The Rage of Ingrid Monk

The Rage of Ingrid Monk

by

John G. Paterson

North Door Books

St. Catharines, Ontario, Canada

Published by John G. Paterson at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 John G. Paterson

This book also available in print.

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THE RAGE OF INGRID MONK

a Willy & Ethel Turner Mystery

CHAPTER 1

THE CAPE HORN

Monday night, May 4th, 1992

The front wheels dropped over the edge, and the bottom of the car hit the concrete dock. At first it appeared there was not enough momentum to send the car over, but it continued its slide, ripping off muffler pipes and fuel lines.

The man at the steering wheel was slumped forward, caught by his safety belt as the car tilted.

The rear tires gave the car one last hard bounce, which drove back the axle and knocked off the bumper. The car dove deep into the water.

But it did not stay down. The closed windows creating a temporary air lock, and the car floated up to the surface. The tops of the hood and trunk were less than an inch below the canal surface now, the car windows and roof above it, reflecting the few lights along this isolated stretch of canal.

The man slumped at the steering wheel made no attempt to escape. He remained dead still as the car started drifting in the water.

Just then a huge beast of a ship was rounding the curb in the canal, passing under the CNR tracks held high by the lift bridge towers. The ship's cabin was dark; the rest of this Behemoth was well lit up.

The laker (the Cape Horn, out of Lachine) closed in fast upon the barely visible car drifting to the centre of the canal.

A direct hit.

The bow of the ship bit into the side of the car with a crack. The car was carried forward a few feet before it was swept off to the side. It scraped the hull as it move along the length of the ship.

The laker was on its way to Toronto to pick up a load of freight containers for Chicago. At present it was empty, its propeller riding high. This now came into contact with the car with a crashing of metal hitting metal. A huge blade sliced into the trunk and back window, and then hugged the car to the rusty steel plating for a few seconds before releasing it.

The encounter did not leave the ship undamaged. The propeller blade began to hit against the back of the hull with a loud reverberation that could be felt by everyone in the ship.

Alarms went off and flood lights came on. The ship's propeller came to a stop. Spotting lights at the rear of the ship caught the car floating in the canal. — It was just then disappearing from sight, sinking at last.

The ship was now drifting forward — in trouble. It had less than a mile to go before it came to the open canal lock. Lost was its main source of power for stopping, normally accomplished by spinning the propeller backwards. Its momentum was enough to carry it into the lock where it would hit the walls of the gates at the far side. The safety cables there might hold it, or they might not.

But, before reaching the lock, the pilot made the decision to drop the anchors. These huge steel hooks then started dragging tons of mud on the canal bottom to bring the ship to a stop.

In the cool May night, the laker (at last stationary in the water) appeared to float yards above the canal surface, its lights blazing, sirens and alarms screaming. Most of the Cape Horn crew were leaning over railings — looking for the car some of them claimed to have seen moments earlier. But the car was nowhere in sight; it was sitting at the bottom of the canal three hundred yards behind them. Its occupant still in his seat belt, forehead floating inches from the steering wheel.

CHAPTER 2

THE FUNERAL

Thursday afternoon, May 7th

With five other pallbearers, Willy Turner helped carry Fred Gribbon's heavy coffin from the back of the hearse to the graveside. A large crowd of mourners were just arriving in their cars. In the elm trees, crows cawed as doors were opened and slammed shut. A tractor-trailer shifted gears on the road just outside the cemetery gates.

It was a bright, sunny afternoon with flowers blooming and spring buds on the trees.

Family, friends, and Gribbon Security employees had earlier gathered at the Portage Road United Church, the same church in which Willy married Fred's daughter, Ethel, the previous summer.

The minister, a Reverent Richard Carroll, said very little about Fred at the service or the graveside, simply because he did not know Fred; however, this fact did not stop him from going on a bit longer about death and salvation than one would have reasonably hoped.

Fred had never been a churchgoer, but he would have appreciated the humour of the situation. It had been his widow, Elizabeth Gribbon, who had asked to use the church for the service. The minister had been recommended by Burgess and Son Funeral Home and did not even belong to this church or denomination.

A hack, thought Willy.

Willy looked over at his wife, Ethel, her arm locked onto her mother's arm as they walked up to the grave.

Mrs. Gribbon was a woman in her early fifties, showing her age, but with a hair style and make-up that tried to take off a few of those years. She was not someone who found smiling easy. She spent most of her time at home, doing housework, gardening, and reading. She went out only to go shopping. She complained that she had no friends, although the few friends she did have she was always complaining about behind their backs. Lately, she had been listening to Shirley MacLaine's tapes on meditation. They had not yet helped her, she had told Ethel, but she felt that they might: Shirley MacLaine was so convincing on how to activate the chakras.

Behind them was his own mother, Mari, in her early forties and still very youthful in appearance, and his brother Perry, towering over everyone. (Willy's father had died years ago, leaving Mari to raise her two sons by herself.)

About twenty of Fred's security guards had shown up for the funeral, in uniform, a tribute to the loyalty Fred inspired in his employees. The Gribbon secretaries were wiping yet more tears from their eyes.

Willy's mother-in-law and Ethel had a disagreement yesterday when Ethel said that her father had wanted to be cremated. Mrs. Gribbon insisted that it be a burial, expressing horror at the thought of burning a body. As usual, Mrs. Gribbon exaggerated an idea that did not have any real meaning to her. She was an odd woman, rigid and self-absorbed.

That's the way they do it in India, Ethel said.

India? We're not on an Indian reservation!

East Indian. — You're invoking their chakras.

Her mother had ignore that last comment.

Willy remembered his father-in-law making just such a remark about being cremated — in jest, of course. It had been on a very cold winter day with snow drifting outside. Fred remarked that he liked the idea of cremation, such as in Sam McGee's fiery end in the Robert Service poem. The last act would be to scatter the ashes in some park creek in the spring, off a wooden bridge, birds singing.

Back to nature! he had joked.

At least he got his singing birds — if only the harsh call of crows, triumphant at having chased away all the song birds earlier that day.

Another irony was that Fred's death had involved neither earth nor fire but water, a drowning. First with an access of alcohol, then by a lung full of murky canal water.

Dozens of ships had lined up in the lakes at both ends of the canal for twenty hours before the car had been fished from the canal and the tugs had pulled the Cape Horn down to the dry docks to have its hull and propeller repaired.

But nobody talked about how Fred had died. He was pulled from his car after it had been dragged up from the bottom of the canal. The police were unable to understand it, unable to untangle the mystery. The cause of death was drowning. Exactly how much alcohol he had consumed that day was not determined, but it must have been the cause of the accident. There was no indication that it was suicide; everyone agreed that Fred had no reason to kill himself. — His business was thriving, he was a man who was always in good humour, he had plenty of friends. Why would he want to kill himself?

But Fred had made no attempt to get out of the car. He still had his seat belt on; he had not tried to roll down the window or open the door. There were no bruises on his hands to indicate a frantic attempt to escape. There was no bump on his head to indicate that he might have been knocked unconscious.

But there was an empty bottle of rye whiskey on the back seat floor.

The police made little sense of the confusion of tracks beside the dock: private cars came down there all the time, although it was suppose to be restricted Seaway property.

Yes, Fred does drink, Mrs. Gribbon had told the police. He likes beer and Scotch — but he's not a problem drinker. I sometimes get annoyed if he drinks too much, even though he never seems to show it, except the morning after when he's a bit slow in responding. He's what you call a social drinker.

Where was he that night? asked officer Michael Shavers, the man in charge of the investigation.

I don't know. He has strange hours. It's a waste of time questioning him. He's always showing up at odd hours of the night. I didn't even have reason to worry about him not coming in last night.

He's always checking up on his guards, said Willy, or working with Bill or someone on an investigation. He could be anywhere at any time of day.

Something I've been putting up with for most of my life, said Mrs. Gribbon. I wish he would get out of the business, retire early — he could do that if he sells out — but he loves his work. What can I do?

Nothing now.

Monday afternoon, at four-thirty p.m., Fred had told Ethel, his daughter (who had just started working for the summer as one of his secretaries), that he had to meet someone. He did not say who. There were no appointments scheduled in the appointment book for that time of day. Ethel admitted that he might have gone out to meet someone at a bar, for business or personal reasons. Fred knew a lot of people. However, there was an urgency in Fred's tone of voice, as if he had discovered something and needed to act.

Mrs. Gribbon told Detective Shavers that she would not have been surprised if he had gone out for a few drinks.

But, later, after the officer had left, she did express anger at her husband for doing this to her — dying in an embarrassing, public manner, under unsatisfying circumstances that she could not explain when other people asked how it happened, how Fred died.

It was anger that was still consuming her the day of the funeral.

In the morning, before the service, she was angry with her daughter over small things, such as clothes to wear to the funeral. And angry with her son-in-law, Willy Turner — for just being present. She was still mad at them both for marrying last year. They were much too young, and neither one of them had finished university yet. Willy had certainly not proved himself yet as far as earning a living was concerned. Her greatest fear was that Willy would end up like her husband, in a business such as Gribbon Security, and Ethel in the same hell she had been in for the last twenty-five years!

And, not least of all, her ears were still ring from last Saturday when she, quite by accident, overheard a conversation between Willy and Ethel. She had been having an afternoon nap, and she had just got up and was about to enter the living room where the two of them were entangled on the couch, watching a movie on television. What she heard stopped her at the door.

Don't leave any marks on my earlobes, Willy.

Let's work on some other body part. How about belly buttons. Or maybe farther south.

Not here in the house with all these antiques. This place makes me feel like an old prude, whatever that is.

You wouldn't want to end up like your mother! Willy had said.

Shit, no! said Ethel.

Too late Willy had notice Mrs. Gribbon standing there, quickly turning away before her daughter saw her.

How that little profanity must have grated on Elizabeth Gribbon's nerves. Willy suspected that that was what continued to fuel her anger. Ethel could be no better that her father sometimes! And she did like using street language on occasion.

And now here was Mr. Turner, her so-called son-in-law, standing at her husband's grave with her daughter. Fred had given him far too much attention. Mrs. Gribbon never liked the idea that Ethel would marry one of the employees — although Will was just out of high school when he started going out with Ethel and the work was only a summer job to get him through university.

I'm very sorry about what happened? Willy had said to her at the church. Fred was not just Ethel's Dad, but also a friend to me.

Mrs. Gribbon just stared at him — transferring the anger against her husband onto him.

What did happen? she asked.

She could see that Willy was a bit taken back by this response and the anger behind it. He had nothing to say to her. He could almost hear her mutter under her breath: the sooner Ethel divorces him the sooner she can get on with her life!

(Willy had to confess that he might be imagining more animosity between him and his mother-in-law than was really there. — But the woman never made him comfortable. Ethel told him to lighten up, her mother did like him, in her own way. Like a witch loves a toad, he had said. Ethel laughed. She was little help.)

Now standing behind Mrs. Gribbon was Theo Holt, one of the lawyers that Gribbon Security consulted on a regular basis. He also took care of the family business. His words, unlike Willy's, had a calming effect on her. He had been especially good to her over the last few days since Fred's death. He promised to help her keep Gribbon Security Services intact and help her with a business that she did not understand at all. It was important to keep the business together — long enough to sell it at a good price!

He kept reassuring her that he was a longtime friend of the family.

I'll come and see you tomorrow, he now told her as he was leaving. The will has been all arranged and I've found a way to help you with Fred's business that'll take a lot of problems off your shoulders.

Fred's coffin would not be lowered into the hole until everyone had gone — at Mrs. Gribbon's request. However the Reverent Carroll did say one last prayer.

In the middle of the prayer, Willy heard a roaring in the distance. He looked up and across an empty field (which would in coming years would be filled with more graves, maybe his included) and saw half a dozen motorcycles, big, noisy machines, accelerating along a road. The motorcycles were black, the riders were dressed in black. That's where he wanted to be, on the road, speeding away from this place of the dead.

Weren't motorcycles a sign of spring in Ontario, the end of the cold weather and the return of summer? Life renewed. It certainly wasn't a time for funerals. Willy was certain that there was a law somewhere that stated death and dying were banished from the month of May.

He tugged at the tie he was wearing. It was much too tight.

He looked over to Mrs. Gribbon again, who did not appear to have noticed the motorcycles — just one of many street noises nearby. At that moment, she was wiping away a tear that had come down from behind her sunglasses.

CHAPTER 3

TYLER TAKES OVER

Monday morning, May 11th

When Fred died on May fourth, Willy Turner had just started his sixth summer of work at Gribbon Security after completing his first year at law school.

After high school in 1987, he worked as a security guard for the summer to save money to go to university, and continued to work summers at Gribbon in subsequent years.

That first summer, Ethel was just a framed photograph of the teenage daughter, which sat on the top of boss's desk. Willy did not see her in person until the next year when she too worked at Gribbon for the summer (as a filing clerk). However, he did not discover an interest in this young, pretty girl until the end of summer, just when he had to return to university. It was only in the third year, when she was eighteen going on nineteen, that they had a little adventure that brought them together: Ethel delivered lunch to him on an insurance stake-out and with her help he obtained good video of a man playing basketball in his backyard, despite his compensation claims for a major back injury.

They married last August on his graduation from university (with him twenty-three and her just turning twenty-one, her birthday also in August). — Ethel was still attending university, about to enter her third year, majoring in classics and archaeology. The detective work of archaeology especially appealed to her.

Willy's work at Gribbon went well right from the start. It was a great opportunity working with Fred, and he began participating in investigative work under Fred's guidance. Even though he had a full load of courses at university (before he started the law degree, he received a B.A. in history), Willy found time to take private investigation and law enforcement courses at the local community college to get his P.I. licence.

Fred always made Willy feel involved.

Willy, Fred would say, file folder in hand, let's have a look at this.

Willy, fill me in; how did it go this morning?

Willy, what's the scoop?

And Willy had to report in