by J C Paulson
At seven-thirty, Grace left a quick voicemail message for the city editor with basic information about the murder, and managed to make it into the newsroom by nine.
“Do you have the press release from the police yet?” she asked Claire Davidson, after dropping her gear at her desk.
“I just read it. Holy shit, Grace. What in hell happened last night? You look exhausted.”
Grace pulled up a chair across from Claire and told her the whole story.
“The police officer who caught Suzanne when she fainted said it was grim,” said Grace. “He wouldn’t give me any details. But this is going to be an awful story.”
“Yeah, and you can’t write it. But you can give your details to . . . well, to whoever is going to write it. You were not just on scene, your friend is involved.”
“I know, I know, I’m too close to this one. You don’t have to explain, Claire. Who are you going to assign?”
Claire looked around the newsroom.
“Well, Lacey did a great job on your case. I’ll ask her. It’ll be a rough go, so I don’t want her to take it on if she doesn’t feel she can.”
But Lacey agreed with gusto to taking on another huge local crime story. Grace started typing out notes and questions to ask the police about what happened the night before, and Lacey got on the phone with police communications. They put her through to James.
“Hey, Lacey.”
“Hey, James. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay. Tired. It was a long night. Can’t wait to catch this freak.” He paused. “You’ll have to ask me questions and I’ll see if I can answer them.”
“Let’s start with how she was killed.”
“She was stabbed.”
“In her home.”
“Yes.”
“At what time?”
“We don’t know yet. We found her at dawn. About four-thirty.”
“How did you find her? I mean, who called it in? It wasn’t a crime in progress, as I understand it. Did someone hear or see anything?”
“A neighbour called us, worried about having seen something unusual next door. But you know that.”
“I know I know that. But I have to ask. This woman’s dog was killed less than two days before she was murdered. Do you think there is a connection?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Any other details you can give me? Do you have a murder weapon, where was she stabbed — on her body, I mean — and do you have any leads on the killer?”
“No, no, and no.”
“Was she stabbed twice? Three times?”
James sighed. Damn reporters, always wanting exact details.
“More than once.”
“What do you mean, more than once?”
“We have to wait for the autopsy, but she was stabbed more than once.”
Lacey’s mental antennae stood straight up. How many times had the killer cut her?
“Where was she found, exactly?”
“In her basement.”
“And where is this home?”
“In Nutana. I can’t say more, honestly. And I know Grace knows where this house is, but for God’s sake, don’t publish the address. Please. I’m asking all the media not to publish the address. It will come out, but there are reasons why we don’t want the whole damn city showing up there to gawk.”
“I’ll talk to Claire. For now, I’m sure she’ll agree. So last question: do you know if this was a personal or a random attack? Early days, I know, but is there any indication it was personal or random?”
“No. We think it was personal because of the . . . ah, nature of the attack. Unfortunately we can’t say for certain.”
“Have you released her name yet? It’s not on the presser. Obviously we know it, but have you reached her family?”
“No. Not yet. I don’t think her family lives in the area.”
Grace, who was listening to Lacey’s side of the conversation, passed her a note; a thought had just crossed her mind. Hilliard. The name rang a bell for Grace; she had gone to high school with a girl who had the same last name, of mixed Indigenous and Scottish blood. Pretty, dark-haired Sherry looked as if she could have similar heritage.
“I understand from Grace the victim may be Indigenous. Does her background have any bearing on the case?” Lacey and Grace, and everyone else in policing and reportage, knew that Indigenous women were victims of crime at a rate well above the average.
“I don’t know. Thanks for telling me. I’ll look into it, but for now, no comment.”
“Damn it, James. This isn’t going to make for a well-rounded story.”
“I know. I’m sorry. The autopsy will take a few days, at least. Likely more. Give us a few hours, will you, on the name?”
“Yeah, of course. Want to tell me off the record what the hell is going on? At least, why you guys are being this cagey about the details?”
James paused.
“We just can’t say much yet. We need to know if it’s personal, which is bad enough, or random, or something even worse. People are going to be worried and we have to catch this guy, so we have to be careful, and not create fear if it’s unwarranted.”
“Okay. But we have to run as much information as we can, because it’s our job — not just yours — to serve the public interest. And that means warning women to be careful, if they need to be.”
“I know, I know. It’s a tough call, Lacey. I’ll get you more in a few hours if I can.”
“Thanks, James. I see the spot you’re in. We’ll do our best to walk the line.”
“Appreciate it, Lacey. Later.”
“Later, James.”
After consulting with Grace and Claire, Lacey avoided the address, the victim’s name and limited herself to saying the woman had been stabbed.
For now.
*****
It hadn’t taken long for the lab to bring back a verdict on the paint left by the speeding SUV on the tiny Smart Car.
Joan Karpinski was in James Weatherall’s office when a constable brought in the paperwork, and flopped it on the desk with a little flourish.
“That was fast,” said James. “I told Adam it might be on my desk today, but I thought I was being overly optimistic. Thanks,” he said to the constable, who gave a little salute and left.
Joan and James immediately opened the file. The paint was indeed black, not navy. High-end, super-hard finish, European; possibly a German paint made by BASF or Siemens.
“We’re looking for a pretty expensive vehicle here,” said Joan.
“I know who to call,” said James, picking up the phone. “A friend of Bruce’s sells expensive cars. He can tell me quickly which brands are available in Saskatoon, and which ones might use a high-end German paint.”
James didn’t say Bruce Stephens, his partner, owned one of those expensive cars. Bruce was an investment banker, and didn’t mind spending his stacks of money. He had made a casual friend in the owner of Luxury Motors, where he had purchased his sleek, silver Audi.
James looked up the number and punched the buttons on his phone. When the receptionist answered, he identified himself and asked to speak with Nick Delacroix, immediately if possible.
“One moment, Constable,” said the receptionist in her most mellifluous tones. “I’m fairly sure he’s in the store, somewhere. I’ll have to track him down.”
Two minutes later, the line crackled.
“James. How the hell are you,” said the voice on the other end.
“I’m fine, Nick. You?”
“Great. I hope you two are planning another pool party soon? The last one was steaming. Anyway, Lissa said you needed to talk to me right away. What’s up?”
“I’d like to know how many car brands in Saskatoon would have high-end European paint, in a super-hard, high-gloss black. The lab thinks it’s German.”
“Hmmm. Well, we have three brands — Mercedes, Porsche, Audi, as well as Volkswagen, so it depends how high-end we’re talking. We h
ave Jags too, but they’re made in England. The competition has the Italian brands, some of the English brands, and BMW.”
“So all of those would qualify for high-end European auto paint?”
“Yeah. I mean, there are a few other European brands like Fiat and Aston Martin, but very few of those are sold here. We Prairie folks like our bigger cars.”
James very much doubted those were the brands in question.
“Great, thanks for the information. I’ll let you know if we plan another shindig. Or Bruce will. It sure as hell is hot enough for a pool party.”
“Tell Bruce to get his car in for servicing,” said Nick, who could be heard tapping the keys on his computer, apparently checking the Audi’s record. “It’s time. Let me know if I can do anything else to help.”
“I will. Thanks, Nick.”
“We’re looking at four car makers,” James said to Joan after hanging up. “At least four: BMW, Mercedes, Audi, Porsche, and maybe VW. I don’t know if all of them make SUVs; we’ll have to find out. I know BMW and Porsche do, and obviously VW.”
“And I bet all of them make black ones,” said Joan.
“I’d guarantee it.”
The desk constable was back at the door.
“The guy in the Smart Car,” he said. “He didn’t make it.”
Chapter Eight
Grace and Suzanne curled up on Grace’s couch that evening, with Bruno taking up most of the floor space in the living room. They tried to relax, drank some wine and ate spring rolls dipped in peanut sauce. A stir-fry was on the menu for dinner, but Grace was afraid she would doze off before she could make it, she was so exhausted.
The phone rang. Grace excused herself and answered it; she was sure it would be Adam.
“Grace. How are you and Suzanne holding up?” he asked, without preamble. As usual.
“Stupid tired,” said Grace. “What an awful night. And a long day. She’s here with me. How are you? What did the chief say?”
“He wanted to discuss how to move forward with the investigation,” Adam said. “I think he was gearing up to asking me to come back, but he managed not to. I’d rather, instead of spending this weekend with nothing to do, except, of course, for next weekend.”
“Yes. I’m with you there.”
“There has been a development,” he added, slowly. “I’m afraid the man in the Smart Car died from his injuries.”
“Oh no, Adam. That’s terrible.” Grace paused. “Any further developments on the other part of the case?”
“Not much. We have an idea what kind of vehicle hit the car, but that’s about it. But of course, our primary witness, apart from Suzanne, has died. We have two victims. Shit.”
Adam couldn’t yet tell Grace about the horrors found in the basement, nor did he want to; but holding back was stilting the conversation, as was the fact Suzanne was right there.
“Grace, I wish we could really talk. I can’t wait to see you. How long will Suzanne be with you?”
“I’m not sure. She thinks she may head to the farm Sunday or Monday — before I leave, anyway, although I told her she could stay here.”
“Well, make sure she takes care, all precautions, and staying away from her house for a while would be an excellent idea. Tell her so from me.”
“I will.”
“I miss you.”
“A few more days, Adam,” said Grace.
Hanging up, she returned to the couch and Suzanne, who had devoured her last spring roll.
“I’m sorry, Grace. Désolée. You would like to make love to Adam over the phone, I think. But I am here.”
Grace smiled at her phrasing.
“I’d rather make love to Adam in person. It’s fine, Honey. You will keep me from longing for him quite so much, and I appreciate it. Let’s have dinner.”
*****
The weekend passed uneventfully, compared to the last few days. Since Grace couldn’t report on Sherry’s murder and was no longer the weekend reporter, she was off the hook at work; so she and Suzanne hit the farmers’ market, walked along the verdant riverbank, went out for dinner with Lacey and relaxed as much as possible.
Grace wondered, occasionally, what the police were up to; but there was little hope of finding out. They were being very careful with the information they were releasing, and Adam couldn’t tell her much.
With Suzanne constantly nearby, conversations with Adam were somewhat less intense and greatly abbreviated; but Grace was nonetheless grateful for Suzanne’s presence. It kept her from thinking every other minute about whether she would be going on her upcoming trip, and what would happen when she saw Adam again. Being constantly aroused was exhausting.
On Monday morning, Suzanne started packing her little car, shoving her computer, files, clothes, dog food and Bruno into it for the trip home. Her parents’ farm wasn’t far, but she still had to get everything in.
Grace went with Suzanne to help her pack. By the time everything was crammed inside, she was helpless with laughter. The small sedan was packed to the roof, and Bruno looked quite alarmed at being tucked into the back seat, surrounded by boxes and unable to turn around.
“It will only be forty minutes, mon vieux,” Suzanne said to Bruno, comfortingly. “Sit now, Bruno. Sit down.”
Grace sank to the curb, shaking with hilarity, as Suzanne drove away, waving in the rear view mirror. Grace was left to her life. She went home to get ready for work.
The morning air was fresh and clean, but the July heat was building again. Suzanne was looking forward to driving through the flowering canola fields, breathing in the sweet, heady aroma of healthy crops. But before she even made it to the edge of the city, Suzanne realized she had forgotten her printer. Damn it. Suzanne turned around and headed back.
Stopping in the driveway alongside her garage, she debated leaving Bruno in the car, but he looked so miserable, she let him out.
“All right, mon vieux. Come along. But be a good dog when we have to leave again.”
She unlocked the door with a tiny frisson of misgiving, but Bruno was calm; he obviously didn’t notice anything amiss. Suzanne relaxed, grabbed the printer, popped it in a box and made a stop in the bathroom before struggling the box and Bruno into the car.
Finally, she hit the highway. Fifteen minutes later, the car began to shudder. Merde, what now? She hadn’t had the car maintained in a while, but it chose this time, this moment to act up? What was wrong with it?
Black smoke coming out of the exhaust — she could see it in the rearview mirror — scared her enough to pull over onto a gravel road leading off the highway. She put on the flashers and clambered out of the car. Fuck.
Knowing precisely nothing about vehicles, popping the hood was pointless. How would she know what had gone awry? And would the damn thing blow up in her face?
Diving back inside, she grabbed her purse with shaking hands, put Bruno on his leash, pulled him out of the back and rummaged for her cellphone. Who should she call? A tow truck? She didn’t have a towing company on speed dial. Her father? Maybe — she was almost halfway home.
Suzanne thought for a couple of minutes as she watched cars fly past her on the highway. No one stopped.
Just as she decided to call her father, a truck slowed down; the man inside turned his head in her direction, and pulled over a few metres ahead. As the vehicle backed up along the shoulder of the highway, she realized it was a tow truck.
A young man hopped out of the bright red vehicle.
“Hello, miss,” he said. “What’s happened? Car break down?”
“Yes. Thank you so much for stopping. It started to shudder and then black smoke came out of the exhaust. It was quite scary. I pulled over and have been standing here wondering what to do.”
“I’m taking this truck out to Humboldt. Brand new, this baby. We have a dealership out there. Let me see if the boss is okay with me hooking you up and taking you back to Saskatoon first . . . are you from Saskatoon? I’m Dustin, by the way.”
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“Thank you, Dustin. Yes, I’m from Saskatoon. It would be much appreciated.”
Dustin pulled out his cellphone and punched some buttons.
“Hey, Boss,” he said, when someone answered. “I have a lady here by the side of the highway. Car seems undriveable, but I haven’t looked under the hood yet. Any chance of giving it a lift back to the city before I head to Humboldt?”
Garbled noises from the other end. A laugh from Dustin.
“Yes, she is,” he said. “Okay, I’ll get on it. Thanks.” A pause. “You bet.”
He turned back to Suzanne. “The boss says no problem. Let me take a look under the hood. Spectacular dog, by the way. What breed is he?”
“He is a Newfoundland,” said Suzanne. “Bruno. He is indeed a wonderful dog. And very expensive to feed.”
“I guess,” said Dustin, with a bark of laughter. “So, about the car; if it needs to go to the shop, how will you get to wherever you are going?”
“I can call the . . . people I am visiting. They can pick me up.”
“I can also take you there, or bring you back to the dealership.”
“No, no. I will be fine, and I have all these things I must take with me. I’ll call now, in case it has to go in.”
Suzanne called her father, explained the situation in rapid French, and was assured he would be there soon. Dustin’s head reappeared from around the car’s hood a moment later.
“Dead on four wheels,” he declared. “Black smoke was a bad sign. It’ll have to go in.”
“I think I have no choice?”
“Not much of one, I’m afraid. We’ll take the car in, let you know what’s wrong and give you a quote, if you are okay with giving us your cell number?”
“Yes. Okay.”
Suzanne gave him the number as he punched it into his cellphone contacts.
“We’ll get back to you by the end of the day, or first thing in the morning, latest.”
“Merci. Thank you so much, Dustin.”
With her saviour’s help, Suzanne pulled suitcases, computer equipment, enormous bags of dog food and other items out of her car, and placed them carefully on the side of the ditch. Dustin hooked up the car, and waited until Suzanne spied her father’s truck coming over a hill.