Delgado is the first to speak up.
“He was on the lam. Somebody must have guessed that he wanted out. Maybe the Richards family. Dennis Richards would surely be furious if Bakie walked out on his sister.”
“Dennis also might have poisoned the dog.”
All eyes turn to Fred.
“The poison came from Alberta—it’s not available here. Dennis boasted that he’d brought rat poison from Alberta and that his mother has had no problems with pests ever since.”
“So it’s a Richards family vendetta?” Sullivan’s fingers drum audibly on the table.
“We know that Dennis Richards invested in Bakie’s restaurant,” Bernard sums up. “Fifty thousand dollars. No written contract. That’s how he got Bakie to get engaged to Melissa. Bakie threatened not to pay him back. We’ve confiscated a knife and a bone saw from Richards.”
Delgado breaks in. “But we’ve got the murder weapon.”
“We’re talking about the dog, not Bakie,” Bernard patiently explains. “Dennis has an alibi from his mother for the time of Bakie’s murder.”
“The way the Richardses stick together, the alibi could have been invented.”
“I think we shouldn’t concentrate just on Dennis Richards,” Gates butts in.
“Yeah, sure. The victim was supposedly confused with somebody else,” Sullivan says mockingly.
Gates doesn’t take the bait. Her years with the RCMP have toughened her up, Bernard thinks. And she knows how to return the ball elegantly.
“How have you progressed with your investigations?” she asks in a neutral tone of voice.
“We haven’t gotten much that’s useful concerning the victim and his family,” Sullivan admits.
So many hours of work for practically nothing. Bernard could tell him that it’s often just as important to exclude something as to find something, but that wouldn’t fly.
“And you?” Sullivan asks in return.
“The hat from Vancouver was apparently sold in an online auction by the animal rescue group two or three years ago. Too bad I forgot to ask Shannon if it was hers. I’ll get back to her. Fred can tell you more about it.”
“I’ve got a list of the seven women who bought the red sweatshirts with the words Animals Are the Better People around that time. At least one of the shirts turned up at a yard sale. A member of the group saw it there. Hard to say where it wound up afterward.”
“And the ax?”
“Belongs to Gerald Hynes, and he verified it. He claims somebody stole it. And he has an alibi for the time of the murder.”
“An alibi from one of his workers who surely doesn’t want to lose his job.” Bernard can’t resist the remark. “We’ve got to put the heat on a few people. Invite them in for a lie detector test. Let’s see how they react.”
He savors the astonishment on their faces. At least a few pleasurable seconds for today.
“You’re not serious, Sarge,” Delgado says.
“No, of course not. Most people won’t know we’re bluffing. They know about lie detectors from TV and believe everything they see. We’ll just apply a bit of pressure and observe their reaction.”
“How’s this supposed to happen?”
“We’ll start with Dennis Richards and Gerald Hynes. Then we’ll wait and see. Sullivan has also checked on a former employee of Bakie’s who supposedly hates his guts. Bakie fired him because he was on drugs. False alarm, unfortunately. The man has an iron-clad alibi.”
“When do we get the dope on Bakie’s clothes?” Delgado continues. “We haven’t even got the results of the fiber tests. Nothing on blood traces. Let alone DNA. Maybe the perp’s in a data bank, but we can’t even search that.”
Closs feels a stabbing pain in his stomach. “It can take some time.” To divert the conversation, he turns to Fred. “What’s up with the questioning of Dr. Perrell?”
“I thought someone else was taking care of that,” Fred replies.
“He’s my doctor,” Gates says.
Sullivan laughs. “He’s everybody’s doctor, unless Dr. Cameron’s on call. So what’s that supposed to mean? But okay, we’ll contact him.”
Fred thanks him, and Sullivan asks: “Something we should shower him with questions about?”
Gates beats Fred to it. “The knife that severed the dog’s head might have been a scalpel.”
“Well, my dear colleague, you’re laying it on pretty thick today. Should we arrest the doc right now?”
Fred reduces the tension with his dry delivery. “Look into who among the fundraisers was planning to meet at the Viking house on Wednesday, and at what time, exactly. And how they communicated. Then we’ll know if Shannon’s telling us the truth.”
“And we’ll reexamine all the committee members’ alibis,” Bernard announces, avoiding Gates’s eyes because he knows she isn’t pleased with his response. Because she thinks the killer is still after his real victim. Hell, even if she’s right—and he hopes not—then he can’t do much about it. Happens to a lot of investigators. Murders you anticipate and still can’t prevent in spite of all your efforts. Some people can forgive themselves; others let it eat them up inside. Or they bite as tight as an attack dog and never let go. Until they die. Or are murdered.
33
I’m boiling inside. So furious that I almost drive into a snowbank. That farce of a meeting—nothing was really discussed thoroughly. Closs simply cut me off. I know my theory sounds startling, but an investigator must be open to options. Closs doesn’t want to come to grips with a potential case of mistaken identity, because it makes him feel powerless. Above all, he doesn’t want my assumption to get out to the public and cause panic. Then the Winter Games would be down the drain. As if they’re more important than people’s safety.
I don’t know if my presumption is correct. I just want it to be taken seriously. It can be fatal not to spot a danger. Fatal for innocent people. The way it was fatal for Becca Heyer. And maybe for Kris Bakie.
A husky crosses the street and I brake. It must have gotten loose from somewhere, because he’s dragging a chain behind him. Probably one of the dogs in the dog-sled race. I don’t have the strength to worry about it. Closs would tell me to get lost if I came in with a stray dog. The sarge is so desperate that he’s threatening people with a lie-detector test. Very funny. There’s not a machine like that for miles around.
Two murders, no progress. We haven’t even been able to clear up the circumstances around the death of Arrow, Bakie’s dog. Fred thinks Dennis Richards poisoned it. But that doesn’t mean he decapitated the dog. And anyway, what would his motive be? The dog wasn’t just Bakie’s but Dennis’s sister’s as well.
At least Fred didn’t turn against me. He could easily have exploited the situation. He doesn’t think my suspicion implausible. But in doing so, he puts himself directly in his boss’s line of fire.
My turn-off comes into view. My anger shifts to Georgina Closs. Good neighbor Rick sent me a text. Georgina has dropped off sleeping bags, pillows, and other things at his place because I wasn’t home and the door was locked. She’s a busy bee and efficient—you’ve got to hand it to her. I’m royally pissed off nevertheless because I’m losing my privacy, and during a stressful murder investigation.
Pains in my right leg have come back. Remarkable, the places my brain sends signals to. I knock on the front door at the Stouts’ out of habit, although nobody here knocks. The children are all over me at once when they hear me. Nothing beats the sight of a genuine woman Mountie. They want to see my gun, but I fend them off.
Rick appears in the hallway.
“I was on the john,” he excuses himself. He looks as if he’s just gotten up; his hair is sticking out all over his head. I don’t envy him taking care of the kids; I had to take care of my kid sisters for years. Older children condemned to do the same would later either have a huge flock of kids or want to have none at all. I belong to the second group.
Without my asking, Rick informs me t
hat Meeka’s gone to the arena for rehearsal. I conjure up three stuffed bunnies from my backpack: white snow hares, the Winter Games mascots. The two boys tear them out of my hand.
Dulcie hugs her stuffed animal very tenderly, with both hands. Her eyes are shining.
“What’s his name?”
“You can give him one.”
“Arrow,” one boy shouts, the one whose name I can never remember.
“No, not Arrow,” Dulcie protests. “Not Arrow.”
I help her out.
“Maybe Bunnybaby.”
“Yes, Bunnybaby.” Dulcie beams and trots off with her bunny. “Bunnybaby. Bunnybaby,” I hear her sing.
I look at Rick but don’t want to mention the dead dog with the children present. It’s really peculiar that Dulcie thinks Dr. Perrell did something to the dog. And that the boy said the name Arrow.
“It’s all here, downstairs,” Rick says as he leads the way. In the basement, I stay rooted to the spot, staring at four bulging garbage bags. They’re a sparkling blue.
“Where did you get these garbage bags?”
“Those are Georgina’s things.”
“I can’t believe my eyes!” I exclaim.
Poor Rick. My reaction must absolutely confuse him, but I don’t discuss my discovery with him. He helps me load up the sleeping bags.
“Found anything out about Bakie yet?” he asks.
“I can’t say because it’s an ongoing investigation.”
Rick nods in resignation.
“He didn’t deserve it. Really didn’t. Meeka’s crushed.”
I didn’t get that impression during my last conversation with her, but many people don’t show their feelings openly. Rick goes into the house and brings back a plastic container from his freezer.
“Here, for you. Meeka’s pea soup’s the best, and you surely don’t have much time now to cook.”
I’m touched and thank him before driving home. I’m barely through the door when I phone Closs.
“Your wife brought me some sleeping bags, and they’re packed up in blue garbage bags. Where’d she get them?”
He doesn’t seem to understand right away. He’s got a press conference going on. Online, conference call.
“Why did she take sleeping bags to your place?” he asks.
Holy smokes! Don’t they ever talk to each other?
“For my guests, for some athletes in the Winter Games. The garbage bags are shiny blue.”
Now the penny drops.
“I’ll call her. She’s on the night shift. I’ll call you right back.”
I drag the bags into the guest room. My leg’s throbbing.
As I’m putting the pillow cases on, Closs calls back.
“My wife got them from the clinic,” he states. “The bags are used for wet special waste, like after operations.”
“And who has access to the bags?”
“The whole staff.”
“This means that all the people working in the clinic have to be looked at more closely.” I suppress a sigh.
Closs waits a bit before sharing a further complication. “The bags aren’t properly disposed of. They wind up in the dump, which is actually not permitted, in fact.”
“If I understand you correctly, there are special bags in the clinic for special waste, and they nevertheless wind up in the dump—every last one of them?”
“So it seems.”
I think for a minute.
“Somehow I can’t imagine somebody going to the dump, emptying a plastic bag with disgusting stuff in it, and then reusing it.”
“Unless somebody wants to throw suspicion on somebody else.”
“That would be an awful lot of people.”
“About two dozen people work in the clinic, not counting the cleaners.”
I’d love to say, “Quiz your wife about the folks in the clinic.” But I’ve got to leave that to him. I hope he’ll do it.
After our talk, I thaw Meeka’s pea soup out, heat it up, and swallow it down boiling hot. I’d never expected a soup to taste so good. Salt beef, yellow split peas, onions, carrots, and turnips. She added bell pepper as well. Sated by a good meal and therefore less angry, I shove the memory stick into the laptop and go through the content of Bakie’s emails, hoping to verify my theory of mistaken identity. A few irrelevant emails in the inbox. I go to the trash folder and find the exchange with Dennis Richards. Who thinks like that? Forcing Bakie to marry Melissa by investing in his restaurant? Some marriages don’t last long, even with the best of intentions, as I know from my own experience. Martin, my ex, was a fair-weather partner, and I had some really good times with him. But when the going got tough, he left me. Bakie was already out the door; maybe he loved Melissa as well as he could, but he obviously didn’t want to chain himself to the Richards family.
I’m astonished to find an email from Ann Smith: Kris, don’t push it too far. Or else it could mean a sudden end for you.
At first reading, it sounds like a death threat. But I reject the thought after some consideration. It’s more probable that Ann was referring to a conflict within the organizing committee. If Kris were to demand impossible terms for his banquet, then the others would drop the whole project.
I look in the photo file. About two dozen pictures of meals beautifully presented on plates. Bakie on a snowmobile trip. Pictures of landscapes. Bakie with sled dogs. A couple of family photos. Then some posed pictures with Melissa, probably engagement pictures taken by a professional photographer. You can tell by looking. But otherwise no personal pictures with Melissa. Maybe she moved them to another electronic device.
I take a second look for deleted files. I find just four photos, apparently of the hospital’s committee for fundraising. All of them are the same, but still, one strikes me. It’s of Dr. Perrell with Meeka, Bakie, Shannon, and Ann. The doctor and Shannon placed Meeka in the center. Meeka and Dr. Perrell aren’t looking at the camera; their heads are turned to each other—the sun must have blinded them.
Ann is wearing sunglasses and standing closer to Bakie. Rather close, but they aren’t touching. She looks serious, as if she had to force herself to pose for the photo. Bakie, on the other hand, is smiling. A head-turner. He’s about Ann’s height, slim—no muscleman. He looks rather wiry. He isn’t wearing his green parka yet but a blue down jacket. Ann’s in a white, embroidered parka. I’d love to have one like it.
My leg is relaxed; the pains have almost disappeared. Doesn’t mean a thing; they come as quickly as they go away, often in bed as well. Suddenly something hits me. I cover Ann and Kris’s heads with a sheet of paper. Then I stare at their height. They’re almost the same, and both have a slim build. Of course. How could I miss it. The killer could have mistaken Bakie for a woman. People in the dark, and in voluminous winter clothing and with their heads covered, can hardly be told apart. If my theory’s correct, then the murderer could be going after a woman.
Two thoughts flash through my mind: First, should I warn Shannon, Ann, and Meeka? Thought number two: What if one of them is the killer?
I think frantically. As an RCMP officer, I must leave these kinds of warnings to my boss. And I also can’t really imagine that one of these three women can knock a man unconscious with a heavy flashlight. Even if the flashlight is perfect for it. Unless the perp is completely out of her mind and prepared to risk everything. Shannon, maybe? But why?
I go through dozens of scenarios in my head, write down names and notes next to them. I don’t know how much time has gone by when my phone twitters. The name on the display tells me I have to get ready for a rather long conversation.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Hello, my little girl. How are you?”
“Rather well. Just a little tired today. How are you and Dad?”
“He’s feeling better. His heart is almost back to normal. I just have to make sure he takes all his medications. And you, are you taking yours?”
I am almost thirty-six and still being mothered. At
some point in the future, that will be reversed; I know it from friends with elderly parents. To be sure, my mother will only give up her role with great resistance—I’m convinced of it. I love her, especially from a distance, because otherwise she’d squeeze all the air out of me.
“I certainly do; they really help me.”
“Glad to hear it. Do you have a lot of stress?”
Her question tells me she’s already heard about Bakie’s death.
“Who told you?”
“It was in the paper. A young man, an Inuk, used to be a chef at the Hyatt Regency in Vancouver. How dreadful.”
I suspect she thinks Bakie’s violent death is dreadful, but for her it’s even more dreadful that I must investigate a murder.
I settle her down.
“It happens all over, even in Labrador.”
“Calista, I’m worried. That’s not normal. You’ve just arrived in this godforsaken hick town and are supposed to investigate what happened to Lorna Taylor. And now there’s another murder. How’s that possible? You seem to attract these things.”
I tense up. “What do you mean by ‘I attract these things’?”
“Disaster follows you around.”
“Mom, it’s the other way around: I follow disaster.”
“Ever since you heard that poor girl screaming back then, these things happen to you.”
“They don’t happen to me, Mom, they happen to innocent people. Go ahead and call these ‘things’ murders.”
“I know, I know. I often think back to that night, my dear. Your father and I, we ought to have listened to you. We ought to have—what was her name again?”
“Becca. Becca Heyer. But I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
My mother could never be stopped when she got talking.
“If we’d gone looking for Becca right away, if we’d called the police right away, then you’d never have developed this obsession. We—”
“Yes, and the main thing is that maybe Becca would still be alive! That’s worth an obsession, don’t you think?”
“But you were only twelve years old, Calista. You looked for her everywhere, rang every doorbell. You constantly talked about Becca—nothing else.”
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 22