Just A Stale Mate

JUST (e)STATE MysteriesJ. Ivanel Johnson ©2023 by J. Ivanel JohnsonAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.The author grants the final approval for this literary material.First Digital VersionThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.ISBN: 978-1-68513-212-5PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITINGwww.blackrosewriting.com Dedicated to the Rich-with-Joy Support Home Team,with many thanks for all you do, and have done.And to my beautiful niece Sydney, whose eponymous grandfather was born in ‘Sandytown’ (Straffordville, Bayham Township). Perhaps this book will help her see the original ‘setting’ in which her ancestors created, dreamed and thrived. CAST OF CHARACTERS(Reader— surnames have intentionally been excluded; you’ll see why as you read on!)Victoria, New Brunswick:Polly Jane (P.J.), Philip Steele’s godmotherMary & Mort, marriedSheriff ChetBetsy, P.J.’s neighbor, housed diagonally across her back-yardCalpurrnia (Cal) the CatWest of Toronto, Ontario,at The JUST (e)STATE(home and farm of the Steele family for generations)Detective Inspector (D.I.) Philip Steele (Phil)Hilary, (Lary), Philip’s mother (Roger, her late husband)Oliver, Philip’s godfather, a beekeeper and landscaperPaintpot, a therapeutic riding horseVisitors to the farm:Lila, from MichiganMandy, studentSharon, Crispin’s mother, married to Deputy Commissioner (D.C.) ‘Blue’ CobaltDowntown Toronto‘Blue’, see above, Crispin’s fatherTrevor (D.I. Ames)Carl, Trevor’s sometime-boyfriendBayham Brook HouseSela, nursePetra, her motherRuth, the cookKaren (Kay)LucyMontyDr. Jeremiah FlintwinchMitch and Jackie, artists, marriedDella & Clara, maids, aidesNumerous animals incl. Tiny, the doctor’s aging dogGeraldCrispinCharlieLatchAnnette/AnitaWalter (groom, former mason)Bob & Martha, neighboring farmersDaisy (former resident)Officer Blake Biro, of the OPPOwners, Chesters &Youngs (incl. D. Lawton, world-class tennis champ)Edom’s CreekRev. Peter Klassen, United Church ministerDaniel, masseuse, laborerPort DuneCathy & Brian Nelson, siblings, own lodgings where Phil and Trevor stay (on tobacco farm)Rev. Talbot, their Baptist minister PART ONE“From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,(of) a summer’s day, and with the setting sundropped from the zenith like a falling star.”-John Milton, Paradise Lost CHAPTER ONE1969, Victoria, New BrunswickThe scream came from downstairs, from inside the post office section of Polly Jane’s cedar-shingled salt-box. She paused in her packing long enough to let it register, then calmly descended the stairs, stopping first to slide her petites into her “house shoes”. (She hadn’t worn her fuzzy pink slippers for months, since she’d tripped in them last winter and broken her ankle.)As she neared the bottom of the steep steps, she heard the scream again.“Cal? Calpurrnia?” she called, then noticed the door from the kitchen into the post office was ajar. She scurried into the front room, swaying her hips as only a former ballroom dancer could, to avoid the corner of the antique pigeon holes into which all of Victoria’s mail was securely sorted for the morrow.A flash of white caught her eye and she saw the cat heading for the kitchen again, then through the cat-flap she’d had installed over a decade ago when she thought the feral kitten had been both female and more inclined to become domesticated. Naming ‘her’, feeding ‘her’ and installing the flap had all been part of a plan gone sadly awry; Calpurrnia had turned out to be a tomcat who was hormonally overwhelmed, and who rarely wanted to come inside. Instead, he lived in her back garden, contently purring away on an ancient blanket in a corner of the potting shed and only occasionally – usually when he was chasing a rodent – venturing into her house. The black and white beast would not be tamed, didn’t like to be touched never mind stroked, but would actually sit for hours in the shed or in the dilapidated gazebo while she went about her gardening work, listening to her discuss what bulbs she might dig up and transplant near the willow tree or which rose bushes she was thinking of cutting back to allow more light onto a side of the cedar-shingled, squat little home where she’d lived most of her adult life. Never one to descend into the habit of talking aloud to herself (as her godson Philip Steele was wont to do), Polly Jane was glad of the cat’s constant company; most village residents passing by her fence knew their post mistress hadn’t crossed the bridge into dementia-land, but was instead having an intelligent discussion with her mad mouser.“I’ll be gone for a few weeks, Cal,” she shouted now to his fast-retreating backside. “Don’t be coming in here while Mary’s minding the shop, or she’ll be calling the Fredericton pound, and the dog-catcher will come get you!”Her postal assistant Mary Henry hated all animals, but especially the screaming and caterwauling of the feral feline when he was feeling amorous or enraged. P.J.’s widowed friend Betsy Lawford, who lived just through the hedge and two back-yards diagonally, would come up the flagstone path every few days to ensure Cal had food in the shed. As it was August, it was also possible the brook might dry up, so Polly Jane made a mental note to phone over to ask her to keep replenishing the old metal bowl of water near the outdoor tap as well. She’d better not forget, because calling New Brunswick from Ontario to remind her neighbor could be costly indeed.Back to the packing. With her usual bustling energy, she trotted up the stairs again and considered what to put into the suitcase next. She’d already packed two pairs of shorts and three light-weight cotton skirts, knowing south-western Ontario was much more humid than her own Atlantic province. Though she’d be on the twenty-four-acre “JUST(e)STATE”, a farm that backed onto a small forest, she knew the blackflies wouldn’t be nearly as bad as they were here near the mountains. However, she did recollect that their mosquitoes could bite