Ruggage Read online

  GLENN MULLER

  RUGGAGE

  Edition 1b

  Copyright 2022 Glenn Muller

  Uncorked Ink Press

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-7772673-4-6

  MOBI ISBN 978-1-7772673-5-3

  PRINT ISBN 978-1-7772673-3-9

  Licence Notes

  This book is licenced for your personal enjoyment only. Except for brief passages embodied in reviews or other non-commercial uses, this book may not be reproduced in any form without the prior written consent of the author. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase them a copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  .

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Glenn Muller

  I do not much wish well to discoveries, for I am always afraid they will end in conquest and robbery.

  Samuel Johnson

  CHAPTER 1

  Traffic at five minutes to six on a Tuesday morning was as light as it got in Burlington on a weekday. Taking advantage, a transport truck with hazard lights flashing slowed to a stop and blocked the lane. As it rocked slightly on its suspension, the passenger hopped down from the cab and waved his arms to halt the approaching vehicles. He smiled apologetically at the blonde woman behind the wheel of the lead car, then walked back to make sure the rear of the lengthy trailer angled correctly into the driveway.

  Yet another cloudless day in the first August of the New Millennium, the warm breeze off Lake Ontario was a precursor of the late-summer heat to come. The young man’s sky-blue t-shirt, hanging loosely outside of his jeans, was already dark along the spine. His Blue Jays cap, worn with the brim to the back, covered light-brown hair that curled softly over his ears. The blonde woman thought he was kinda cute and smiled brightly when he waved her through.

  Threading the rig slowly past the FOR SALE sign, and between wrought-iron gates, the driver carefully backed down the long driveway. The young man stayed visible in his mirror and signaled ‘stop’ when the trailer’s back bumper was about ten paces from the middle door of the three-car garage. A hiss of air brakes, a final stutter from the diesel engine, then all was quiet. The driver dropped down to the concrete and both men surveyed their surroundings. The silence gave way to the gentle rustling of leaves, and various birdsong intermingled with the sound of wavelets lapping on the rocky beach behind the house.

  Out front, a generous lawn bordered by tall shrubs for privacy ran the length of the driveway. The two-storey house was of a Mediterranean design with light ocher plaster on the outer walls and curved clay tiles on the roof. The window frames all had an arched top, as did the main entrance, which was flanked by hanging baskets of flowers. Hard to tell at a glance when the house had been built, or rebuilt, but it was all tastefully done and style-appropriate for one of the most expensive housing sectors in the city.

  The young guy knelt to retie his boot lace. “What d’yer think she’s worth, Marsh?” he said, looking up at the driver.

  Marshall Stober gave a little squint. “Three mil, give or take.”

  “And what do you think the stuff inside is worth?”

  Now Stober smiled and said, “Let’s go find out.”

  Donning fresh pairs of black leather gloves, the snug kind that ballplayers and golfers wear, they unlatched and swung open the back doors of the trailer. An aluminum ramp was rolled out from beneath the box, and the end lowered to the ground. From where they stood, the empty box looked cavernous. It was time to get to work.

  “Where’s the code, Devon?” Stober lifted the flap of the garage door keypad.

  “Right here.” Devon Millcroft pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. “Let’s hope it works.” He punched in the numbers and hit the ENTER key. The door began to roll up. Millcroft pumped his fist.

  “What’d I tell ya. Worth every penny.”

  Stober stepped past him into the garage. “I’ll concede that when we’re driving out of here.”

  In the furthest space was a late-model Land Rover, a machine capable of chasing sherpas up the Himalayas, yet probably hadn’t seen so much as a gravel driveway. The rest of the interior was empty save for a wheeled, chest-high Snap-On toolbox beside a workbench, and a trio of high-end mountain bikes. These were quickly rolled into the trailer, then Millcroft returned with a crowbar. He inserted the tapered end between the inner door and jamb. There was a satisfying crack as the frame splintered and the door swung open.

  They had chosen wisely. Hard not to on this road. They walked into an expansive kitchen equipped with top-of-the-line stainless-steel appliances. Next to a six-burner gas stove, a pair of stacked ovens were set into the wall. There was an enormous refrigerator-freezer, a vast island with a wine cooler, and granite countertops everywhere.

  “Where you want to start, Marsh?”

  “Something we need to do first. It’s upstairs.”

  Stober led the way up a wide, white-carpeted, curving staircase to the second floor. A front-facing room had been furnished as an office. There was an oil painting on the wall, a misty lake scene with a red canoe tied to a dock. He gave a little tug on one side of the frame. It broke a magnetic contact and the painting swung on a hinge to reveal a recessed safe. The little door also had a digital lock. When the garage keypad combination didn’t work, Millcroft hacked away at the surrounding drywall with the crowbar.

  “It’s bolted to a wall spar,” he said, peering into the jagged hole. “I’ll get some tools.”

  Stober had unplugged the computer equipment. “Take this printer with you. No sense wasting a trip.”

  After they removed the safe, the pair spent the next ninety-minutes packing the trailer with anything from the above-ground rooms that wasn’t actually fixed in place. Televisions, sound systems, and small appliances. Beds, bureaus, and the contents of wardrobes. Drawers of silverware were pulled from their cabinets and carried out along with the chesterfields, coffee tables, artwork, plants, and pottery. If it could be picked up, they carted it off. Taking a smoke break, Stober gauged there was just enough room left in the trailer for a small desk, or maybe an upright piano. r />
  “Right.” He pinched out the cigarette and was careful to put the butt in the trailer. “Let’s finish up and get out of here.”

  Devon led the way down to the basement, another expansive space. Set up for entertaining it had a pool table, a well-stocked wet bar, and a sectional sofa that could probably seat eight.

  “Too bad we don’t have room for that billiards set,” said Millcroft. “Bring a good buck.”

  “Yeah, well, we don’t. I’ll get some boxes for those bottles,” Stober said, and went back upstairs.

  Millcroft didn’t really mind. Professional-grade slate tables were heavy and a bugger to move. He began to walk past it, toward the bar, then he stopped.

  Over by the sofa was a rolled-up rug. Millcroft could only see the underside, but he’d seen the underside of enough rolled up rugs to know it was of the Persian style, if not the genuine article. He figured Stober had bundled it up earlier, but wondered why he’d left it. It was only seven feet long, easy for one guy to shoulder. Then he noticed the uneven shape. He gave it a shove with his foot. It moved a little, then settled back in place.

  “What’cher lookin’ at?” Stober was back with a couple of boxes.

  “Somethin’s funny here, Marsh. Give me a hand.”

  They knelt and pushed at the lumpy roll. It only had to flop over once for Millcroft to look anxiously at his partner.

  “You sure we want to do this?”

  Stober put his knee on the exposed edge and gave the rug another shove. This time when it flopped over, an arm appeared. With an intake of breath, both men rose from their crouch and stepped back.

  The limb was slender and the hand relatively small, though not a child’s. Probably a woman.

  “Oh, fuck,” said Millcroft quietly. “Now what are we supposed to do?”

  Stober stared for a moment more. Then he turned and picked up the boxes he’d brought down.

  “Empty the bar,” he said, handing one to Millcroft. “We’ll leave the rug.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Fenn was two minutes out from his first pickup of the day when his cellphone rang. Not quite nine, and the driving school itself not yet open, the possible callers could be Dieter and Carole Lundsen, the owners of Burlington’s DriveCheck franchise, or Asha Fabiani, the school’s booking clerk. Since Fenn had kissed Asha goodbye only twenty minutes ago, he figured that both caller and message could wait until he got to where he was going.

  He rechecked the client sheet for the address and slowed the car as the street numbers on Lakeshore Road ran into the low four-thousands. His destination had a FOR SALE sign at the curb and stone plinths flanking the entrance to the gated driveway. He signaled, pulled in, and let the Toyota coast toward the house.

  It was a nice piece of property. Out of his price range, as was most of the housing market until he and Asha could save enough for a down-payment. For now, though, they were happy with their basement apartment. The rent was reasonable and their landlady, a former student of Fenn’s, was a real gem. The cellphone rang again as Fenn braked to a stop facing the three-car garage.

  “Y’ello.”

  “Hi Chas. Are you at Mandy Rolland’s house, yet?”

  Fenn could tell by Asha’s tone that Mandy wasn’t about to come bouncing out her front door.

  “I think so.” He read back the address. “Has she canceled?”

  “Um, no. She must have called last night and left a message on the machine. She wants you to pick her up at her grandma’s.”

  “Alright. Where’s grandma’s house?”

  “It’s a townhouse at Appleton Estates. Forty-seven McIntosh Lane.”

  Asha heard Fenn’s sigh. “I know. Want me to tell your ten o’clock you might be late?”

  Fenn scheduled his lessons to minimize the distance between them, and Appleton Estates was across town. Extra travel always had a cost that was hard to recoup.

  “Leave it with me. We’ll call Sam Parsons if I’m still running behind.”

  “A good start to your morning, huh?”

  “It is what it is,” he said. “Hopefully it gets gooder. I’d better go.”

  “Oh, hey.”

  “What?”

  “If you’re passing a pet shop, could you get a bag of kibble for Mogg? She’s just about out.”

  “Already?”

  “She’s a big cat.”

  “She’s a fat cat.”

  “Nah, that’s all fur.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Mandy Rolland was a self-confident seventeen-year-old who’d spent most of the summer as a camp counsellor, was about to start grade twelve in September, and wanted to be a psychologist. Fenn rarely asked for personal information: he’d pulled her age from her learner’s permit, and the rest she’d told him as they cruised along quiet side streets in upper Burlington. New students were either excited or nervous, and while some would scarcely speak, others would tell their entire life story.

  “We’re selling our house and the agent said it would be easier to keep the place tidy for showings if we weren’t there. So, I’ve been staying with my granny. Mom and dad are in Toronto for some film festival thing. They should be back this morning.”

  Their session nearly over, Fenn’s cellphone rang again and interrupted his explanation of a safe following distance. He tried not to take calls while teaching, feeling it disrespected the client, but the number displayed was that of the office. Sensing that today would be one of those days, he answered.

  “What’s up?”

  “Do you still have Mandy Rolland in the car?” It was Carole Lundsen.

  “Well, good morning, Carole. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Is Mandy with you?”

  “Yep. She’s just driving us back to grandma’s house.” He glanced over at Mandy, who took her eyes off the road to give him a quick grin.

  “Change of drop-off. She needs to go to her own house. Do you have the address?”

  “Even better. I’ve got someone who lives there.”

  “Oh, of course. Well, could you tell her there’s been an incident. Her parents are there, but so are the police.”

  “Just a sec.” Fenn pointed through the windshield. “Turn right at the next street, Mandy.”

  “Where are you now, Chas?” Carole sounded like she was on speakerphone.

  “Uptown. About ten minutes from Mandy’s place. Better call Sam Parsons and tell him I’ll be a bit late.”

  “Okay. And, Chas,”

  “Yes.”

  “Just drop her off. Don’t get involved.”

  “Now, why would you say that?”

  “Oh, gee. Let me think.”

  Had Fenn not been to Mandy’s house already, he would have spotted it by the policeman standing at the end of the driveway. Even though he’d prepared her with what he knew, which was next to nothing except that her parents would be there, she almost hit the gas instead of the brake when they were motioned to stop.

  “Put your window down,” he told Mandy, then said to the cop. “She lives here.”

  Waved through, they didn’t get far before having to park the car on the grass strip bordering the concrete. There were two squad cars, an unmarked Buick with a whip antenna, a Lincoln, an Audi coupe, a van, and an ambulance.

  “Pull up your parking brake, Mandy,” prompted Fenn. It was all he got to say before she threw off the seatbelt, flung open the door, and ran down to the house.

  Fenn shut the engine off. He’d had the foresight to book a tentative next appointment while they were driving down, so he put his binder in the back seat and followed the girl up the steps to the front door. This was an unusual situation, and he wanted to make sure the teen had the support she needed from an adult she was familiar with.

  A tall woman wearing white coveralls and disposable shoe covers intercepted her at the door.

  “You must be Mandy.” The woman’s smile was friendly and there was warmth in her eyes. “I’m Koki. Your parents are inside, but we’d like everyone to sta
y on the main floor for now. Okay?”

  Mandy nodded, and Koki let her past.

  “I’m Chas Fenn, her driving instructor. I just want to make sure Mandy’s looked after before I leave.”

  “Alright. Main floor only and don’t touch anything.”

  “I’ll only be a minute,” promised Fenn. The coveralls, not the clipped British accent, told Fenn that Koki Motungi was a forensics expert. Not exactly the profession one wanted padding about a home. Fenn stepped inside and glanced around. The place appeared to have been completely cleared of its contents. Hardly surprising since it was for sale, yet someone was upset about it.

  “Beth, they even took the safe. Pulled it right out of the wall.” This was from one of the two men coming down a curved staircase. The speaker was somewhere in his mid-forties, short dark hair starting to gray. He wore a pastel green golf shirt, tan slacks, and canvas boat shoes. The other man wore a lightweight charcoal suit and was familiar to Fenn. It was Detective Inspector Evan Lareault from the Halton Police Service major crimes section, or whatever Lareault’s department was called.

  The inspector was making a note and before he looked up, Fenn stepped into the kitchen where a group of people had congregated. He spotted Mandy. She was standing with her arms around the waist of a woman that Fenn assumed was her mother. Facial features and tanned skin tones were similar, though where Mandy’s hair was dark and shoulder length, her mother’s was blonde in a stylish shag cut. Mandy’s figure also hadn’t filled out to her mater’s proportions, which were accentuated by a stretchy tank top and hip-hugging designer jeans. Fashionable sandals with raised cork soles completed the look.

  Both females were a head shorter than the man they were talking to. Someone else Fenn recognized. Sergeant Frank Bloomfield. The large policeman sensed his presence and glanced over his shoulder.

  His questioning look prompted Fenn to say, “I’m just making sure Mandy found her parents.”

  “O-kay,” said Bloomfield slowly. “Since you’re here, how about you wait across the hall in the living room. I’d like a word.”

  Fenn complied, fully expecting that Bloomfield’s word would likely be, ‘why the hell are you in another of my cases?’