“Meeka Stout complains that her husband spends hours clearing snow for the Mountie instead of watching the kids so she can get out of the house.”
How did we ever come to talk about Meeka Stout? he wonders. Did I miss something?
The cook keeps at it.
“Meeka has her admirers, too. That’s why Rick won’t let her go on tour. Meeka so wants to be a nurse. Preferably in surgery. She’d like to assist with operations. That’s what she told my niece. Blood doesn’t bother her. She brings Dulcie to the clinic regularly. I think she just loves the atmosphere here. How’s the pie?”
“Wonderful,” Fred replies, licking his lips.
The cook beams. “Picked the partridge berries myself. I got twenty big buckets last year. I know a few spots where the berries grow real good.”
“Is Dulcie sick?”
“I don’t exactly know what’s wrong with her. Dr. Perrell was very worried. As I said, he had a heart for the poorest people. And now—it’s so awful. Everybody loved him, except Georgina Closs, maybe.”
Fred helps himself to more pie. He’s on thin ice with the cook at this point but doesn’t want to stop her.
“Please don’t tell her that, Constable, or I’ll be in hot water. But Georgina often criticized the doctor. Because of expenses—always expenses. That he gives too much away. That the patients get everything they want. He wasn’t strict enough for her. And not punctual enough. She’s always bitching. She’s not very well liked around here.”
“Doesn’t she take part in everything?” Fred can’t resist the question.
“Yeah, sure, but she fell out with the women in the animal rescue group, too, and so she quit. Best that she did. They keep on going without her. But no one else will ever tell you that because of Georgina’s husband.”
Fred lets the berries melt in his mouth and says nothing.
“And Georgina always tries to give me less money for the kitchen. She’s always talking about the budget. The budget. The budget.”
The canteen door opens. A young nurse appears.
“Oh, I . . . I don’t want to interrupt,” she stammers and disappears.
The cook gets up.
“I’ve got to get back to work, or the patients won’t get anything to eat—or the staff, either. I’ve really told you all I know.”
He stands up and thanks her. The cook wraps the rest of his pie in foil, adding another piece.
“For the Mountie from Vancouver,” she explains.
As he leaves the canteen for the hallway, he sees the young nurse from a minute ago standing beside a door. As if she were waiting for him.
“Can I have a word with you?” she asks.
He nods, and she opens the door.
“Best in here.”
It’s the laundry room. She stands between two irons and piles of freshly washed sheets. He takes note of her name on the collar of her uniform.
“I know what happened to Kris Bakie’s dog,” she bursts out without further ado. “I was there.”
His pulse races.
The young woman smiles in apology, then turns serious. “I . . . people here don’t actually talk about it, but . . . after all that’s happened, I think I must tell you.”
She scratches the back of her hand. “Kris Bakie brought his dog to Dr. Perrell. The animal was dead, and Kris wanted to know what Arrow died of. Dr. Perrell said he’d have to do an autopsy to be sure. Bakie agreed. He didn’t attend the autopsy, but I assisted the doctor. He suspected the dog had been poisoned, but he wanted to exclude other causes. Besides . . . he likes to do autopsies.” Her face freezes, then she corrects herself. “Liked to, when he was still alive.”
Fred just nods silently. But now something combative flashes in her eyes.
“I know that Dr. Perrell really wasn’t supposed to do it, but we don’t have a vet here, and he couldn’t simply watch animals suffer. It’s also hard for a pet owner. People don’t understand that, if they live just a short hop away from the nearest veterinarian. I love animals, and I’d do anything to help them.”
She looks at him defiantly. Fred understands the significance of her words. Dr. Perrell might have lost his license if word got around that he treated animals occasionally. But he understands, too, that a doctor with Perrell’s natural disposition couldn’t turn people away who came to him with a suffering animal. The nearest vet practice is in Happy Valley-Goose Bay. Four to five hours by car on a dangerous road through the wilderness. Perrell knew Bakie and wouldn’t have refused his request.
“What happened to the cadaver?”
“Kris didn’t want his dog back after the operation. He couldn’t have stood the sight of it. Toward the end of the autopsy, Dr. Perrell severed the head because he wanted to show me a particular part of its anatomy. That sounds terrible, but . . . I’m very interested in anatomy.” She presses her lips together and then goes on. “I don’t know what went wrong, but the dog should have been disposed of. Along with other . . . special waste.” She thinks briefly. “Maybe the doctor was distracted. Meeka Stout had come in with her daughter, Dulcie, who apparently had had a seizure. He had to take care of her immediately.”
“Who else was in the hospital during those few hours?”
“Me, naturally. It was late in the evening. The night-shift people were in. I . . . would have to look at the schedule.”
“Do you have any suspicion who might have poisoned the dog?”
She shrugs. “All I’ve heard is that some people were not pleased Arrow ran loose.”
“Do you think Dr. Perrell’s death might have something to do with the dog?”
“I don’t know. I just presume that any information’s important.”
Her fresh face suddenly seems anxious.
“That is perfectly correct,” he assures her. “You did absolutely the right thing. Many thanks for the information.”
She seems just as happy as he is to escape the laundry room. He approaches the entrance with rapid steps. Through the glass door, he looks at the snow storm. What drove that young nurse to reveal Dr. Perrell’s breach of the law? She obviously worshipped him but also thought it right for him not to stick to the rules if an animal was sick or injured.
Fred has only one explanation. She must suspect who made off with the dog’s head. And her anger at that person is stronger than any deference to the deceased Perrell.
But who is this person? And who put the scalpel in the RCMP mailbox with the message REVENGE IS SWEET?
46
“I know who cut the dog’s head off,” Fred says on the phone. “Where are you now?”
“At Perrell’s place. Gerald Hynes wanted to pick up a tool. I came with him. He could have gone by himself; he had a key. But he wanted to have me along to avoid problems.”
Fred will surely think that now I’m the one who’s going to have problems.
“He took me on his Ski-Doo,” I add. “My car’s stuck in the harbor.”
“Can you get rid of Hynes?”
I glance over at Gerald, who’s wandering restlessly around the kitchen. He’s dragging a leg slightly, like I do sometimes.
“Yes.”
“I’ll come get you. Take his key and send him home. I thought he was in the hospital.”
“Dr. Cameron discharged him this morning.”
“Let the boss know. Better he knows about it. He won’t whack you in the kisser.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
I put the phone on the table.
Gerald looks at me.
“Everything okay?”
“Fred van Heisen’s picking me up. It’s best if you leave the scene.”
“The scene?” A corner of his mouth turns up.
“Sorry, wrong word. It’s crazy right now. So much to think about. But thanks for these papers. They will surely be a help.”
He stands indecisively in the doorway. “So I’m dismissed?”
“One more question. Did Lorna drive men crazy in Port Brendan?”
He stares at me. “What—drive them crazy?”
“Did she flirt with them, get their hopes up, and then drop them?”
He shakes his head, half amused, half not comprehending. “Don’t all pretty women do that? They know the effect they have on men. They play with it, and men believe in their simplemindedness that they’ve got a chance.”
“So Lorna was no exception?”
“Lorna wasn’t shy about her attractiveness. But I’m convinced she didn’t sleep with anyone except her boyfriend at the time.”
The former boyfriend, who moved across the whole continent to Alberta to work there. Leaving Lorna behind.
“How do you know that?”
“Because the men here really didn’t interest her. Very simple. She wanted to get out. She had ambitions. And she made that clear to a lot of guys. That can wound a man’s ego really bad.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
He’s dumbfounded for a moment, then he responds: “I have to disappoint you, Constable. Lorna might have interested me, but just then she was with her boyfriend. And I hooked up with Melissa afterward. Since we’re on the subject: Ernie was mad for Lorna for a while, in case you want to know. Then he fell for Grace.”
“Did you ever tell this to the police?”
“No, why should I? Ernie was one of many. Besides . . . who’d have thought Ernie was a murderer?”
Ernie could have been one of the people she rejected. Go ask Ernie, Scott Dyson said when I tried to talk to him about Lorna. And his mother said the same thing. Lorna the flirt. Lorna who flaunted her charms. Who liked to go out. Who cast a spell on Grace. So that’s what Dyson was alluding to. Ernie wasn’t good enough for Lorna. Probably found him boring and conservative, although he was making a career for himself in Happy Valley-Goose Bay.
And probably not attractive enough as a man. Maybe she let him sense that indirectly. Or directly. Does Grace know about it? But she’s not talking to us anymore.
“Can I go?”
Hynes’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts.
“Sorry. Yes. Constable van Heisen will drive me to my car. Do you know the Wi-Fi password for this house?”
“Sweet, eight, seven, dreams.”
“All lowercase?”
He nods, then limps out the door.
I know the feeling that must be depressing him. His body has got to heal for him to regain his old self-confidence. And when that happens, some people are going to get scared.
Revenge is sweet.
I text Closs about my and Fred’s whereabouts and summarize what we’ve learned. Closs doesn’t reply. Maybe he worked through the night and is taking a nap somewhere. Or he’s interrogating somebody.
It’s still too dark out for this time of year. The storm moves the snow back and forth like white blankets. I switch on all the lights in the new kitchen. Carl Perrell had a number of spotlights built in. It’s almost finished, but he’ll never see this room again. A life of commitment, senselessly destroyed. With his murder, many patients had their only hopes wiped out. The hope for understanding, healing, help with overcoming bureaucratic hurdles. What murderer would want to do that to his fellow human beings? His hatred of the doctor must have made him blind to everything else. A hatred so great that even his mistake with Bakie didn’t hold him back.
During my last conversation with Perrell, I saw his vulnerable side. He was not only a god in white; he was also a human being who needed intimacy and love. Who had to make difficult decisions every day and witness a lot of misery. His murder is terrible enough. But now our team will relentlessly pluck apart his life, because when we apprehend the murderer, then Perrell’s private life will be made public at trial and the doctor will be unable to defend himself. He will be punished, again and again, though he’s the victim. It makes me furious. Because it also happened to me.
I hear a snowmobile and then noises at the front door. Fred stumbles into the hallway, his helmet still on his head. He frees himself elaborately from his storm protection and lets it fall to the floor, where even more water accumulates.
“Christ Almighty! I thought the squalls would blow me away. I could hardly see a thing.”
He runs his fingers through his messed-up hair. The cold air makes his face look good; he doesn’t look as tired. He picks up his ski jacket and fishes a package out of a pocket.
“From the cook in the hospital. A present for you.”
His eyes are fixed on my rubber gloves.
“Because of the newspaper clippings,” I say mysteriously. “I’ll explain it all, but first I want to hear what was up at the hospital.”
We sit down at the kitchen table. Fred puts the package in the middle and opens the foil. Berry pie!
“What did Closs say?” he inquires.
“I left a message but haven’t heard back.”
He rubs both hands over his face. Then he begins to speak. I’m glued to my seat. He spreads out a wealth of information before me. A network of possible connections and clues.
“Interesting that Meeka was there,” I remark.
He looks at me quizzically.
“Meeka must have gotten wind of the fact that Bakie had brought his dog to Perrell. And Dulcie found out about it, too. She told me that Perrell hurt the dog. That upset her. She even burst into tears. She must have gotten it from somewhere . . .” I recall my conversation with Meeka. “I asked Meeka what Dulcie meant by that, but she acted as if she didn’t have the slightest notion. The question is, why?”
“Maybe because Perrell asked her to say nothing. It could have caused him trouble. In the worst-case scenario, he could have lost his job.”
“Then why didn’t he keep the incident from Meeka? She surely didn’t need to know.”
“Meeka brought Dulcie to the hospital in an emergency. The girl apparently had a seizure. Perrell had to attend to her at once and perhaps didn’t pay much attention to the dog.”
Seizure. Do you still have seizures, Mrs. Gates? I suddenly feel a chill.
Fred toys with the aluminum foil under the pie.
“The cook told me that Meeka wanted to be a nurse. That she was interested in operations.”
“You mean Meeka sniffed around in the hospital whenever she was there with Dulcie?”
“Could be a possibility, eh?”
“What more does she know that she hasn’t told us? She didn’t seem secretive. She even told me that somebody’s sending her indecent emails. She didn’t have to tell me that.”
“Indecent?”
Fred reaches out a hand to attack the pie crust.
“Sexual content. Lewd. As I understood it.” I push the pie over to him. “Please eat it.”
He breaks off a piece and puts it back. “You really ought to taste it. It’s so delicious.”
I take off my gloves and begin to eat. Very sweet and sinfully good.
“Other women have gotten emails like those,” Fred explains. “They’ve been going around for weeks. We haven’t bothered with them yet.”
Not a priority for a purely male RCMP detachment. Doesn’t surprise me. By way of an answer, I arch my eyebrows.
“I know, I know,” Fred responds. He lowers his eyelids.
Now I notice the lack of sleep in his face. Warmth is his enemy.
“Why don’t you lie down for an hour? The boss is probably sleeping, too. He’s not answering. I’ll tell you more about the clippings later. I need some time to search the internet.”
He stands up and indeed wanders into the living room. I watch him lie down. If only this couch could speak.
I take my tablet out of the rucksack. Why was Perrell interested in Yvonne Shelcken? There were hundreds of athletes at the Olympics, after all. Did he treat her when he was an emergency doctor there? Probably not. There’s no mention anywhere in the articles of an injury to Shelcken. I first heard of this American woman through my three guests. I don’t know much about competitive sports and was just happy ten years ago
that the Winter Olympics were over. The one thing I was pleased about was the Canada Line that was built in time for the games. That rapid transit train finally provided a public means of transportation to the airport, as in other big cities. I enter the name of the athlete in the search engine. There are thousands of entries for Yvonne Shelcken. Not only about her sports career. But especially about what happened afterward. That rivets me immediately. A large American rifle organization shows up. Their ads featured Shelcken as their poster girl. Against her will. She sued them for damages. And was awarded them. She gave up her career in sports, went to college, began studying economics. Right-wing conservative groups in the US started to agitate against her. Gun nuts piled on. Then Christian fundamentalists. Then the right-leaning media. Then extremist politicians. Wick Posen, for instance, who made a name for himself with his hate-filled speeches. In an interview, he called her a scandal for the US and said she’d dragged the country’s reputation through the mud.
Even though this country girl who’d grown up on a farm, a wondrously talented markswoman, was able to achieve what nobody had before her: the first biathlete to win Olympic gold for the USA.
It has suddenly gone quiet. Only Fred’s regular breathing is audible. He’s lying on his side, his face turned away. His dark hair is outlined by the bright-colored, decorative cushion his head is on. Funny that I know so little about Fred; I have more trust in him each day regardless. I look out the window. No blowing snow anymore. No howling outside the house! I don’t get it. The storm died down practically instantly. How’s that possible? Labrador is a riddle to me.
I bite off another piece of pie. Riddles inspire me. Including the puzzle of Yvonne Shelcken. After her Olympic win, the gun nuts must have seen her as one of their own. There are photos of her at the finish line, holding her rifle up in celebration. And then she turned against them. Against the rifle association. Against the gun lovers’ pride. And then she just dropped out of a promising sports career.
No more wins for the US. Kiss my ass, she seems to have decided.
I can empathize: Yvonne Shelcken grew up and wanted to go her own way. A life without constraints and daily training. Without public pressure and those never-ending expectations. She began to defend herself. Against sports officials. Against her ambitious father. Against the New Gun Federation. And against the hate of people like the Republican rabble-rouser Wick Posen. She revealed publicly that Posen had been sentenced for domestic violence. The liberal media jumped on the story.
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 31