BOOK EXCERPT: Norman’s Conquest a romp of mystery and murder

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After narrowly surviving a heart attack, Norman Pugsley, the grizzled managing editor of the Ottawa Daily Advocate, hopes for a quiet retirement. Instead, he becomes entangled in a decades-old murder mystery. The 2024 follow-up to Don Butler’s A Life of Bliss whisks readers into a world of eccentric journalists, travel adventure and a protagonist who discovers his inner feminist.

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It was Fawzia Hassan’s idea to meet at the Jolly Cow in Sandy Hill, the sort of chichi counterculture emporium Norman Pugsley normally shunned. But Hassan, not far removed from her student days, didn’t own a car, so it was a convenient choice for their rendezvous.

Convenient for her, at least. For Pugsley, it meant trekking downtown from his redoubt in the suburbs — an expedition he’d largely avoided since his retirement six months earlier. The excursion was especially galling given that he’d only agreed to meet the Advocate’s young police reporter as a favour to his former boss, Renata Richter.

Pugsley took a tentative sip of his latte, as if it were something faintly menacing. Hassan had urged him to order it after he confessed that he had no idea what a latte was.

He scrutinized the young woman across the table. She was perhaps 25 — the same age he’d been when first hired by the Advocate — and reported on crime and the police, a beat he’d once covered with distinction. But they had nothing else in common, he thought to himself.

She was gorgeous, with flawless ochre skin and a mop of artfully styled black hair. Despite his recent weight loss, he was pudgy, white and balding. She was an immigrant whose refugee family had come to Canada when she was five. One of his distant ancestors, Horace Pugsley, was a United Empire Loyalist who arrived in 1784, long before Canada was a country. She was just beginning her professional life. His was over.

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“So, Fawzia,” Pugsley said, “tell me where you’re at with this, ah, Jenny Birchmount murder case. What have you found out so far?”

“Not a lot, unfortunately. From what the police tell me, there hasn’t been much response to the reward offer. A few tips but nothing terribly helpful so far.”

“Any word on who put up the reward?”

“Afraid not. The person apparently wanted to remain anonymous.”

“Who are your sources?” Pugsley asked.

“That’s the problem. I’m new on the beat, and I haven’t yet been able to cultivate many reliable sources. Most of my information is coming from police media staff.”

“Well, that’s no good,” Pugsley said, frowning. “The media mouthpieces never tell you a goddamn thing that’s useful.”

“What about you, Mr. Pugsley? Do you still have sources that could be helpful?”

“If we’re going to work together, you’ve got to stop with the ‘Mr. Pugsley’ crap. Makes me feel like a fossil. Call me Norm.”

“Sorry. In my culture, we respect our elders. Somehow, calling you by your first name seems too chummy. But I’ll try.”

“Good. Now, sources. It’s been more than 20 years since Jenny Birchmount’s murder. Most of my police sources are either retired or dead. But I’ll check and see who’s still out there. Maybe they’ve heard something.”

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“Terrific. What do you remember about the case … Norm?” she asked.

Pugsley paused to collect his thoughts. For two decades, he’d diligently tried to banish all memories of the Birchmount murder. Now Fawzia wanted him to summon them up — and relive a painful episode of his own history. Be careful Norm. Proceed with caution.

“I think you know most of it,” he began. “Jenny was 19 when she was killed. She’d had a rough life … abused sexually and physically by her father. She left home when she was 16 and had to turn to prostitution to survive. She did well enough for a while — guys who use hookers like them young and fresh-faced, and Jenny was all of that.”

Hassan flinched. “Something wrong?” Pugsley asked.

“We don’t call them hookers anymore, Norm,” she said. “They’re sex workers.”

“Why does your generation need to change all our words?” Pugsley growled.

“Just trying to haul you into the 21st century,” she replied.

“Well, don’t. So far, I’m not fond of this century,” Pugsley said grumpily. “Now you’ve made me lose my train of thought. Where was I?”

“You were saying men like sex workers young,” Hassan told him.

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“Jenny’s luck ran out on a cold November night in 1985. Her frozen body was found a few days later in a woodlot in the Greenbelt. She’d been strangled.

“There weren’t a lot of clues. The night she was murdered, one of her fellow … sex workers saw her get into a luxury car — likely a Cadillac, BMW or Mercedes — with a man who looked to be in his late 40s. The police checked out hundreds of men who fit the profile, guys that age who owned black luxury cars. They identified a few suspects, but there was never enough evidence to bring charges.”

“Were you still on the police beat?” Hassan asked.

“No. I’d been on Parliament Hill during the final years of the Pierre Trudeau government, and the paper had named me its investigative reporter about six months earlier.” Pugsley got a wistful expression on his face. “That had long been an ambition of mine.”

“Why were you covering the story?”

“I volunteered. My daughter, Barbara, was only a couple of years younger than Jenny, so her murder really hit close to home. I remember thinking, ‘What if that were Barbara? How awful would that be?’ ”

“I get that,” Hassan said. “Since I started on this story, I’ve become a bit obsessed, to be honest. Some young Somalis join criminal gangs because they don’t fit in. The discrimination can be tough to handle. Believe me, I’ve faced it.” Hassan took a deep breath before continuing. “Jenny’s challenges were different, but her life was just as hard. If the two of us can find justice for her, that would be something special, wouldn’t it?”

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Oddly, Pugsley felt moved by Hassan’s words. “It sure would.” The ghost of Jenny Birchmount hovered, but to his surprise, he now felt more willing to open a long-locked door, even if only a crack. “Let’s get to work, my young apprentice!” They tapped their lattes in an informal toast.

***

Dr. Beauregard Fisher held a stethoscope to Norman Pugsley’s chest. “Deep breath,” he intoned.

Fisher straightened up, slipped the stethoscope out of his ears and smiled. “Everything sounds normal, Norm. You’re making an excellent recovery.”

“That’s terrific, Beau,” Pugsley said. It had been seven months since his last checkup and those were the words he’d hoped to hear. “I’ve been following your bloody instructions to the letter.”

Fisher arched an eyebrow skeptically. “Really? You’ve even cut down on the booze?”

“I’ll have you know a six-pack of beer lasts me two weeks these days.” There was no need to tell his doctor he usually followed the beer with a whisky chaser.

“It does look as if you’ve dropped some weight, Norm. Step on the scale and we’ll see where you’re at.” Fisher shifted some weights on the mechanical scale. “199.5 pounds. Good work.”

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“Really, I broke 200? Worth a celebration, don’t you think?”

Fisher spotted the twinkle in Pugsley’s eye. “A little one, sure … What about your family, Norm? Have you heard from your daughter recently?”

Pugsley’s face darkened. “Not a word. She lives in Richmond Hill, so it’s not like she can just drop in. But a phone call every now and then would be nice.”

“What happened there, Norm? You and she were so close when she was younger.”

“Barbara didn’t handle my divorce from her mother well. She blamed me, I guess. She was in touch after the heart attack, but once it was clear I was going to pull through, I didn’t hear from her again.”

“That’s too bad,” Fisher said. “It’s important for cardiac patients to get emotional support. They can easily slip into depression otherwise.”

“I’m fine, Beau. Been on my own for years now.”

“Sure. But didn’t you like to get together with your newspaper buddies before you retired?”

“Yeah, we had some laughs. Of course, we usually were pissed,” Pugsley added with a brief chuckle. “I’m not allowed to do that anymore, because of you!”

“Not because of me, Norm,” said Fisher. “Because of your heart attack. Do you still see your office mates?”

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“Not a lot. I guess they’re busy. Or maybe they just don’t need me anymore now that I’m not their boss.”

“Isn’t there anyone you’re in touch with from the office?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. You know the editor, Renata Richter? I’ve told you about her.”

“The crazy lady?”

“That’s her. We’ve been getting together for meals now and then.”

“Well, that’s a surprise. Given everything you’ve told me about her, she’s the last person I’d expect you to see.”

“Me too,” Pugsley said. “She’s still bat-shit crazy when it comes to journalism, but if you can get past that, she’s OK.”

Fisher gave Pugsley a long look. “You’re sweet on her, aren’t you?”

“No, no. That’s insane. Not at all. No way. No chance.”

“Methinks you doth protest too much, my friend,” Fisher said with a smile.

Is he right? Am I falling for Renata? Christ on a bicycle!

“No, Beau. She only wanted to persuade me to work with one of the paper’s reporters on a cold-case murder.”

“Oh? Which one?”

“The Jenny Birchmount case. It’s been more than 20 years. You probably don’t remember. She was a teenaged, um, sex worker who was murdered in the mid-80s.”

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“They never found the killer?”

“No. He’s still out there somewhere. Assuming he’s still alive. I’m working with the Advocate’s police reporter, Fawzia Hassan. Someone offered a $50,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer. We’re doing some digging to see what we can turn up.”

“Sounds stressful,” Fisher observed, furrowing his brow. “You’re still recovering from a very serious coronary, Norm. You stepped down from your job to take better care of yourself, which was smart. Jumping back into some big murder story might not be wise.”

Pugsley nodded slowly. “Truth be told that case brings back a lot of bad memories. I’m not all that eager to revisit it.”

“That’s another reason to be cautious, then,” Fisher said. “Stress can be a killer, especially for people with heart problems.”

“So as my doctor, you’re advising me not to do this?”

“If you’re sure you can handle it, go ahead. But it might not be the best idea.”

“Thanks Beau. Once was more than enough. I’ll tell Fawzia I’m out … on doctor’s orders.”

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Norman’s Conquest is published by Ottawa Press and Publishing and is available in Ottawa area independent bookstores, Indigo/Chapters, and through Amazon.ca. Don Butler will be signing copies at Books on Beechwood Saturday, Sept. 7 from 1 to 3 pm. Butler is a former executive editor of the Ottawa Citizen. 

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