CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1)

by Bernadette Calonego

  Before the funeral I quickly downloaded the emails on Bakie’s laptop onto a memory stick—without Closs knowing. Purely a cautionary measure. You never know what can happen when a laptop goes for a stroll. I also found more emails in the trash folder. Deleted, but fortunately not completely lost. I’d love to know if that was Melissa.

  All of a sudden I hear a quiet voice behind me.

  “Your disguise doesn’t really work, Gates.”

  I turn around. Sullivan is thrilled with his discovery.

  “I recognized you by your boots,” he whispers. “That’s my trick right now, looking at people’s footwear.”

  “Well done, Constable,” I whisper back. “Are my pictures from the crime scene helpful?”

  “I found the key footprint myself.”

  He takes three steps backward, away from prying ears, and I follow.

  “We’re mainly interested in one footprint: a rubber snow boot, a popular model, lined with felt. You can get them here in the village.”

  “So we’re looking for a man who doesn’t get around much and buys his shoes in the village.”

  “Or a woman with big feet who’s creating a false trail.”

  Poor Lorna. We’re discussing Bakie’s murder while her remains are being buried. But her death might be connected to Bakie, and the person who drew our attention to that possibility was the one who left a blue garbage bag on the ice.

  “Where’s Delgado?” I whisper.

  “He’s monitoring Lorna’s family. Who’s here and who’s not.”

  “So you think a relative might be involved? I thought there was nothing to that.”

  “Now that we’ve got the body, we hope things can start moving.”

  Seems to me that the perp is the one who’s doing the moving. He put the crate with Lorna’s remains on the beach for all to see. I expect him to do something else soon. Hopefully he won’t commit another murder.

  “I’m pretty sure the murderer wouldn’t miss this funeral,” I reply.

  “Why are you here, Gates?”

  “I’m going to interview Grace Butt, Lorna’s friend.”

  “You’ll never get anything out of her,” Sullivan asserts. “I’ve tried a number of times.”

  “Maybe she’ll want to talk now that Lorna’s been found. She . . . ”

  I stop because there’s a skirmish in the lower corner of the cemetery.

  Shouting and screaming drown out the minister’s words, and he stops talking when he becomes aware of the commotion.

  “It wasn’t me,” a man shouts over the crowd and the gravestones. “It wasn’t me.”

  I look at Sullivan.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Scott Dyson.”

  Sullivan takes off in the direction of the turmoil.

  Dyson. The man who found the crate with Lorna in it.

  Two hours later I’m sitting in my armchair, all keyed up.

  Ernie Butt is in my living room and hasn’t sat down because he’s so incensed.

  “If I hadn’t broken it up, who the hell knows what they’d have done to Scott,” he says. “Scott had nothing to do with Lorna’s death; the police have been saying that for a long time. The Taylors are just looking for a scapegoat, probably because they’re trying to protect somebody.”

  Grace is sitting still, her fingers interlaced. It looks like she’s fighting back tears. The funeral of her murdered friend has clearly upset her. That’s great for me, because when someone feels overwhelmed, they usually start talking. But her husband is still preoccupied with the confrontation at the cemetery. He’s already described it for us in great detail: how Lorna’s two brothers went after Scott and tried to beat him up, and how he, Ernie, protected Scott, “the poor bugger.” I think, though, that Sullivan and Delgado are owed at least some of the credit for helping to drive Scott’s attackers off. The minister calmed the grieving family by telling his little flock that they should put their trust in God. He didn’t say anything about trusting the police. I hardly remember anything after that, because it was around that time that I spotted Gerald Hynes in the crowd.

  “Who’s the family protecting?” I ask Ernie, who finally sits down on the sofa.

  “The Taylors have been fighting like hell among themselves over land ever since Granddad Sherman died. Sherman would roll over in his grave if he knew about it.”

  Grace looks at her hands in distress. I’ve got a feeling she won’t say much as long as Ernie’s here. Her black, shoulder-length hair has been straightened, just like Lorna’s in the file photo. I’ll think about this similarity later.

  While his wife is silent, Ernie rants.

  “That’s what happens when you don’t have your property surveyed and registered. People live on land they don’t have papers for. And do you know why? Because they don’t want to spend their money on surveyors and fees. They’d rather buy a new Ski-Doo.”

  Maybe they have a more urgent need for a Ski-Doo, I think to myself. Ernie has moved to Happy Valley-Goose Bay and found a good job there. He seems to find people in Port Brendan backward, given his new vantage point. I look through the living room window and see Rick Stout coming toward the house. He checks out Ernie’s dove-colored GMC Yukon.

  “Your car has an admirer,” I say to Ernie, who jumps to his feet and goes to the window.

  “Rick Stout,” he tells his wife. “The poor bastard will never be able to afford a car like that.” He turns to me. “I always drove a pickup. This is my first SUV. Feels great driving it, I must say.”

  “But you’ve occasionally taken my SUV,” Grace corrects him.

  Ernie throws her a look of annoyance. He obviously doesn’t like to be corrected.

  “Your old jalopy has nothing on a Yukon. Look at that: Rick’s eyes are almost popping out of his head.”

  Poor bastards and old jalopies apparently don’t rank very high in Ernie’s world, which doesn’t stop him from putting on his shoes and jacket and rushing outside. Men like nothing better than to show off a new car. Rick has done me a huge favor without knowing it.

  I immediately focus on Grace. She’s wearing stylish horn-rimmed glasses that don’t detract from her stunning eyes. They’re the same dove color as her husband’s SUV.

  “I must compliment you,” I admit, to relieve the tension. “I feel so good in this beautiful house; it makes everything a bit easier for me.”

  She tries to smile, and almost does.

  “I could decorate homes all the time, I find it’s a lot of fun. You can get everything over the internet these days, you know. But doing it my way lets me free up my imagination and dream a little.”

  “Did Gerald Hynes help you with the renovations?”

  “Oh no, I did it all myself. That is, Scott worked for me, but I told him exactly how I wanted it. He did all the carpentry work under my supervision.”

  Scott worked for Grace. I make a mental note of it.

  “You’ve clearly got talent. Where does it come from?”

  “Oh, I’ve always gone to websites on interior decorating. Lorna was crazy about it, too. She even subscribed to a magazine for interior design.”

  “I know this must be difficult for you, especially today, but may I ask you a few questions about Lorna?”

  Grace nods. Her blue, moist eyes shimmer behind her horn-rimmed glasses.

  “She worked in a furniture store in Happy Valley-Goose Bay?”

  “In the gifts department. There were cushions and candles and vases and all sorts of pretty things. She knew the latest trends.”

  “Did you move to Happy Valley-Goose Bay together?”

  “Lorna went first. Her parents had no objection. The Taylors . . . they’re very nice. It’s true there was a fight over a piece of land, but . . . if you ask me, that happens in many families. Ernie’s exaggerating a bit there.”

  I look outside. Four men are standing beside Ernie’s SUV and shooting the breeze. For quite a while, I hope. The incident at the cemetery is certain to be one
of the things they’ll be going over.

  “Ernie doesn’t like the Taylors?”

  Grace blushes.

  “I used to go out with Donnie Taylor. Lorna’s brother. Before I went with Ernie. Ernie absolutely wanted to get out of this place, and me, too.”

  I can very well imagine the situation. Donnie Taylor wanted to stay in Port Brendan, and so he lost the girl. Not easy for a man who’s attached to his native soil. Or to his piece of the ocean.

  “Where did Lorna meet her boyfriend Guy Stravitz?”

  “In the Happy Hour bar. Lots of Americans go there. And all the foreigners stationed in Happy Valley-Goose Bay.”

  “How about you?”

  “No. Ernie didn’t want me to go out. We were engaged by then.”

  “But would you have wanted to go out with Lorna?”

  She wavers for a second, then catches herself.

  “Only with Lorna. We always had great fun together. But my faith doesn’t allow it.”

  I ask myself which faith bans bars and hazard a guess. “Are you Pentecostal?”

  Grace nods.

  “Was Lorna’s family against her relationship with an American soldier?”

  “At first she only told me. I mean . . . about Guy. But that was because she wasn’t sure how serious he was about her. Ernie always said, ‘It’s not going to go well; he’ll get her pregnant and then ditch her.’ He worried about Lorna.”

  “You told Ernie about it?”

  Grace turns her eyes toward the stylized bird on the wall. An exotic piece, not from Labrador.

  “Yes, you’re not supposed to keep secrets from your husband.”

  Her remark speaks volumes. If she can say that, then she definitely has some secrets. Because she’s under pressure to be good. Decent. Free from sin. Apart from her love of interior decorating, what inclinations can this young woman actually live out? Her friend Lorna had fewer inhibitions. And fewer things were banned. Grace must have found Lorna exciting.

  “When did Lorna tell her family?”

  “Shortly before . . . before she disappeared. Maybe three weeks before.”

  Grace’s fingers are clasped together.

  I do a quick calculation. Lorna was together with Guy for a little over three months.

  “How did the Taylors react?”

  “They wanted to meet Guy at once, naturally. They told Lorna to bring him to Port Brendan. But she wanted to wait.”

  “Were her parents and brothers unhappy that she fell in love with an American?”

  “Lorna never said anything like that. But you know . . . in the past a lot of women from Newfoundland and Labrador married American soldiers. That’s really nothing new.”

  Grace stretches her back, livens up.

  “We aren’t anti-American. Take my father: he still thinks Newfoundland and Labrador should have joined America and not Canada.”

  I’m perplexed.

  “Was that an option the population could consider?”

  “Yes, in a referendum after the war.”

  “World War Two?”

  “Yes, 1948. We joined Canada a year later. It always upsets Ernie when my father gets going about it. He . . . ”

  We hear the front door open and the rustle of clothing. Ernie’s back. Rats. My time with Grace is over.

  “Donnie Taylor has to go to the police station,” he shouts from the hallway. “That’ll teach him a lesson.”

  I ignore his remark, look at Grace.

  “Who do you think might have held something against Lorna?”

  She looks at her husband, who kneels down beside her chair and caresses her arm. His voice caresses her, too.

  “So say it, my dearest, the police have to know.”

  Grace sighs and brushes her black hair out of her eyes.

  “Kris Bakie.”

  28

  Fred is angry as he steers his snowmobile through the Port Brendan streets. The funeral happened hours ago, but vehicles are still blocking the roads everywhere. Worse than the damn snowbanks. He’s in a hurry. The boss has called an important meeting, and he doesn’t want to miss it. He curses under his breath. Nothing prevents people here from driving around in the dead of winter so they can be part of the excitement. Especially if it involves murder or manslaughter. Or a fight in the cemetery. He knows he’s being unfair, but he has to let off steam under the cover of the noise from his machine.

  By the time he makes it to the station, everybody’s sitting around the conference table. Closs is really formal. Fred sits down beside Gates and dismisses his fellow officers’ mocking comments about his late arrival.

  The sergeant begins to speak: “I’ll send out a press release so that the media leave us alone for a few more days. Today we’ll put together everything we have at the moment. First the shoe prints. I’ve analyzed the photos from the crime scene; Sullivan found another important footprint there. Pass these pictures around. One snow boot is remarkable because it’s not sold in Port Brendan. The make is McCallough, you can see the large C on the sole. Rubber sole and rubber shoe with a gaiter and laces. Size nine. Take note of that boot.”

  Fred removes the picture from the pile. A pretty ladies’ boot. That should be easy to trace.

  Closs speaks again: “No visible signs of heavy wear on the sole profile; the boots are new, or fairly new. Probably the Seymore SR model.”

  You’ve got to hand it to the boss: Closs knows how to get information from the RCMP data bank fast.

  “The boot comes in black and beige.”

  Gates holds up her tablet, on which she’s downloaded an image.

  “Right, find out who wore these, Gates. But we’re more interested in this imprint here.” He passes around some more pictures. “Rubber boots—they’re sold here. Only this make. Size eleven and a half. Partly worn-down sole profile. I assume that the perp was wearing them.”

  “Can you tell us why?” Calista asks.

  Fred looks askance at her. Her face is somehow different than it usually is: full of energy, but also paler. She must feel she’s on firmer ground after six days. She finds her way around in this wasteland amazingly fast for a woman from Vancouver. Two unsolved cases are probably just right for her. No time to reflect on loneliness. Because she definitely feels lonely in these strange surroundings. He knows the feeling.

  “Because women aren’t stupid enough to leave a sole profile like this one behind in the snow. Do you like that rationale, Gates?” The comment comes from Sullivan, of course.

  Closs doesn’t follow up on it.

  “We should examine footwear from several men very closely.”

  “I’ve even seen women wearing rubber boots like those,” Delgado says. “They really keep you warm.”

  “Dennis Richards, for example,” Closs goes unblinkingly ahead as if he hasn’t heard Delgado. “Richards says he invested fifty thousand dollars in Bakie’s restaurant. That led to friction between the two. Richards claims Bakie didn’t want to pay him back. Apparently there’s no written agreement between them. We have to take a look at bank withdrawals, but that will take some time. The whole business stinks, if you ask me.”

  “You don’t just give someone fifty thousand dollars without an agreement,” Gates remarks. “Perhaps Dennis Richards wanted to launder some money and not leave a paper trail. In Vancouver that’s done through restaurants all the time.”

  Fred doesn’t buy it.

  “I can’t imagine Bakie risking his reputation for that.”

  “He probably didn’t know what the dirty source of the money was,” Gates replied.

  “Why would Richards launder money?” Fred says. “As far as we know, he’s had nothing to do with drugs.”

  “We’ll follow this up,” Closs says. “Richards could also have something to do with the dead dog. He had the tools for it. And he worked in Alberta, where it’s no problem to get rat poison, unlike here. Delgado, anything else from the crime scene?”

  “No footprints inside the sod ho
use, Sarge; the floor’s frozen fast. No signs of a struggle. No fingerprints. The perp wore gloves. He evidently planned it.”

  “And what about Bakie?”

  “Also no fingerprints from him. The door must have been open when he entered the Viking house. He still had his gloves on. When are we getting his cell phone?”

  “This evening, if all goes well. And then we hope to find out more about the body. Fred?”

  He’s taking Gates last. As if that isn’t a coincidence.

  “I checked out the wooden board with the stamp. Hynes told us the mill delivered twenty boards with the wrong dimensions, and that they’d gone back to the mill. I got the wrong dimensions, and they matched the width and thickness of the piece of wood in the blue garbage bag. The stamped board from the crate with Lorna’s skeleton was cut to fit. I found out where the wrong boards first wound up—at the children’s playground. Some people built a playhouse with them. The sawmill donated the wood. But it wasn’t all used up.”

  “Who built the playhouse?” Delgado asks, who doesn’t have any children. Closs is the only member of the team with offspring.

  “A couple of fathers. And Hynes’s foreman.”

  “Randy Fillier,” Closs says. Fred isn’t surprised that the boss knows Fillier. Closs had a large garden shed built.

  “Where did the rest of the boards get to?” Calista asks. “The ones that weren’t used for the playground?”

  “Fillier couldn’t tell me. Now I’ve got to track down the fathers. But I did turn up something about the red sweatshirt. At least one was auctioned off during an online auction run by the animal rescue group. And another was seen in the Salvation Army’s thrift store. So it wasn’t necessarily Lorna’s sweatshirt in the blue garbage bag.”

  Closs finally lets Calista have the floor.

  “Shannon Wilkey was in Vancouver and Whistler during the Winter Olympics,” she recounts. “And in a press photo she’s wearing the same cap we found on the ice. I discovered the photo on the internet.”

  They all stare at Gates, until Delgado retorts: “There were ten thousand of those hats sold.”