Thin Ice (23 page)

“Must have been a big commitment, both in time and money. My son's in-house league and even his fees are expensive. I can only imagine.”

“It's gotten crazy in the last few years,” Ritchie said. “But even five years ago, it was significant. Luckily, I had the house paid off when Bob died, and I had some insurance as well. Plus, Tom was his own boss, so he could make his own hours. We were lucky, I guess.”

“So Tom was pretty involved in Curtis's hockey … career, I guess we'd call it … even at that age.”

“I guess so.” She shrugged her shoulders. “He went to all the practices, and the games as well, of course.”

“Did you go to the games with him?”

“I went to all the home games, yes. I didn't usually go on the road though, unless it was a big game, or Tom and I made a trip to the city out of it, you know?”

“Sure. Tom was a pretty big hockey fan, then, obviously?”

“Yeah, he liked the game.”

“Got really into the games, did he?”

Ritchie's lawyer raised a grey eyebrow, which Marshall ignored.

“Sure.”

“Did he ever yell at the referees, during a game ?”

“If it was a lousy call, sure.”

“What about Curtis's coach, like maybe if he wasn't getting enough ice time?”

“I don't know, maybe.”

“How about Curtis? Did he ever yell at —”

“Can I ask where this is headed, Detective?” The lawyer was sitting up straight, and had set his pen down on the yellow pad in front of him.

“We're told Mr. Saunders had a bit of a reputation for being a hothead at the rink,” Marshall said, ignoring the lawyer and addressing Mrs. Ritchie instead. “We just want to know if you ever saw him get angry at a game.”

“That's hardly a crime, is it?” the lawyer interjected, refusing to be ignored. “If it was, you'd have to arrest most of the junior hockey fans in the country,” he added, chuckling at his own joke.

“Did he?” Again, Marshall looked to Ritchie for an answer.

“He would yell, from time to time, yeah,” she replied. “At the ref, or the coach, even Curtis sometimes.”

“What about after the game? Maybe at the dinner table?”

“It was hard to avoid talking hockey in our house, but Tom wasn't riding Curtis, if that's what you mean.”

“Like criticizing his play, saying he should have skated harder, passed, shot … whatever,” Marshall prompted.

“No. Well, no more than any parent trying to give advice.”

“What about Curtis's coach? What was Tom's relationship with him like?”

“Relationship?” Ellen Ritchie raised an eyebrow and glanced at her lawyer.

“Well, you said he was at every game and practice, on the road for every tournament. They must have got to know each other over the season.”

Ritchie sighed. “I really don't know. Look, I followed Curtis's hockey, but it's not like I was chatting with the coaches after every game.”

“Not like Tom, then?”

“Tom was more involved, yes.”

“Do you know if Tom ever got in arguments with Curtis's coach — either …” Marshall looked down at his notes for the name of the Peterborough coach for the two years Ritchie played there “… Steven Grace, or any of his minor hockey coaches ?”

“No … I don't know. I'm sure they had disagreements.”

“Are you sure about that?” Marshall made a show of reading his notes and pulling out a statement from Grace, in which he referred to several shouting matches with Saunders, including one in particular that had turned into a scuffle.

“I believe my client has answered your question,” Ritchie's lawyer interrupted.

“That would be a no, then….” Marshall nodded, ignoring the lawyer's glare. “Would you say Tom had a temper, Mrs. Ritchie?”

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

“What happens when Tom reaches his breaking point, as you put it?”

“He has never laid a hand on me, if that's what you're asking. His bark is much worse than his bite.”

“But you acknowledge he has a temper?”

“He can yell with the best of them, but not at me. He knows I can give it right back.”

Marshall smiled, flipped through his notes, and then stood. “Don't mind me — sore back,” he said, starting to pace the length of the table. “Tom can't have been happy when Curtis hired Dan Avery right before the draft.”

“Is there a question in there, Detective?”

“I was getting to it, if you give me a chance. What was Tom's reaction, when he found out that Curtis had hired Avery?”

“He wasn't happy about it, but it wasn't that big of a deal.”

“Really? I would have thought he would have been pretty upset. I know I would have been, in his —”

“I said he wasn't happy.”

“What did you think of Curtis's decision?”

“I didn't agree,” she said, looking to her lawyer, then back at Marshall. “But I can understand why he did it.”

“Why do you say that, Mrs. Ritchie?”

“Curtis was reaching a turning point in his life. Turning eighteen, gaining his independence. I think he just wanted to make his own way in the world. Maybe it had something to do with his being adopted, I don't know. He didn't do it to hurt Tom.”

“But it did hurt him, didn't it ?”

She sighed. “Of course.”

“All those early mornings at the rink, as you put it earlier,” Marshall said, with an understanding nod. “The time, the money he invested over the years.” He stopped before the lawyer had put his pen down again. “Did Tom tell you about his run-in with Curtis in March?”

She nodded. “He was drinking, and he got carried away, that's all. Whatever he said, he didn't mean it.”

“What did he say?”

“My client wasn't a witness to the incident in question, as you well know….”

Ellen Ritchie ignored the protest from beside her. “Curtis told me what he said. Tom said he was going to kill him, but Curtis knew he didn't mean it. He pretty much laughed it off.”

“Doesn't sound like a laughing matter to us. It must have caused a bit of a rift between them, didn't it?”

She shook her head. “Tom apologized when Curtis got back from the road trip, and that was that.”

“Just like that?” Marshall made a show of looking incredulous.

“Yes, just like that. I know what you're trying to do, but you don't know Tom at all. He wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“Are you aware he was arrested twice for assault?”

Ritchie paused, seemingly stunned. “I know there was an incident at a game. Some loudmouth fan got in Tom's face and they got into a bit of a scrap. That was about a year ago. The other guy tried to press charges, but it didn't go anywhere. That's all I know about.”

“The other incident was before you met him, about eight years ago, in Toronto. A bar fight.”

“I don't know anything about that.”

“Was there a conviction?” the lawyer asked.

Marshall shook his head. “He was charged with uttering threats and assault, but the charges were dropped. There's a bit of a pattern there though.”

“Surely you're joking, Detective.” The lawyer scoffed and waved his hands dramatically. “Two unrelated incidents over the course of eight years, neither of which resulted in conviction. That's hardly a pattern.”

“Don't get bent out of shape, counsellor. Besides, who are you representing here, Mrs. Ritchie, or Tom Saunders?”

“I'll be representing them both — in a wrongful prosecution and harassment case, if this keeps up.”

Marshall suppressed the urge to respond, and instead maintained an even smile as he continued. “All right, Mrs. Ritchie. You've said that Tom was never violent to you, and we believe you. Let's talk about Tom's latest business venture. Coolite.”

Mrs. Ritchie sighed and put her arms on the table. “I thought we already did.”

“How is business, do you know?”

“He's just getting started. It's too early to tell. But I'm sure he'll do well. Tom's always been a very good businessman.”

“Yes, he had his own paralegal firm, right?” Marshall made a point of consulting his notes.

She nodded.

“When did he sell that, again ?”

“Last winter.”

“So, just before the draft, then.”

“I think he sold it in January. The draft was in May or June, but whatever.”

“Fair enough. We understand he didn't get a lot of money for it.” Marshall pulled out his notes.

“I think he got around a hundred thousand.”

“That's not much, for his life's work.”

“He was happy with it.”

“And this Coolite business, the start-up costs you referred to earlier, where did they come from?”

“Tom … well, both of us.”

“You have a joint account?”

“Yes we do, not that it's anyone else's business.”

“Did Tom tell you that Curtis had cancelled his photo shoot last Friday?”

“No,” she said after a moment's pause. Smith thought he detected a slight twitch in Ritchie's so-far unflappable lawyer.

“Did you know Tom had been to see Curtis at his condo the night before his death? Friday night. And that he seemed upset?”

This news clearly took Ritchie by surprise. She paused and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, while her lawyer started scribbling on his yellow pad. “No.”

“Why do you think he might have been upset …?” He stopped, catching sight of her lawyer's disapproving look and abandoning the question. “How old is Tom?”

“He's fifty-one.”

“So he's got a few years to go before he retires, right? A hundred grand isn't going to get him there, not these days. We understand he doesn't have much else in the way of investments. Then he starts sinking money into his new enterprise. If it doesn't work out …”

“I think we'll do fine.”

“He will now, sure.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” There was fire in Ellen Ritchie's eyes.

“I mean that there are significant payouts under Curtis's contract with the Raftsmen — their insurer, actually. Those payments go to you, of course, as Curtis's designated beneficiary, but, as you said, you have a joint account.”

“This is disgusting,” Ritchie said. “I don't have to listen to this.”

“Please, Mrs. Ritchie. I know these questions are difficult, but isn't it a possibility you should be considering?”

“What?”

“Let me give you our perspective. Tom drags Curtis to every game, practice, and tournament from Peterborough to the GTA to New York State and beyond, all at great expense in time, money, and business equity, for the past five years. He's advising Curtis all along, and Curtis isn't exactly objecting, until a few months before the draft — then Tom is unceremoniously dumped.”

“That's not how it happened at all.”

“Isn't it? We know Tom has a temper, even if he never let it loose on you, and we know he basically attacked and threatened to kill Curtis shortly after he was cast aside in favour of Dan Avery.”

“That's not …”

“Those are facts, Mrs. Ritchie. But that's not all. Not only was he discarded like an old shoe as Curtis's agent, he discovers exactly one day before the murder that Curtis has no intention of endorsing his new line of clothing either.”

“He just postponed the shoot, that's all.”

Marshall shook his head. “We spoke to the photographer. The shoot was cancelled, not postponed, and Tom was furious — ‘incensed' is how he was described. And maybe he had reason to be.” Marshall pressed on despite the lawyer's brewing objection. “After all he had done, suddenly his paralegal business is gone, his agent's commission has evaporated, and his Coolite plans are up in smoke, as well.”

Ritchie was staring down at her hands as Marshall paused to take a breath.

“This is all speculation, at best,” her lawyer said.

“We know he was in Ottawa the morning of Curtis's death. We know you weren't with him, and that he had ample opportunity to slip out of his sister's place unnoticed. We know he was at Curtis's condo the night before, angry and demanding to know where he was. With all of that, Mrs. Ritchie, can you honestly say the thought would never have crossed your mind?”

There was silence in the room as Ritchie continued to stare at her hands, then raised her head slowly, a tear running down her cheek as she fixed Marshall with a stare from her red-rimmed eyes.

“You're wrong.”

Smith and Marshall stood outside the interview room, looking in as Ritchie and her lawyer talked in hushed tones and she wiped her eyes with a tissue.

“Don't I feel like shit.” Marshall sighed.

“You did what you had to in there, and you did it well,” Smith whispered.

“Well, I don't think it helped us any. She's obviously convinced he had nothing to do with it.”