Thin Ice. Nick Wilkshire

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СКАЧАТЬ murder scene. She blew her nose and moved along the sofa as her boyfriend handed her a glass of water and sat down. Ritchie’s eyes were red-rimmed and her features drawn, and something about the oversized sweatshirt she was wearing, bearing her dead son’s team logo, made her seem even more forlorn.

      “You sure you’re up for this, Ellen?” the man at her side asked, eliciting a determined nod. “‘Cause you don’t have to do it right now.”

      “No, I want to do it now, before it sinks in,” she said, looking down at her feet. “Besides, I told these detectives here that I’d see them, so that’s that.”

      “We appreciate that, Mrs. Ritchie,” Marshall said. “Timing is important in these matters,” he added, with a glance at the other man. Smith could tell his partner didn’t care for Tom Saunders, and he had to admit he felt the same. There was something off-putting about him, but they would get to that.

      “First of all, let me say how sorry we both are for your loss,” Marshall began. “I didn’t know Curtis, but I get the sense that the whole city lost something today. Can I ask you when you last saw him?”

      “A couple of weeks ago,” she said, taking a sip of the water. “Just before training camp started. He was so happy. His dreams were finally coming true.” She smiled as a tear ran down her face and splashed onto the coffee table. “It was such a whirlwind summer for him, what with the draft, and the contract, then finding a place to live here in Ottawa. He was so excited about coming to camp and playing for the Raftsmen. I just can’t believe this is happening. It’s so cruel.”

      “And you, Mr. Saunders?”

      “I saw him last week. Wednesday, I think. I’ve been in town the past few days, visiting with my sister.”

      “How did he seem on Wednesday?”

      Saunders shrugged. “Top of the world. We had a couple of steaks and shot the breeze. He was telling me about training camp, and the way the team was shaping up. Excited, you know?”

      “How long have you known Curtis, Mr. Saunders?”

      “Ellen and I have been seein’ each other for, what’s it, five years now?”

      Ritchie nodded, as Marshall returned his focus to Ellen Ritchie.

      “Did Curtis buy a house here in Ottawa?”

      She plucked a tissue from the box and blew her nose. “No. He wanted to build, and he wanted to take his time picking out the perfect location. He was renting a condo over by the big hotel.”

      “The Château Laurier?”

      Ritchie nodded, dabbing at her eyes. The adjacent condo building was the most exclusive in town, with the smallest units going for a million or more. “One of the reasons he liked it so much was running along the canal. He just loved it.”

      “He ran a lot, I guess?”

      “Oh yes, and more than ever this summer. He wanted to be in top shape for camp. I think he was running every day.”

      “Do you know if he always ran the same route?”

      “I don’t really know, but he always liked to go early, at first light, usually.”

      “Did he run alone?” Smith asked.

      “He always did back in Peterborough, but I don’t know about here.”

      Marshall asked some routine questions about Curtis Ritchie’s habits and his whereabouts in the past few weeks, before looking to Smith.

      “Did your son have a girlfriend?” Smith asked, as Ritchie and Saunders turned to him.

      “Not that I know of.” Ellen Ritchie shook her head. “I mean, there were girls — I’m sure there were lots of ’em — but nothing steady. Curtis always said he didn’t want to get tied down. He didn’t want to risk anything getting in the way of his goal.”

      “I’m sure he was pretty popular,” Smith prompted. He had read about a woman in Peterborough who had claimed Ritchie had fathered her child, but as far as he knew it had never gone anywhere. He wondered whether Ritchie’s prospects for a multi-million contract in the near future had spawned more, similar claims. “I mean, a good-looking kid like that, hockey star and the future he had …” He trailed off and sensed the unspoken dialogue going on between Ritchie and Saunders. It was Saunders who broke the silence.

      “There was no shortage of gold diggers trying to get their hooks into him, if that’s what you mean,” he sneered.

      “Wasn’t there a woman in Peterbor —” Smith began, before Ritchie interrupted.

      “That little slut tried her best, but everyone knew Curtis had nothin’ to do with her.”

      “Who was this, and what did she try, Mrs. Ritchie?”

      “Nancy Ridgeway, a waitress at a greasy spoon in Peterborough. She tried to get Curtis to pay her to shut her up, but he refused.” She shook her head. “He knew what she was up to, and he wasn’t afraid to stand up to her. That was back in the spring. She hired a lawyer and threatened to sue, but it never went anywhere. Then she tried to get the cops involved — you can check it out for yourselves — but nothin’ ever came of that, either. Everyone knew exactly what she was.”

      Smith nodded, making a note to follow up with the OPP in Peterborough, before continuing. “I’m sure his career prospects attracted all sorts of attention, both good and bad. Did Curtis ever mention any threats, or enemies, or anything like that?”

      She shook her head. “No. There was lots of media, and people hounding him all the time for autographs or pictures, but mostly they just wanted to be near him. He was such a good kid. Everybody loved him,” she added, snuffling into a tissue. “He was building me a new house in Peterborough, and next year he was going to build me a cottage. He already had the land scoped out, up on Belmont Lake, near Havelock …” She broke down and started sobbing, her shoulders jerking up and down as the tears ran down her cheeks. “We were as close as any mother and son could be.”

      As Ritchie blew her nose, Smith exchanged a glance with Marshall and leaned forward in his chair.

      “What do you mean, Mrs. Ritchie?”

      She stopped crying for a moment and looked up at Marshall, then Smith. “I wasn’t Curtis’s biological mother. He was adopted.”

      “We weren’t aware of that,” Smith said, seeing her puzzlement.

      “I figured everyone knew, ever since that article in Sports Illustrated .”

      “When did you adopt him?” Marshall asked, as Smith scribbled notes.

      “I didn’t.” She sighed and dabbed at her eyes. “Bob — my first husband — adopted him when Curtis was two.”

      “That would be Bob … Ritchie?”

      “Yes, he was married at the time, and his first wife died of breast cancer when Curtis was young — six or seven. I met Bob a few years later. I guess you could say he and Curtis adopted me.”

      Smith СКАЧАТЬ