Ottawa author Barbara Fradkin retired after more than 25 years as a child psychologist in order to devote more time to her writing a passion since she was a child. She is part of the notorious Ladies’ Killing Circle, which edited anthologies of mystery short stories by Canadian women. She is a two-time winner in Storyteller Magazine’s annual Great Canadian Short Story Contest, as well as a four-time nominee for the Crime Writers’ of Canada Award for Excellence for Best Short Story.
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Shipwrecked Souls is the 12th in the award-winning series featuring quixotic, impetuous Ottawa Police Inspector Michael Green. The story opens with the death of an elderly Ukrainian woman in a remote back alley, but the investigation leads the detectives back in time to the secrets, lies and desperation of the Second World War. In this scene, junior detective Josh Kanner is trying to trace why the woman was in the alley in the first place.
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Josh Kanner was not on his way in, however. He was flipping through his notes in search of that little scrap of memory that had niggled at him earlier. He remembered that at yesterday’s update, Sullivan had reported on an anonymous tip about a restaurant owner who’d talked to the victim on the day she died. The man thought she was looking for someone in the neighbourhood behind the alley. Josh himself had done the house-to-house canvass in the area Monday morning, turning up no one who’d seen her. But in his notes of that morning, he’d recorded the names of everyone he’d interviewed.
Now he scanned the notes, and the name leaped out at him. Simon Stone of 2993 Walter Street. When he pulled Google Maps up on his phone and zeroed in on the area, his breath quickened; 2993 Walter Street was almost directly behind the alley, one block away.
He remembered the man well, even though the exchange had lasted 15 seconds. The house was like the many small, red brick, strawberry-box houses built for veterans returning home after the Second World War. The cedar shrubs were overgrown, dwarfing the house, the paint on the windows was peeling, and the front basement window was boarded up. The poor old house was in need of some serious TLC.
When the man opened the door, the reason had been obvious. He could barely stand. He looked at least 90 years old, bent double and clinging to the doorframe with a trembling hand. He fixed his watery blue eyes on Josh with suspicion, and although he tried to sound gruff, his voice quavered. He brought with him the stink of old sweat, unwashed clothes, and urine.
Josh hadn’t even got a glimpse inside. In retrospect now, it seemed the man couldn’t get rid of him fast enough. Josh searched his memory. Had there been a flicker of recognition on his face when he’d looked at Anya’s photo? Or was it just alarm because despite the Ident photographer’s best efforts, she was so clearly dead?
Perhaps it was one last lead worth checking out before he went back to the station. After all, he was already out in the west end, and he was on a roll. The fresh white snow of earlier in the week had turned to crunchy brown sludge along the curbs, speckling the snowbanks. The little brick house looked even more forlorn, and Josh was not surprised to see that although a single set of footprints tracked to and from the street, no one had shovelled the drive. He parked his car and plodded through the snow to the front door. This time the doorbell elicited no response. Thinking Stone might be a bit deaf, he hammered on the door.
Nothing.
He stepped back to peer at the front window, which was shrouded by drapes. There was no sign of movement. Where could the old guy have gone? He could hardly walk. Josh was just admitting defeat when a voice hailed from next door.
“Are you looking for Simon?”
He turned to see the kindly old woman who’d given him tea that first day. She was balancing on her front step in her furry pink slippers. Suspecting she saw everything from her front window, he smiled and slogged across the yard.
“Hello, Mrs. Campbell. Mr. Stone doesn’t seem to be in.”
“Oh, you’re that nice detective.” She hugged her sweater around her and stepped outside, furry slippers and all. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. Of course, he doesn’t come out much, especially in winter. In the summer he sits on that front porch and watches the world go by, like he’s hoping for a smile or a wave. I was beginning to worry if he was all right. He’s in his late 90s, you know. Anything can happen.”
“Does he live alone?”
“Yes. He used to have a dog, but it died some time ago.”
“Any family? Friends? Someone he might visit?”
She shook her head. She was beginning to shiver, and he reached for her elbow. “Maybe we should go inside.”
She didn’t budge. “There’s a son, but he disappeared years ago. Simon is quite private, so he doesn’t talk about himself much. He’s a nice man, shy but always helpful in the neighbourhood when he was younger. He had a sort-of old-world gentlemanly quality to him, and he loved his gardens. But now …” She looked around the street sadly. “Most people here don’t remember that. They just see a feeble old man and walk right by him on his porch. I sometimes wondered how we’d know…. Do you think we should check on him?”
“The door’s locked, and as a police officer, I can’t just —”
“Oh, I’ve got a key, had it for years. He has mine too. I can check.”
Josh hesitated. Involving a civilian and entering a premises without authorization — without checking with Sarge — was probably two steps too far. But she’d already gone back inside to put on her coat and boots, and before he’d even made up his mind, she was back with the key. When he didn’t move, she laid her hand on his arm. “He’s over 90 and hasn’t been seen in days. Best be safe. I’m a nurse, not practising anymore, but I remember a thing or two about emergency care.”
He followed her back to Stone’s house. The minute she opened the door and stepped inside, the smell nearly knocked him over. As if everything was rotting.
“Oh dear. Simon,” she muttered, stopping at the entrance to the living room. “The place is a tip. He never throws anything away, but this … oh my.”
He peered over her shoulder into a small room piled high with books, old newspapers, and dirty dishes. A side table was overturned in the corner, and papers were strewn across the floor. On another table were two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of vodka.
“Is he a drinker?” Josh whispered, as if the man were listening.
“Used to be, yes. But a peaceful drinker, you know? A bit sad.”
A sense of foreboding was creeping over Josh. “You stay here, Mrs. Campbell. I’m going to look for him, but the less we disturb things, the better.”
She recoiled, and Josh cursed his clumsy wording. He had not meant to imply something sinister, just potentially grisly.
He hurried through the rest of the main floor — a small kitchen cluttered with unwashed dishes and half-empty food containers, through to a back sunroom full of more papers tossed about — before threading his way up the stairs through more stacks of papers and books. Upstairs, the two bedrooms were empty.
Josh began to breathe more easily. Maybe the old man wasn’t here. Maybe this mess was the usual state of his house. Remembering the footprints outside, he wondered if the old man had called for a taxi or a friend. Josh returned downstairs, shaking his head. But before he could tell her it was all clear, she pointed a tremulous finger at a door hanging ajar.
“You best check the basement. He never leaves that door open.”
He opened the door wide, releasing a fresh gust of pungent air redolent with mould, damp, and something even he recognized. Death. And at the bottom of the steep, narrow staircase, he saw the source.
— Excerpted from Barbara Fradkin’s Shipwrecked Souls, Dundurn 2025.
Ottawa author Barbara Fradkin.
WHAT BARBARA FRADKIN IS READING:
The long, warm summer days are perfect for reading on my cottage dock or under the trees in my backyard. I love Canadian authors, and this summer I’m catching up on the latest hot crime fiction. So far, I have read The Cost of a Hostage by Iona Whishaw, Home Fires Burn by Anthony Bidulka, Finding Flora by Elinor Florence, and You Light up my Death by Mary Jane Maffini. All fascinating, uniquely Canadian stories.
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