Page 4 of Hoodoo House
Mrs Cameron scowled. “Old age.”
Sergeant Bowen looked down at her notes. “Henry said that you prepare Mr. Tull’s evening tonic. What precisely does it contain?”
“It’skumis, a drink made from fermented mare’s milk. He claimed it was the fountain of youth. He makes it himself. I just serve it up to him with a shot of brandy. I told him to forget the yogourty glop and stick to the brandy. It would probably do the same thing for him.”
Sergeant Bowen made a note, then pushed ahead. “And how long have you known Mr Tull?”
Mrs Cameron paused. “A little over fifteen years, I guess. He started out as Mr Pritchard’s editor before taking over the position of writer-in-residence.”
“Is that normal? An editor becoming a writer?”
“Sometimes. And sometimes it happens the other way around.”
Bowen turned the page on her notepad. “What exactly does a writer-in-residence do?”
“Here, the writer-in-residence is a fully supported position. They get a place to stay, meals, a monthly stipend and a place far away from distraction to create whatever they want.”
“And who pays for all of this?”
“The Heart’s Shadow Foundation,” Mrs Cameron said, “and before you ask, they get their money from the proceeds of Marjorie Ellis’The Heart’s Shadowbook series.”
Sergeant Bowen frowned. “The Heart’s Shadow, huh? I’ve never heard of it. It must be a profitable book series to support all this.”
“It is. You obviously aren’t from around here, are you?” Mrs Cameron said.
“Brandon, Manitoba, actually. I transferred here two months ago.”
Sergeant Bowen glanced around the writing room before continuing, “Running this place must cost a lot of money. These writers, they must be good.” She hoped to placate her.
“Mr Pritchard was,” Mrs Cameron sharply replied.
“And Mr Tull?”
“He was…competent.”
Mrs Cameron started to fuss with something in her apron pocket. “May I?” she asked as she entered the room and walked towards the desk, pulling out a cleaning rag.
“Mrs Cameron, please don’t touch anything,” the sergeant said, stepping between her and the desk.
“Look, I’ve already been in here once today. I’ll just clean up the vomit.”
“Mrs Cameron, I’m afraid I can’t let you touch it.”
“But the desk is a valuable piece of furniture. The stomach acid could damage it!”
“It might also hold evidence as to what happened here.”
“But…that’s the very desk Marjorie Ellis wroteThe Ragtag Crewat…”
Sergeant Bowen took her by the arm. “Mrs Cameron, what would help me most is if you would leave everything just as it is until forensics has been through.”
The housekeeper took one more glance at the desk and shook her head. “Fine,” she said then marched out of the room.
* * * *
Forensics arrived and inspected the body. They removed the hard evidence, including thekumismug, the pill bottle and a large sample of the vomit from the desk. The coroner examined Tull’s body then took it away for further inspection. The room almost looked like nothing had happened, except for the yellow police tape which blocked the entrance to the writing room.
Sergeant Bowen went outside onto the veranda, took out a pack of cigarettes and extracted a smoke. As she lit it up, she looked out at the prairie before her. It was harvest-time. There was a combination of yellows, golds, clay browns and endless blue sky. The world was filled with the sound of buzzing insects. It had life and colour, unlike the house which was in desperate need of repairs and a fresh coat of paint. A twenty-foot-tall narrow stack of fake reddish-brown rocks with a stone plate on top stood on guard near the entrance of the house. It looked like it was made of coloured concrete and chicken wire. To the side of it was a sign that read “The Spirit of the Hoodoo”.
