by J C Paulson
“Beware. I’ll take you up on that.”
“Please, Grace. Please do.”
*****
“How well do you know Lorne Fisher?” Grace asked Adam as they prepared the meal and waited for Suzanne.
Adam inclined his head. “Fisher? Why?”
Grace told him about the day Sherry Hilliard had been murdered, and how sweetly he had treated Suzanne, and the expression she saw on his face. Longing. Wondering.
“I know that expression,” she told Adam. “I felt it on my face all the time, in the three months we waited for Duane Sykes to go to trial.”
“Oh, Grace,” said Adam, who had thought the very same thing. He cleared his throat, and said quietly, “Thank you for telling me.”
There was a quiet moment as Adam collected himself, forced his heart to stop pounding.
“Fisher. Well, he’s an interesting character. Man of few words, most of the time. Hell of a cop. We tease him a bit about his size, you know? He’s the biggest guy on the force, by a wide margin. Works out like a madman.
“He comes in pretty handy. I gather from Joan Karpinski he broke down Sherry Hilliard’s door like it was made of toothpicks; and you’ll remember he took most of James’s weight when we carried him out of that basement in Westmoreland, after he was shot. I was feeling pretty shaky, too, from the head wound.
“I wish they had used the ram, of course, on Ms. Hilliard’s door; I don’t want my people hurting themselves. But it saved a few minutes and Lorne, of course, was fine. He’s a little younger than I am; he’s been a cop seven years, I think. Great work ethic. A bit of a rough exterior, at times, but a softie inside. Especially with women.
“He’s from the Prince Albert area, originally. I heard about him through the police grapevine, and went up to P.A. to meet him. I persuaded him to come to Saskatoon. We don’t have enough Indigenous cops, as you know — which might be the understatement of the decade — and Fisher is fantastic. We badly wanted him.”
“Fisher? Is he Métis?” Grace wondered, because of the name.
“That’s something I wonder about. When is it appropriate to describe someone’s heritage as Métis? As I understand it, it’s only correct if you’re from Red River ancestry. Fisher’s father is German, a farmer — a massive man, just like Lorne — and I gather the family took the ‘c’ out of Fischer when they came to Canada. His mother is First Nations. Cree. He is part-Indigenous, I guess.”
“We struggle with it at the paper, too,” said Grace. “It’s important to be culturally sensitive and to use the right language. Sherry Hilliard, too. She was Scottish and First Nations.
“Is Lorne married? Divorced? Girlfriend?” asked Grace, feeling it was a horribly nosy question. But she had to know.
“Divorced. She didn’t treat him very well, if I remember correctly. He’s been on his own for about three years now.”
By the time Suzanne and Bruno appeared, ten minutes later, Grace and Adam were ready to put the meat on the grill.
“Suzé!” Grace greeted her friend. “And Bruno. Meet Adam Davis. Adam, this is Suzanne and, of course, the great Bruno,” she added, patting the big dog.
The lover and the friend shook hands, murmuring the usual pleasantries, as Bruno snuffled and evaluated this new person in his life . . . until Suzanne reached up and gave Adam a very big hug.
“Thank you, Adam,” she said.
“For what?” he asked, startled.
“For Grace. And for me. You know what I mean.”
His eyes searched Suzanne’s.
“Thank you,” he said, a little unsteadily. “You’re a wonderful friend to Grace. I’m honoured by your hug.”
Grace’s eyes were blurring. I am so stupid lucky, she thought, to have this wonderful friend and incredible lover. They both heard her sniff behind them.
“Oh, Grace,” they said, more or less in unison, and turned to her.
“Hugfest,” she said, drying her eyes and laughing, after four arms enveloped her. “Okay, you two. Let’s get dinner down us.”
They cooked and ate, leaving the case aside, and chatted and laughed, and fluffed Bruno’s head from time to time. After dinner, Grace stood, and said, “I’ll clear this up. You two talk.”
They both protested, but Grace was firm.
“Talk. Suzanne has something to tell you, Adam.”
“Suzanne. What is it?”
“I am sometimes an idiot. Your Lorne Fisher told me, for example, never to leave my house keys with anyone, such as at the dealership when my car was being repaired. I actually did that.
“However,” she continued, “I am, in other ways, very together. I keep track of all my expenses, comprends? I have a business to run, and while I am happy to remit my taxes — to pay for excellent policing, oui? — I do not want to contribute more than my share. Therefore, I have all of my receipts, organized in files, and I also keep track of them on my computer.”
Adam knew what she was going to say. Oh, my God. But he waited for her to continue.
“It occurred to me, and perhaps should have sooner, to check those receipts. I have never put diesel fuel into my Honda.” Suzanne’s face was white. “I cannot find any evidence I have ever done so.”
“Someone did it for you.”
“I believe so. Yes.”
“At a gas station, do you think? Or by jerry can?”
“I fill up regularly at two stations, one on Eighth Street and one on Broadway. I don’t even know if they have diesel; I’ve never noticed. But it would have to have been the last time I did so, right? For it to have effect, at that time, on my car?”
“Yes.”
“Here is the receipt,” she said, handing it over. “I don’t know if there could be an error of some kind, but it shows gasoline, oui?”
“We will be there tomorrow,” said Adam, looking at the address on the receipt. “Was there a time you can recall when someone might have used a jerry can?”
Suzanne thought back to the morning she packed up before going to the farm.
“I stopped at home to pick up some work equipment on the Monday after Sherry’s death,” she said. “I was only home for about fifteen minutes, so I didn’t put the car in the garage.”
That would do it, thought Adam.
“Very helpful, Suzanne, thank you. I also have a couple of questions about Sherry,” he continued. “How well did you know each other? I know you’ve said you knew very little about her personal life.”
“We were neighbours, and very friendly, but not what I would call friends,” said Suzanne. “I think she had a lover when she first came to Saskatoon, but she mentioned no one by name. Then there was no one for a little while; then she had another relationship. Then no one again for, oh, about three months. And she did tell me that.”
So there was someone else, earlier. Adam made a mental note.
“I’m going to show you some photos, Suzanne. None of them will show anything upsetting, but two of them are of deceased people. Are you all right with taking a look?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Anything I can do to help.”
He went to his black leather bag, and pulled out a fat file. He laid photos and newspaper clippings all over the kitchen table, but said nothing. The names of the people in the newspaper photographs had been clipped off, and removed from the bottoms of the photos.
There were images of the missing women, Don Dunlop, Corey Hilliard, Della and Angela Sinclair, and the StarPhoenix clipping of Shawn Hartz. They had no photo of him, since he had not provided one; nor had they arrested him for anything. Yet.
Suzanne pulled her heavy hair back, bent at the waist and pored over the photos, slowly shaking her head.
“This one,” she said after a moment, pointing at Della. “Is this Sherry’s sister?”
“No,” Adam said. “Her cousin.”
“Oh,” said Suzanne. “They could almost be twins. Is she . . . all right?”
“No.”
“Oh. Désolé.” She
didn’t ask any more questions.
She kept looking. A few seconds later she stopped, hovering over the newspaper clipping. She picked it up and peered at it.
“Adam,” she said. “Who is this?”
“Why? Do you recognize her?”
“I do. I think so. It’s a bit small, but I think so.”
“Where do you recognize her from, Suzanne?”
“She came to Sherry’s one day. Sherry wasn’t home, and I was walking out the door to see a client when I heard her knocking. The noise made me look around. I told her I thought Sherry was out; she nodded, said okay, and dropped something in the mailbox. Just delivering something, she said, then turned and walked away, rather quickly. I only saw her face for a few seconds, but she was beautiful. And so, I noticed.”
The woman Suzanne recognized was standing behind Shawn Hartz in the photo taken at a charity event and published in the local newspaper. It was Ashley Dunlop.
Chapter Twenty-eight
If Adam had his way, he was going to pick up Ashley Dunlop now. Right now. What had she done?
He called James.
“Hey, partner. Are you available?”
“I might be,” said James, who had had one whole sip of beer and was ready for dinner. “What’s up?”
“We have to try to pick up Ashley Dunlop. Can you attend?”
“What? What’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you on the way. Can I pick you up in ten? You’re between Grace’s and the Dunlops’ place.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Adam apologized to Grace and Suzanne, kissed Grace swiftly and was out the door less than a minute after Suzanne identified Ashley in the newspaper clipping. Since he was driving his own car, he called the station and asked for a cruiser to meet him at the Dunlop home.
James was waiting outside and jumped into Adam’s car ten minutes later.
“What the hell is going on?” he demanded.
“Suzanne recognized Ashley Dunlop in the newspaper photo with Shawn Hartz,” Adam said. “She recognized her, because Ashley Dunlop has been to Sherry Hilliard’s home. Suzanne saw her banging on the door.”
“What? Holy shit, Adam. Have we been wrong all along? Can the killer be a woman? It can’t be, can it? Of course, we haven’t found any semen, but we assumed it was because the killer sensibly wore a condom. Could she have raped her with something? Could she be strong enough to carry Sherry into the basement, or strangle Emily Martin? Fuck, this is wild.”
“It’s hard to imagine our killer being Ashley, and Deborah Clairmont was definitely raped by a man. But Ashley knew Dunlop was having an affair with Sherry,” said Adam. “She knew, according to Monique Delacroix, that Sherry was pregnant; and she was at her house. There’s motive. It’s enough to bring her in.”
Adam drove as fast as he could, south from James and Bruce’s home to the Dunlop residence, arriving at the same time as the cruiser, populated by Lorne Fisher.
“Heard the call, Lorne?” asked Adam.
“Yeah,” said the man who wanted this case to be solved yesterday.
“Okay. Let’s go get her.”
Adam rang the doorbell, and heard steps coming down the hallway. Ashley Dunlop opened the door, and started the sentence, “What the hell are you doing here?” when Adam interrupted.
“Mrs. Dunlop. We are here to talk to you about the murder of Sherry Hilliard. May we come in?”
“No. Fuck you. You’ve caused enough problems.”
“It may be wise for you to talk to us, Mrs. Dunlop. We know you have visited Sherry Hilliard at her home.” That wasn’t precisely true, but it would do, Adam thought.
“Bullshit. You know shit. I’m not talking to you! I’m not coming with you!” she screamed, backing up into the hallway, bent over with fury, rage contorting her face. She looked around wildly, and spying a bronze statue on a nearby table, picked it up and held it in front of her.
“That’s not necessary, Mrs. Dunlop. Please, calm down,” said Adam, advancing on her slowly.
But Ashley Dunlop was beside herself. She hurled the heavy artwork at Adam, who was forced to deke to his left to avoid being smacked in the head. It banged into his shoulder and clattered to the floor as Ashley Dunlop took off down the hallway.
But Adam caught her, cuffed her and dragged her screaming and squirming into the cruiser.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” he said. “Ashley Dunlop, you are under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”
Lorne Fisher sat in the back with the crazed woman, as James took the wheel of the cruiser and drove back downtown to the station, with Adam following in his own car.
His shoulder hurt.
*****
Ashley Dunlop wouldn’t say a word until her lawyer appeared, so James gave her a phone, let her make the call and put her in a cell.
Adam went into his office, removed his shirt and inspected his shoulder, which was indeed developing a large bruise above the blue scar marking the place where he’d been shot. He shivered.
He put his shirt back on and went in search of ice.
Then he called Grace to tell her he would not be able to return. He could hardly get the words out.
*****
Richard Sealey came, and had an extremely difficult time calming Ashley Dunlop down enough to get her to make sense. He explained he could not represent both her and her husband in this case, which sent her into a second meltdown, screaming her head off in the interview room. Sealey told her he would find her a lawyer as soon as possible, and got the hell out of there.
An hour later, a lawyer from a different firm appeared. Fifteen minutes later, she summoned Adam.
“I think I have her calmed down enough to talk,” said Diana Elliott, known in legal circles for her success in family law. She was a great negotiator.
“Thanks, Di,” said Adam. They knew each other fairly well, having crossed paths several times on domestics. “Meet you in interview room two.”
Ashley Dunlop was quieter, but sullen. Once the obligatory recording device was set up and Adam had identified everyone in the room, he started in.
“Mrs. Dunlop. We have information you have been to the home of Sherry Hilliard. What can you tell us about that?”
“Nothing. Maybe you should ask my husband,” she spat.
“We have indeed spoken to your husband, as you are well aware.” Adam felt a spear of inspiration. “You didn’t call the lawyer the day we arrested him, did you?”
“Of course I did.”
“But not for a long time. Mr. Sealey didn’t appear for quite a while. Why?”
The woman chewed on her lip for a moment, but then her anger broke through.
“Bastard. He was cheating on me. Fucker. Fucker! I didn’t give a shit how long it took for his stupid lawyer to show up. Served him right to spend some time in jail.”
“You knew he was having a relationship with Sherry Hilliard. You knew she was pregnant. You went to visit her. Is that correct?”
“Yes, I knew. I also know he has some new bitch he’s fucking.”
Adam suppressed a sigh.
“You went to visit her shortly before she was killed.”
“So?”
“She wasn’t home. What did you put in her mailbox?”
“A little letter. Telling her to fuck off.”
“Did you visit her at a later time?”
“Nnn . . . no.”
“You don’t sound very sure. I put it to you that you did visit Sherry Hilliard. Why?”
“I didn’t.”
Diana Elliott put up a hand to temporarily stop Adam’s next question, leaned over and whispered in her client’s ear. Ashley Dunlop went white, with an unbecoming blotch of red patching her face.
“No. I won’t,” said Ashley to her lawyer, voice rising.
“I can’t force you,” said Diana Elliott, “but I’m advising you. Tell him. This could get a lot worse, Ashley.”
“Fuck. Fine. I did visit h
er that night.”
“Why?” asked Adam.
“I wanted to tell her never to see my husband again. Never to bring her bastard brat anywhere near him, or me.”
“She had already broken off the relationship with Dr. Dunlop. Why was it necessary to have this conversation?”
“Sure, she broke it off, but how long was that going to last? Stupid little bitch could easily have asked for child support, and told everybody about how it was Don’s kid. I wanted to warn her.”
“You wanted to scare her. Did you?”
“Yes, I fucking wanted to scare her. Badly enough so we’d never hear from her again.”
“And did you? Scare her?
Another long pause. Diana Elliott touched Ashley Dunlop on the arm, and gave her a warning look. “Talk, Ashley.”
“Yes. I scared her. I told her never to come near us or she would regret it. Then I . . . I pushed her.”
“How hard did you push her?”
“She fell. Banged her head on the coffee table.”
“Was she unconscious?”
“For a while.”
“Did you rape Sherry Hilliard, Mrs. Dunlop?”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
“Did you rape her? With a . . .” Adam was having trouble finding a word for it. “A device.”
“No! I didn’t! What the fuck do you think I am? I only pushed her! She was breathing when I left. I swear to God, Detective.”
“But you didn’t call an ambulance.”
“No. She was breathing.”
“Because you did not call an ambulance, Sherry Hilliard was home, and even more vulnerable when someone came to finish the job, instead of in the hospital. And now, she is dead. You are under arrest, Ashley Dunlop, for aggravated assault.”
*****
Adam turned the woman over to the staff sergeant for processing, thinking he had seldom met anyone he disliked as much as Ashley Dunlop. Except possibly Ellice Fairbrother, bishop killer.
He walked home, occasionally feeling his shoulder, and knew what awaited him in the night.