Murder at Hay River: An Inspector Hilary Casgrain Murder Mystery (An Elk Ridge Murder Mystery Book 4) by Anne Shillolo

Author:Anne Shillolo [Shillolo, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2025-01-30T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SEVEN

I stopped on the porch, looking across the street. Alana Myers had explained that Morris and Isla Wilson had lived in their tidy brown-brick bungalow for decades. The premises were neat as a pin. No leaves or sticks littered the yard, and a waist-high juniper hedge hemmed it in along the front. The white gate in the middle looked freshly painted.

The home was situated on a wide lot, one of a handful on this block to have a garage. It was set back from the house, with a paved drive leading to it down the right-hand side of the property. Beds of spring flowers were in bloom, and I didn’t think a weed would dare to poke its head up anywhere.

I glanced at my watch and wondered how the morning had gone at the station. Was Alfie Laporte now free to explore Elk Ridge and take nature photos? As if, I thought sarcastically. But, hopefully, the events of the past day and night had taught him a lesson, and he’d steer clear of Harlo Kane and the Hay River property.

I texted Goat Rundle. “Did you interview Rhys Hall yet?”

The reply was prompt. “In progress.”

“Find out how and when he and Alfie got together. And when they decided to travel over here.”

“Will do. Carver got most of that from Alfie. Now we can see if Rhys’s info matches.”

I stared into space. What else could we ask? I typed, “Double check alibis. Any chance they met up with Weavers?”

“Interesting thought.”

I liked it myself. We’d agreed that Harlo, and likely Poppy, weren’t killers. And Alfie and Rhys didn’t strike me as scheming cold-blooded murderers, either. But what if one or more of them had joined forces with Lloyd Weaver or his son?

It was a possibility. But I couldn’t even convince myself that it was plausible until I could come up with a motive. Somehow, celebrity photos, however lucrative, didn’t quite cut it for me. The level of violence was out of proportion to the rewards.

As I put my phone away, I found myself wondering again about someone seeking revenge against McCann and the rest of us. One killer, two opportunistic killings. And a kidnapping. In terms of suspects, Weaver, and possibly his son, fit the bill.

As I walked slowly across the street, I turned my face into the wind and let the drizzle cool me off. Time to focus. One final day to discover something new about Murphy Webb.

I let myself in through the gate and felt like I was entering an English garden. As I got closer to the house, I could see trellises against the wall on either side of the front door. Shoots of green were a forecast of roses to bloom in a couple of months.

I rang the doorbell, and a short woman packed into a pink tracksuit opened the door so quickly I knew she’d been watching me the whole time.

“Good morning,” I began.

Before I could get any further, she interrupted. “Come in, come in. It’s Inspector Casgrain, correct?”

“Yes.

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