Butterfly Kills

by Brenda Chapman

  “You won’t be able to visit, I’m afraid,” Kala said.

  “I’ll just leave the flowers then.” His voice was low, defensive.

  Nate’s discomfort intrigued her. She stood behind him while he gave the bouquet to the nurse on the desk. He straightened his shoulders as if about to face the firing squad before he turned. This time, his eyes held hers without wavering. “I guess we need to talk.”

  “Let’s get a coffee in the cafeteria.” She nodded to Cal, who’d stood and was watching them with interest from his post.

  She paid for their coffees and they found a table away from the hospital staff lingering over their meals. Nate took his time pouring packets of sugar and plastic containers of cream into his coffee.

  Kala waited without comment. She’d had time to guess at what was triggering his guilty conscience. If true, she owed Professor Tadesco an apology.

  “This isn’t something I’m proud of,” he began at last, as if reading her mind. “I wasn’t going to say anything until I’d told my wife.” He stirred his coffee so hard that it slopped onto the table.

  “My job isn’t to judge you.”

  “Yeah, well, you couldn’t think any worse of me than I already think of myself. She came into my office a few months ago to discuss a mark I’d given her on her paper. She thought it was too low.” He took a slurp of coffee. The red was back, creeping up from his shirt collar. Kala drank from her own cup but stayed silent.

  “She shut the door. I remember thinking I should go over and open it. Maybe I had a premonition. Anyhow, I didn’t and the next thing I knew, she was on my side of the desk, pulling her shirt over her head. I was looking up at her and she bent over so that her bare breasts were inches from my face. She had my zipper down before I’d recovered from the shock.”

  “Just to confirm, this is Della Munroe you’re talking about?”

  “Yeah. Her. We got it on a few times in my office, but I kept thinking somebody was going to walk in and I told her it had to stop. We met once in a washroom. I realized the insanity of what we were doing and ended it after that. Plus, I could hardly live with the guilt afterwards.”

  “Did you try it in a car?”

  “No. That wasn’t me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I would have remembered.”

  Kala had been willing to bet that Della was the mystery woman in the car now that Leah was vindicated. Had she guessed wrong? “I understand how you might have been blindsided the first time, but why the other times?”

  The corner of Nate’s mouth rose in a half-smile. “I’d like to bedazzle you with psychological insight, but it was just my dick overriding my brain.” He groaned. “She knew how to work it.”

  With effort, Kala kept her eyes on his face and no lower. She cleared her throat. “Did Della ever mention her husband Brian?”

  “Not really. I got the impression she was getting ready to leave him though.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Just that when I told her it wasn’t going to work, she said no problem. She wasn’t going to be around much longer.”

  “She said that?”

  “She was mad. I don’t think she meant to say it.”

  “So, when you heard that she killed her husband, what did you think?”

  Nate rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t know what to think. My first thought was that he was a first-rate asshole and that’s why she was fooling around with me.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Della Munroe seduced me to get a better mark on her paper. I have no doubt about that now. I accept that I screwed up big time and could lose my job if this comes out. Right now, all I care about is fixing my marriage.”

  “This might not have to come out.”

  “I don’t want my wife embarrassed. She just told me she’s pregnant.” Nate’s face crumpled and he covered his eyes. “Christ, I’ve been an idiot.”

  Kala knew exactly what he was speaking about. She’d been the other woman not so long ago. The difference was that she’d really loved the man. She’d left town to give him a chance to fix his marriage.

  “You can make it work,” she said, “if you both want to.”

  “Maybe. I’ve done a lot of damage.”

  “I have another question about Gail’s files on her co-workers. You read them and gave Gundersund what you remembered. I read your notes back at the station and found the details a bit skimpy.”

  “That’s because I skimmed her files. They weren’t exactly scintillating.”

  “Can you remember any more details about her file on Leah Sampson?”

  He pondered for a moment. “Gail recorded every tidbit of information she knew, right down to favourite foods and what we did in our time off. Boring stuff. She also liked to lance grenades and see how people reacted.”

  “Grenades?”

  “She’d toss out something outrageous and hurtful, then wait to see how we reacted. We all knew she was doing it. For instance, Gail might say to Leah that she saw Wolf in the bar talking to another woman. Then she’d record Leah’s reaction. Childish.”

  “She made up lies?”

  “More like fibs. The others used to have a laugh about it when she wasn’t around.”

  “Did she write anything about Leah and Wolf’s relationship?”

  “I skipped over most of what Gail wrote about them because it felt, I don’t know, sick having them under Gail’s microscope. I remember she wrote about them coming from Brockville. There was nothing about Leah cheating on him though. And nothing about me with Della. I had to be sure.”

  Kala thought for a moment. “Did Gail record anything unusual about Leah and any of the callers in the last month before she died?”

  “Like a stalker?”

  “Maybe, or anybody giving her trouble over the phone, no matter how minor.”

  “Not that she ever said. A caller wouldn’t have known anything to identify Leah by anyway because she wouldn’t have shared any personal information. We’re not allowed to give them our name or to ask them theirs. If we think we know the caller on the other end, we’re supposed to give their call to our partner and erase it from our memory bank.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  And I’d buy it if it weren’t for the fact that one scared little girl who’s desperate to find her sister knows Leah Sampson by name.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Dad, breakfast is ready.” Rouleau finished scraping the scrambled eggs onto two plates and grabbed the bread from the toaster. While he waited for his father to exit his bedroom, Rouleau poured two cups of coffee and took the lot over to the table. He looked down the hallway toward his father’s closed door. “Dad?”

  “Coming, son. Get started without me.” His dad’s voice came out muffled through the door.

  “Okay, but your eggs are getting cold.”

  Rouleau took a seat and began eating. As he sipped Colombian coffee, he watched the rain beating against the patio door. The wind was rattling the glass in gusty bursts. It would have been a good day to stay in and watch a couple of movies, if only he had the luxury. Instead he’d be spending the morning in meetings with a hurried house viewing scheduled during lunch. Laney Masterson had set up a showing at a place off Montreal Road in a newer subdivision. He was looking forward to seeing her as much as the possibility of finally finding his own place.

  He finished his coffee and got up to get a second. He was at the counter pouring one more for the road when he heard his father’s bedroom door open. Rouleau glanced at the clock above the stove. He could spare a few more minutes. His dad’s crutches were slowly clumping their way down the hall.

  “Pretty ugly out there today,” Rouleau said. “You planning to go into the office?” He lowered his cup onto the counter at the sight of his father. “Is something wrong, Dad?

  His father had manoeuvred himself into the chair by the time Rouleau reached him. His face under uncombed hair was as pal
e as linen. He’d put on a sweatshirt but left on his pajama bottoms, an uncharacteristic attire. Rouleau didn’t know what was more alarming: his father’s skin colour or his dishevelled appearance.

  “I’m fine. I thought you had to get to work early this morning.”

  “Work can wait. What’s going on, Dad?”

  His father reached for the fork Rouleau had set beside his plate. His fingers were trembling so much that he left it and dropped his hand into his lap. “The nurse is coming later. I’ll be fine.”

  Rouleau knew his dad’s gruff voice was meant to close down the discussion. It heightened his alarm.

  “You’re white as a ghost, Dad. Are you in pain?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “You should go to the clinic. I’ll postpone my morning meeting and take you in.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. I’m not going back to that place.”

  “I’m not giving you a choice.” Rouleau pulled out his cellphone. “Should I call an ambulance or are you going to let me take you to get checked out?”

  “You don’t have time for this. I can take a cab.”

  “I’m taking you, Dad, point finale. See if you can manage a few bites of toast while I get your raincoat.”

  Rouleau hit Vera’s number on speed dial. He’d be working by phone for the morning at least. If he wasn’t already fully aware, this was his new reality of being the only child of an aging parent.

  Gundersund hung up the phone. “That was Vera. Rouleau won’t be in this morning. He’s taking his father to a doctor. We’re to carry on and call him if something breaks.”

  He looked across at Stonechild, leaning against a filing cabinet and drinking a cup of Tim Hortons coffee that she’d picked up on the way into the station. Her hair hung in damp strands around her face. Her skin looked drawn and tired. She’d come in later than usual and said she’d slept in.

  “Rough night?” he asked.

  “Just trouble sleeping, that is until it was time to get up. Then I could have slept for hours.”

  “So what have you got on the burner today?”

  “I’m planning to read through the files on the Munroe case again. Nate from the help line dropped by the hospital last night and we had a heart to heart. Turns out he was having sex with the one and only Della Munroe.”

  It took Gundersund a second to absorb what she’d said. “He admitted to that?”

  “He did. I was hoping to run it by Rouleau this morning. He’s closer to this case than I am and might be able to put some of the pieces together.”

  Gundersund started thinking out loud. “So Leah Sampson wasn’t killed by the ‘other man’ because there wasn’t one. However, Wolf didn’t know that so he isn’t in the clear yet. On the Munroe case, we now find out that Della isn’t the innocent she let on. These two cases are starting to intersect all over the place.”

  “I know. I’m not sure what the connections mean yet, but Della has uncomfortably entered the world of the help line through an affair with Nate and classes with Tadesco.”

  “Means absolutely nothing,” said Woodhouse. He was sitting at his desk and leaned back in his chair. He crossed his hands over the paunch straining his shirt buttons. “I still say that Sampson’s boyfriend killed her. Della Munroe is just a red herring.”

  Gundersund looked across at Stonechild. She was watching Woodhouse as if he was from another planet. Gundersund smiled. “What makes you think that?” he asked Woodhouse.

  “Wolf was the last one to see Leah alive. They had a volatile relationship and he was jealous she was moving on. Whether she was banging somebody else or not, doesn’t matter because he believed she was. Could be this Nate guy was banging Sampson too. Wolf found out, went into a rage, and killed her.”

  Gundersund looked from Woodhouse to Stonechild. Her eyes were an unfathomable black that he could have sworn glittered with disbelief.

  “You’ve just put on a stunning display of mental gymnastics,” she said to Woodhouse, “connecting all those dots.” Her voice was deadpan.

  The smile dropped from his face. “And I suppose you have a better idea?”

  “It just so happens I do.”

  The phone rang on Woodhouse’s desk, and he broke his stare. He picked it up and turned his back on them in one fluid movement.

  Gundersund crossed over to Stonechild. “And what is your new line of thinking?” Unlike Woodhouse, he’d already learned that she never offered an idle opinion.

  She glanced at him and then back down at her coffee cup. “I think this has something to do with the little girl who called in. I’m heading back to the help line in the hopes that she calls back like she promised.”

  “There you are! Together as always.”

  They both turned. Fiona was walking toward them, carrying a brown paper bag and a tray with two coffees. Her smile took in both of them before she focused her eyes on Gundersund. She was wearing a tight black dress with her hair tumbling around her shoulders in layered waves. Gundersund’s eyes widened at the sight of her. She looked stunning, the new dress a not-so-subtle seduction ploy. Perhaps a few months ago he would have jumped at what she was offering, but something in him hesitated. She knew him so well that she believed he could be lured back by sex. The sad thing was, she was probably right if their past history bore out.

  She walked her fingers down his arm. “Sorry to interrupt, but I know you never eat breakfast and I couldn’t resist treating you. I thought you could come downstairs and go over the tox report on Brian Munroe in my office. It just came in.”

  “Do you have time to hear the results?” he asked Stonechild. If he thought she would save him from a private viewing with his wife, he was mistaken.

  “You go ahead,” Stonechild said. “I’ll be heading over to the university.”

  He nodded at Fiona. “Let’s go then.” He turned to Stonechild. “Call me if something happens and I’ll be on standby.”

  Stonechild nodded but he could tell she had no intention of following through.

  Woodhouse hung up the phone and groaned. “That was Rouleau. I’m to take up surveillance on Della Munroe. Just how I want to spend my day.”

  “Where’s Chalmers?” Gundersund asked.

  “Using up some of his holidays. This won’t take two of us anyhow. A monkey could sit in a car all day, watching a house.”

  Stonechild met Gundersund’s eyes and smiled. “Too easy,” she mouthed.

  He smiled back, all the time wondering why he felt more in sync with his new partner than his wife. “Check in later,” he said.

  “Will do.”

  This time he thought she might actually mean it. He followed Fiona’s trail of expensive perfume out of the office, feeling like a bass with a lure caught in its mouth.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The afternoon sped by without a break. Kala checked in with Gundersund at five o’clock.

  “The girl didn’t call back,” she said. The disappointment she heard in her own voice was nothing compared to what she was feeling. The young girl knew something that could lead to Leah Sampson’s murderer, Kala was sure of it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hung up and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair.

  Mark Withers looked up from the other desk. “If the girl calls when you’re not here, whoever’s on the line will give her your cell number.”

  “Thanks. There’s always an outside chance. I’ll keep my cell close by.”

  She covered her head with a newspaper and dodged puddles on her run into the restaurant to pick up a roast chicken sandwich, maple doughnut, and coffee on the way back to the station. She hadn’t bothered to tell Gundersund that she’d be returning to finish going over the Munroe file on her own time. Something niggled at the back of her memory bank and she wanted to be certain that she’d absorbed everything so that she could put her mind at ease.

  By the time she pulled into the station parking lot, the rain was picking up, slanting into the windshield by the f
orce of the wind. She rooted around in the passenger seat for a sweater that she tucked under her shirt as she dashed for the entrance.

  The office was empty and cool without any warm bodies to counter the air conditioning. Cold rain had chilled her and she slipped out of her shirt and put on the pullover. She’d have to suffer through with wet jeans. The suddenness of the change from the heat of a week before was startling. Autumn was just around the corner and the heat in the building would need to be turned on soon. It was a depressing thought. Still, they should have a few more weeks of warmer temperatures in October.

  She settled in at her desk and hungrily polished off her supper before accessing the database where the reports were housed. She licked the last of the maple sugar sweetness from her fingers while the latest forensics report loaded onto the screen. She scanned the results before leaning in to give it a thorough read. Brian Munroe hadn’t been on any drugs or consumed alcohol before he broke into the marital home. No earth-shattering findings that would warrant Fiona waylaying Gundersund for a morning meeting. She had to admit that he hadn’t seemed to mind though.

  Kala sipped on the coffee, which was now lukewarm, but the caffeine would keep her alert enough to wade through the documents. Reading files on a computer screen was tiring at the best of times. She much preferred reading from paper with her feet up.

  She downloaded the photos from the crime scene. Brian had been struck from behind when he reached the top of the stairs. He was face down, his feet closer to the first bedroom doorway than the stairs. It was the bedroom where their son slept. Blood darkened his hair and stained the beige carpet. The force of the hammer striking his head had sent blood spraying onto the walls. She scrolled to the close up. The wound was devastating, caving in part of his skull like a smashed watermelon. Della must have heard the crack as his skull fractured and felt his warm blood strike her face and hands. She’d stepped around him to get their son from his bed. Even under duress, how had she seriously believed he was still alive and able to come after her?