Chapter 5: Beneath the Surface

Welcome to Chapter 5

Chapter 4 opened the door to the investigation in earnest.

Gerald and Jerome McLeod—two brothers with very different demeanors—sat across from their lawyer, Paul O’Grady, spinning a story that smelled of fabrication. The tension was palpable. Gerald remained cool and calculated, while Jerome unravelled with every passing question. Their version of events? That Ian McLeod had gone west for a mysterious girlfriend—leaving behind his car, his farm, and a rising storm of suspicion.

Meanwhile, Detective Jean Lavallee returned to Harris Bay—a town he once fled, but now must confront again, both professionally and personally. As he stepped into the case, memories of his sister Patsy’s unsolved death reawakened long-buried pain, anchoring his determination to uncover the truth behind Ian McLeod’s murder.

In this chapter, the investigation takes sharper focus. Lavallee begins peeling back the first layers of deception as he analyzes family motives, a missing rifle, and conflicting timelines. The lies are starting to wobble. And he’s ready to see who falls first.

The truth has a way of surfacing—especially under pressure.

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Chapter 5

 

The Rooming House Proprietor

 

That Evening:

 

Detective Jean Lavallee returned to Mrs. O’Hara’s boarding house just before supper. The comforting aroma of Irish stew greeted him as he hung his coat and hat by the door. Mrs. O’Hara, ever attentive, popped her head out of the kitchen.

 

“Ah, Detective! Perfect timing. Dinner’s ready,” she said, motioning him to the table.

 

Lavallee took his seat, appreciating the effort she put into her modest home. The table was neatly set, and the stew was hearty and fragrant. As they began to eat, the conversation started with small talk. Lavallee had learned in his years as a detective that people like Mrs. O’Hara were often the unofficial eyes and ears of small towns. She’d know more than she let on, and he didn’t mind her attempts to draw him out.

 

“It’s such a terrible thing about Ian McLeod,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “He wasn’t the easiest man, but to end like that …” She trailed off, her sharp eyes watching him.

 

Lavallee took a deliberate bite of bread, buying himself time before responding. “It’s early days, Mrs. O’Hara. We’re still gathering information, but rest assured, we’re working hard to get answers.”

 

“I imagine you’ve been out to the farm?” she asked, leaning forward slightly.

 

Lavallee paused before responding, his mind flicking back to the quiet hours he’d spent at the McLeod farm earlier that day. He had moved deliberately, his boots creaking over the frozen ground as he examined the area where Ian’s body had been found. He had walked through the house as well, noting the functional nature of Ian’s room, the faint mustiness in the air, and the unnerving sense that the man was shot in his bed. His trained eye scanned for inconsistencies, but for now, the evidence seemed content to whisper rather than shout.

 

“I was just out to Ian’s farm to look around,” Lavallee said finally, masking the intensity of his observations with a casual tone. “No one else was there. The farm is in rough shape. “

 

They finished their meal with light conversation, but Lavallee was certain the tidbits he had shared would fuel the village gossip by morning.

 

The McLeod Farm:

 

The Next Morning – Day 2 After the Body was Found

 

The following afternoon, Lavallee returned to the McLeod farm under a sky heavy with snow clouds. The biting wind swept across the barren fields as he parked his car near the sagging barn. The scene was bleak—fences bowed under the weight of ice, the barn’s roof threatening collapse, and snowdrifts piled high around the farmhouse.

 

Lavallee pulled his coat tighter and picked up where he left off, continuing his methodical examination of the property. The farmhouse was his first stop. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of abandonment and faint traces of old smoke. The furniture was sturdy but worn, and the walls displayed a timeline of the McLeod family—faded photographs showing moments of joy that seemed increasingly rare as time passed.

 

In the kitchen, Lavallee noted an empty coffee tin and a few dishes in the sink, suggesting someone had been there recently. Moving upstairs, he returned to Ian’s bedroom sparse, almost utilitarian, save for a neatly folded plaid shirt on the bed. The office was cluttered with papers, many of them bills and bank statements. A single drawer in the desk caught his attention—it was empty and strangely clean, as though its contents had been removed hastily.

 

Satisfied for now, Lavallee moved to the barn. The wind whistled through the gaps in the walls as he stepped inside, his boots silent on the straw-covered floor. He examined the tools lining the walls, many of them rusted from disuse, and a faint drag mark in the hay caught his attention. Crouching down, he ran his gloved fingers over the groove, wondering what had been moved—and why.

 

The sudden sound of snow crunching outside snapped Lavallee out of his thoughts. He rose quickly, his hand instinctively moving toward his coat pocket. A shadow appeared in the barn’s doorway.

 

“Who’s there?” Lavallee called out, his voice firm but steady.

 

“Who the hell are you?” a voice shot back, startled.

 

Lavallee turned to see a man standing just inside the doorway, bundled in a thick coat and hat. The man’s eyes widened as they locked onto Lavallee.

 

“I’m Detective Jean Lavallee, Sûreté du Québec,” Lavallee said, his tone measured but commanding. “And you are?”

 

The man hesitated before stepping closer. “George McLeod,” he said slowly, still sizing Lavallee up. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”

 

“The feeling’s mutual,” Lavallee replied, relaxing slightly. “What brings you to the farm, Mr. McLeod?”

 

George adjusted his scarf, his breath visible in the frigid air. “I’m watching over the place for now,” he explained. “Hired a neighbor to take care of the livestock starting tomorrow, but until then, someone has to make sure the pipes don’t freeze, and the animals are fed.”

 

Lavallee nodded, though his pulse was still elevated from the surprise encounter. “I didn’t realize anyone was looking after it.”

 

George shrugged. “Didn’t think it needed mentioning. I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

 

“Someone has to, with livestock.”

 

The two men stood in silence for a moment, the frigid air between them carrying an undercurrent of tension.

 

“Well,” Lavallee said finally, breaking the quiet, “I appreciate your dedication, George. The farm must hold a lot of memories for you.”

 

George’s expression softened slightly, his gaze drifting to the barn’s interior. “It does,” he admitted. “My brother and I grew up here. It’s not what it used to be, but it’s still home.”

 

Lavallee studied him carefully. “I’d like to talk more with you soon—formally. There’s a lot I’d like to understand about Ian and the farm.”

 

George nodded, his guarded presence returning. “Of course, Detective. Just let me know when.”

 

As George turned to leave, Lavallee watched him carefully, filing away the encounter in his mind. The surprise of their meeting lingered, but so did a nagging feeling that George’s presence wasn’t as casual as he wanted it to seem.

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