertrude and Peaches stopped rifling through the early spring spinach and

looked up.

‚Andy, can you help Dad take Gertie and Peaches home?‛

‚Answer my question first, please? What are all these police vans doing here?‛

‚Eliza’s gone, Andy,‛ Archie answered.

‚Gone?‛

‚Dead,‛ responded Betty, the world suddenly spinning. She quickly grabbed hold of a

porch railing as a wave of dizziness rolled over her. Even for a twenty-three year veteran of the

RCMP like herself, it was different when it was a friend lying dead behind you. ‚She drowned.‛

‚Eliza? Drowned? But she was going to swim the English Channel?‛ Andy looked from

Betty to Archie as if it were all just a bad joke.

Archie was shocked! He thought he was the only one who knew of Eliza's dream.

Betty closed her eyes and inhaled a series of deep breaths.

‚Betty,‛ Singh called once again from inside the house.

‚Coming,‛ Betty yelled over her shoulder.

‚Will you two be alright?‛ she asked the men in the garden, tentatively letting go of the

railing as the last of the dizziness faded.

‚Not really, but for now, we’ll deal with these two,‛ responded Andy, indicating Peaches

and Gertrude.

‚Accident, my ass,‛ Archie muttered conspiratorially to Andy while slipping an arm over

Gertrude’s neck. The pig nuzzled his pocket, looking for the dog biscuit she knew was there.

Archie absently gave her the milk bone.

‚That woman had the lungs of a whale.‛

‚When did Lizie tell you about the channel?‛

‚At one of the meetings, I guess,‛ Andy replied, forcing Peaches’ head into a halter. The

cow tried to pull away, but Andy slapped her on the rump with the end of the lead line, forcing

her head around towards him.

Constable Singh emerged from the house. He casually stood beside Betty, watching the two

men struggle with the animals.

‚Does everyone on this island wear gumboots?‛

‚Standard equipment. We fit you up when you get off the ferry.‛

‚Where are yours?‛

Betty pulled her gumboots from under a bench beside the door and showed Pete the

unscarred soles.

‚I brought them back with me after I ran home to change into uniform and grab my

revolver. Don’t worry, I locked the house up tight and secured all the outer gates before I did,

plus did another sweep of the house and grounds when I came back. I figured it would be a

couple of hours at least before you got here.‛

‚Good to know. Sorry I had to ask about your boots.‛

‚I know you’re just doing your job, Pete.‛