“But not to people in Port Brendan,” Closs shoots back. “What else did you find?”
“I had an interesting conversation with Grace and Ernie Butt,” she continues.
Then Wendy breezes in with muffins. Calista pointedly stops and doesn’t speak again until the door closes behind the dispatcher.
Fred rejoices inwardly: time and again he’s advised that Wendy be kept away from meetings. Closs has done it irregularly so far. Probably because Wendy and Georgina Closs are friends.
“The year before Lorna met the American soldier—according to Grace Butt—she had an affair with a married man who worked for the Newfoundland and Labrador Liquor Corporation. He revealed to her that Kris Bakie’s restaurant was serving alcohol without a license. Somebody in authority allegedly turned a blind eye to it until the application came through. That drove Lorna’s lover up the wall because he apparently couldn’t stand Bakie and his success. Lorna’s lover broke off the affair a little later. She wanted to take revenge on him by applying for a job at the Eider Duck restaurant because she was bored at the furniture store. But Bakie chose another applicant. Lorna was angry and threatened Bakie by telling him she knew he’d been serving alcohol for six months without a license. She told her friend Grace about it, who was shocked. Shocked at the affair and the attempted blackmail. The furniture store created a gift department shortly afterward that Lorna really liked. According to Grace, Lorna never again mentioned the Bakie issue.”
“I thought we were working on a crime case and not a soap opera,” Sullivan comments. Closs taps his ball point on the table.
“Who is this married man at the Liquor Corporation?”
“Grace didn’t want to cough it up, but he’s supposedly an off-road motorcycle driver, a motocross fanatic.”
“Wade Hickson!” Frank Delgado blurts out.
“That’s a joke,” Sullivan protests. “What’s that supposed to mean? Bakie kills Lorna, and somebody kills Bakie for that reason? Can we get serious about this case?”
Closs nods.
“Something doesn’t add up here. If it was Wade Hickson—let me emphasize the if—then he could have easily busted Bakie over the missing liquor license without getting himself or some naïve chick involved.”
“Maybe Wade was drunk when he let it slip.” Delgado grins.
“If all this is correct,” Calista explains calmly, “then I conclude that Lorna Taylor took some risks. I don’t mean to say that she was extorting Bakie. But she seems to have been putting pressure on him. Maybe she threatened Hickson, too, when he dumped her.”
Sullivan snorts. “C’mon, people. Knock it off. Lorna was not cagey; she was an impulsive local yokel.”
Calista doesn’t contradict him. “Maybe that’s exactly it—she was impulsive. She talked faster than she thought.”
“Why didn’t Grace tell us about this earlier?” Closs inquires.
“Because she promised Lorna she wouldn’t tell a soul. Grace is religious. After Lorna’s body was found and Bakie was murdered, she told her husband. And he advised her to take it to the police.”
“Holy Ernie, the patron saint of the Highway and Transportation Department.” Delgado can’t stop taking potshots.
Fred wonders if he’s the only one who’s bothered by that.
“A lot isn’t clear to me yet,” Calista concedes. “The tales of Bakie and the married lover throw a new, less positive light on Lorna; Grace really seems to have liked her in spite of that. Maybe she thinks all of a sudden that this information will help find her murderer.”
“And she needed three years to have this insight?” Sullivan literally spits his words out.
“In any case, we’ll have to follow up on these new clues,” Closs decides.
Sullivan doesn’t let it go. “In Happy Valley-Goose Bay? Don’t you think we should keep our focus here in Port Brendan, where the action is? The crate was found on Savage Beach. The blue garbage bag turned up in Ghost Bay with all that suspicious stuff. Bakie’s murder took place in the Viking house. But Grace’s story leads to Happy Valley-Goose Bay. That goes against our working theory.”
“I also think that both cases have a strong connection to Port Brendan,” Calista announces. “It seems to me that Lorna’s murder looks like a settling of scores with Port Brendan—or with events here. Nevertheless, we have to expand our investigation. It would be good if our counterparts in Happy Valley-Goose Bay could question Wade Hickson. Sullivan and Delgado have questioned some of Lorna’s family members twice, and people around them. I know you’ve already tackled this, but could we go over where the killer might have hidden Lorna for several days one more time? Where could that place be; who had the opportunity to carry out something like that, logistically speaking?”
“After Lorna was discovered,” Delgado interjects, “when you, Gates, were still in Vancouver, we easily interviewed three dozen people, beginning with Lorna’s brothers and relatives, and fishermen and hunters, men and women. Even the mayor. We’ve checked out alibi after alibi. Nothing went anywhere. Half the locals own a pickup and a boat, a cabin on the beach or in the woods, or both. Many go into the forest to cut wood; nobody pays any mind. Or they’re in the woods to inspect their traps for coyotes or rabbits. Almost all the men are physically strong. And many have built a crate, like the one on the beach, for storing their duck-hunting decoys. To reduce the number of suspects and possible hiding places, we need to first have a halfway-concrete suspicion.”
Fred has never heard Delgado talk so exhaustively. He must be frustrated, like everybody else on the team, that things aren’t moving ahead. And because now they’ve got a second murder case to solve.
“Then it would certainly be helpful if we think hard about the killer and his motive.”
Gates picks up a sheet of paper covered with notes. “I’ve tried to generate a profile of the killer. It’s probably a man, because a woman carrying out the actions connected to the murder would be more likely to attract the attention of potential eyewitnesses. The perp is proud he hasn’t been caught yet. So now he’ll grow bolder. At the same time, he’s challenged the police by putting the crate with Lorna’s remains right on the beach. He feels so safe that he thinks he can risk it. Or he needs confirmation that he’s really cunning and clever. Maybe something’s gone wrong in his life, and he has to compensate for it. He’d like to build up his confidence with his actions. He feels superior to us. We know from previous murder cases that he’s watching closely to see how we react. That gives him a feeling of power. It might mean that he needs to make up for feeling weak in his everyday life.”
“And how, my dear colleague, are your insights supposed to help us move the investigation forward?” Sullivan’s voice drips sarcasm.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if the perp eventually gets so arrogant that he makes a mistake.”
“Theories are there to be adapted to new findings” is Closs’s rejoinder. “We don’t want to fixate on one thing and overlook other information.” He casts his eyes around the group. “And we don’t want to prematurely release the names of people involved in the case. Or else we’ll have another incident like the one in the cemetery.”
“Scott Dyson was never under suspicion,” Delgado objects. “Three years ago, when Lorna disappeared, he was in the Corner Brook clink.”
Fred can easily picture the confrontation in the cemetery. Lorna’s brothers must feel like losers for not being able to protect their sister. They’d like to slit the killer’s throat, but he hasn’t been caught. In their frustration they must find a scapegoat. He’s experienced this kind of thing before in small communities.
Calista’s voice takes him out of his thoughts. “Did you bring Lorna’s brothers into the station?”
Closs shakes his head. “What makes you say that?”
“Ernie Butt says so.”
“That’s not the way we resolve conflicts here, Gates. Especially at a funeral ceremony. We’ve gone and warned the Taylors that we won’t tolerate anything o
f the sort.”
Closs picks up the pile of papers before him and slaps them into shape.
Fred senses he’s about to issue marching orders.
29
It’s amazing what nine hours of sleep can heal. I can even better withstand the cold that hits me when I open the front door. I feel better until I discover something under the wiper on my staff car. I immediately turn ice cold. It’s a red glove. Thin leather. It’s mine. I haven’t worn it since coming to Port Brendan. Far too thin and too stylish. Normally I keep both gloves on a shelf in the basement. I sort of remember that. I bring the stiff glove back into the house. Its twin is in fact lying on the shelf. Is my brain playing tricks on me? Or is something else going on? I’ve got to change those damn locks; I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.
I go outside again, carefully locking the front door behind me. A black pickup goes past. Somebody’s out and about earlier than me. Looks like Rick Stout’s car, with an Inuit woman behind the wheel. Until now, I’ve only seen Meeka once, from a distance. I follow the pickup to Rick’s house.
When Meeka gets out, I shout: “I’m Calista Gates, your neighbor. Can I talk to you for a bit?”
She wrinkles her brow before saying, “Sure.”
I take off my boots at the door and follow Meeka in my socks to the kitchen, where there’s a large wood stove. The kitchen cupboards look worn, and the yellowish stove seems to be a model from the seventies. Toys and children’s clothes are lying around everywhere. I suddenly feel transported back to my childhood. With seven offspring, my mother never managed to keep the house tidy. It wasn’t important to her. “Kids are kids,” she’d always say when people came over. To make up for it, she had thick Greek coffee and spanakopita ready at all hours of the day.
Meeka takes her cap off. She looks young, with her full face and smooth skin, chin-length black hair, and bangs. Rick must be at least ten years older. We sit down at the kitchen table. Meeka doesn’t offer to make tea. She undoes her jacket zipper but doesn’t take her jacket off.
“I can’t stay long. I just came back to put some more wood on the fire. The stove is our only source of heat. My husband’s with the kids at the arena. They’re practicing for the opening ceremony of the Winter Games . . .”
“This early in the morning?”
She sighs. “Yes, I could hardly get them out of bed. They have to go to school afterward, and Dulcie goes to occupational therapy.”
“There’s OT here?” I’m impressed.
“In the seniors’ home. The therapist does crafts with the old folks, and Dulcie can join in. She loves it.”
Meeka’s face softens, though she doesn’t smile.
“We’ll keep it short,” I reassure her. “Maybe you can call your husband and tell him you’ll be coming a little later?”
“He doesn’t have a phone; I have it. We’ve only got one in the family. Two phones are too expensive.”
“I think so, too; cell phones really eat up a lot of money. I won’t keep you long. It’s about something your daughter told me when she was at my place recently.”
Meeka interrupts me at once. “The kids shouldn’t have barged into your place. They were simply delighted to be able to go mummering. They told me about the hot chocolate you gave them.”
Now a smile flickers over her face.
“They were no bother,” I say. “At least I know now what mummering is.”
“You’re from Vancouver, aren’t you?”
I nod. “There’s no mummering there.”
“I was invited to a concert in Vancouver once, with a throat-singing group. It was during the Winter Olympics. We played at various locations, in hotels and community halls. We were only there for four days, but I’ll never forget it.”
I prick up my ears.
“Shannon Wilkey was in Vancouver, too. Did you ever talk to her about the Olympics?”
Meeka’s smile vanishes. “Shannon? No . . . I didn’t know that.”
“Did you get a cap with the Vancouver logo as a souvenir?”
“A cap? No. Why do you ask?”
Meeka turns cautious. I can see it.
“Do you still travel?”
“Not anymore. My husband . . . he doesn’t like it when I’m away. I’ll perform here now, in the Viking house. For the tourists in summer. That way I can earn a little money. But now . . . ” She stops. “It scares me, the murder and all that. Who could do a thing like that to Kris? It’s just awful. What’s going to happen with the fundraising? And his restaurant?”
Her eyes grow dim, and she looks down at the tabletop.
“What do you think, Mrs. Stout: Who’d want to kill Kris Bakie?”
She presses her lips together for a second. “That’s what I’d like to know, too. I know his family. Kris is . . . He went to Vancouver and other places, and he came back with new ideas.”
“Are there people here who don’t like the new ideas?”
She slides back and forth on her chair. “The Labrador Inuit are industrious and modern. They have their own businesses.”
“Kris must have been a role model for them. But did many people see him as competition, because he was away for so long?”
She hesitates. “Maybe some people want a piece of the cake, but it’s not big enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not everybody makes money from tourism, or from the businesses in this place.”
I hope she’ll say more, but she gets to her feet, opens the stove door, and shoves in two large pieces of wood.
I wait for her to sit down again.
“What do the Inuit think about the Viking house? I’ve heard not everybody’s happy about it. Because it’s not about Inuit culture.”
“I don’t have a problem with it. Main thing is that the tourists come, for whatever reason. Then we can educate them about Inuit culture.”
“Who’s got a key to the Viking house?”
And who’s got a key to my house?
She’s alert again. “Everybody who’s involved with the fundraising.”
“Dr. Perrell, then?”
She nods.
“Shannon? Ann Smith?”
“And me.”
“Can you give me the key?”
Meeka gets up, stands on tiptoe, and stretches her arm to find the key on an old buffet. I take it and thank her.
She doesn’t say anything. I must divert her before she clams up completely or even rushes out the door. She’s shown an amazing degree of patience with me. Maybe I’m not the only one between the two of us who’s curious.
“How does it work, your throat singing? I mean, what’s the technique behind it?”
“Technique? I don’t know if there’s a technique to it. Maybe more of a tradition. Most sounds come from here.”
She points to her larynx.
“Can you show me how?”
“Now?”
“Only if you want to.”
“Normally I sing duets with a partner.”
She thinks for a moment, then sways her head.
“I could sing you a lullaby for a child.”
Her lips open slightly, and a song flows from her mouth, the likes of which I’ve never heard. A succession of scratchy pants, gurgling sounds, a deep, dark humming, a throaty roar, and strained mmmmmhs. It seems as if not only Meeka’s larynx but the entire kitchen vibrates. It ends in a soft, purring puff of breath.
When Meeka sees the expression on my face, she laughs for the first time.
“You’ve never heard that before, eh?”
“Maybe once on TV, but a long time ago. That sounds like . . .” Words fail me.
She helps me out. “We imitate sounds of nature: water, animals, wind, ice. My mother and grandmother taught me many songs, but I also create new ones.”
“So you’re a composer.”
She laughs again. “Maybe you could call it that.”
Then her face turns serious. She clicks on her cell phone.
&
nbsp; “I have to leave soon. What did Dulcie tell you?”
“The boys teased her because she was afraid of Dr. Carl. That got her stirred up. She said, ‘Dr. Carl hurts the dog.’”
“What dog? We don’t have a dog.”
“Maybe she meant Kris Bakie’s dog. You’ve probably heard that somebody killed the dog and cut off its head. I wonder what Dulcie meant.”
My questioning doesn’t sit well with Meeka; she jiggles around on her chair.
“No idea. She’s never said anything like that to me. I don’t have any idea if she knows about Kris’s dog. I certainly haven’t told her about it. Children don’t need to know about that.”
“Was she afraid of Dr. Perrell?”
“She needs her shots now and then. She doesn’t like it.”
“Shots for what?”
“To relax her muscle cramps.”
Meeka draws a circle on the table with her finger.
“If I were a nurse, I could give Dulcie the shots myself. That would be my dream job, but things never got to that point.” She sighs.
Poor Meeka. It would have been horrible for me not to have a job I loved.
“Might your husband have said something to your little one about the dog?”
“I’ll ask him.” Meeka looks worried.
I notice something moving outside. Through the window I see a car driving up to my house. I stand up.
“Is something else bothering you?” I ask as we leave the kitchen. A calculated ploy. People often reveal more after a formal conversation than they did earlier. They are less guarded, more relaxed.
“It’s just that my husband takes care of everything. The kids, money . . . work. And now this . . . awful death. I don’t want to be more of a burden to him.”
“Burden to him how?”
“Somebody’s sending me stupid emails, and he read them. I don’t know who’s behind it.”
“What kind of stupid emails?”
We’re standing by her front door, and I see a heavily clothed figure in front of my house waving to me.
“Oh, kind of slimy things. And then things like, ‘I love you,’ ‘I miss you,’ I can’t wait to see you.’ Stuff like that.”
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 19