by Alison Bruce
Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.
Rockland, Ontario, Canada
Copyright © 2014 Alison Bruce
Exclusive cover © 2014 Laura Givens
Inside artwork © 2014 Joanna D’Angelo
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.
A catalogue record for the print format of this title is available from the National Library of Canada
ISBN 978-1-927555-51-4
A catalogue record for the Ebook is available from the National Library of Canada Ebooks are available for purchase from
www.lachesispublishing.com
ISBN 978-1-927555-52-1
Editor: Joanna D’Angelo
Copyeditor: Sarah Corsie
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
This book is gratefully dedicated to my Aunty Yang (Eileen George), whose stories about her service in World War II inspired my undergraduate history thesis and a lifelong interest in women and men in uniform.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are many men and women in uniform I should thank for patiently answering my questions on the street, in coffee shops and other places I could buttonhole them. In particular, Constable Mark Cloes, OPP (retired) and Detective Bob Strathdee, Toronto Police Services (retired) were invaluable in helping sort out fact from fiction. Thanks to them, where I’ve strayed I’ve done so knowingly for the sake of the story.
I’d like to thank Joanna D’Angelo for being my partner in the editorial process that honed my original manuscript, and Nancy O’Neill and Melodie Campbell for making sure that my most egregious mistakes never got to Joanna.
Last but not least, I need to thank my kids, Kate and Sam, who put up with a lot when I’m writing and even more when I’m editing. You da best!
REVIEWS
“Classic romantic suspense spiced with warmth and humour . . . This is a fun read and Bruce is a talented storyteller.” Melodie Campbell ~ Amazon bestselling author.
A BODYGUARD TO REMEMBER
CHAPTER 1
It started with a dead body on my living room floor.
I had just picked up the twins from their father. While they took the recycling bins from the porch to the curb, I unlocked the front door, which led directly into the living room. I turned on the overhead light as I passed the switch, froze, and then pressed my hand over my mouth to stop a scream. Since the man in the middle of the floor could hardly be alive with a gaping hole in the back of his head, I didn't feel obliged to check on him. Holding my breath, I backed out of the house and called my ex to come take the kids back.
Then I called 9-1-1.
“Mom?”
“Hold on Boone.” I hooked his sister by her arm and guided them toward the car. “This is Prudence Hartley at 13 Wildwood Crescent in Guelph. I need the police.”
“Mom?” It was Hope this time, trying to pull away and look through our front window.
“Back to the car,” I hissed. “I was speaking to my kids, officer . . . yes, this is an emergency. There’s a strange man in my house. He’s dead.”
We waited by the car on the street in front of the house. It was mid-February. The air was crisp. The sky was clear. There was still some snow on the lawns, but the road was dry. A silver-white crescent moon hung over the house in the twilight. For some reason, these details imprinted themselves on my memory.
My ever-curious kids wanted to see the body. The reality that some person was dead in their home hadn't sunk in. Fortunately we're all fans of shows with ‘graphic forensic content’ so they understood that the crime scene couldn't be compromised. They wanted to know everything of course. I didn't share that the graphic content of those shows didn’t capture the horror of reality—or the smell.
“Are you sure you don’t know him?” Hope asked.
“Was there blood everywhere?” asked Boone. “I’d really like to see the blood splatter.”
“Blood spatter, doofus!”
It was a relief to see the flashing lights at the end of the road.
My ex arrived at the same time as the police. As usual, Seth looked disapproving. It was a habitual expression of his that I still found hard not to take personally.
“What’s going on, Prudence? Talk to me.”
As anxious as he was to grill me, he had to let the responding officer go first. She was a pleasant looking woman, with a halo of dark curls between her cap and the collar of her Kevlar vest. Several paces behind, her tall, dark, and grim-looking partner watched us, his hand on his holster. This was far removed from the image I had of our City police fielding friendly questions from my kids at the coffee shop. He was like a tough American TV cop. That thought, and the serious case of jitters I was developing, almost had me in giggles. “You called about a body?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. By squinting slightly, I made out the woman’s name on her uniform, Kallas. I didn’t recognize her, but the name was familiar.
“Where?” she asked.
I pointed to the front door.
An ambulance pulled up, lights flashing. Kallas intercepted the paramedic and they went into the house together. Her partner stayed to watch us.
Unconsciously I’m sure, Seth closed in protectively, the warrior professor protecting his family from the scary police officer. When he went into this mode, he seemed to forget that he’d been married to another woman for almost ten years.
A moment later, the paramedic reappeared and walked over.
“Hi, I’m Bob.”
Either out of habit or because I was unresponsive, my ex spoke up.
“Seth Webster,” he said. “I’d like to take my children away from here. If possible, I’d like to take their mother too.”
“Not up to me,” Bob said. “Better wait around. You could let the kids sit in the car if they’re cold. I’m sure that would be okay.”
Bob glanced over his shoulder at our watch-dog, who nodded.
Moot point. My children were now glued to my side.
Crouching down, he introduced himself to Hope and Boone. Now lower than them, he didn’t seem so intimidating. He asked them a few innocuous questions then straightened up to talk to me.
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “Just a little shaky. I didn’t go near the body and I’m pretty sure the cause of death isn’t catching.”
He smiled at my little joke, and conjured up warm blankets and water bottles for me and the kids, making him my hero of the hour.
Two more police cars arrived. Black and whites. The Ontario Provincial Police.
Kallas returned, armed with a clipboard. I told her how I came, I saw, I left, finishing off with a plea to let Seth, Hope, and Boone leave.
“They didn’t go inside,” I insisted. “They’ve been at their father’s since yesterday morning.”
“I’m sure the detective will let them go with their father,” she said, using that calm but firm tone that was typical of cops talking to civilians. “In the meantime, they need to stay. While you’re waiting, we’ll get your personal information.”
We watched her give directions to the other officers, making notes, gesturing and pointing. The cars, the ambulance, and a recently arrived OPP SUV formed a barrier, cutting off the through traffic. Hope poked me and pointed to where crime scene tape was being
strung.
“I bet they called in an Ident team in from the OPP,” she said. Her voice shook slightly with excitement, nerves, fear.
I stared at her. Almost twelve, she was already as tall as me and two inches taller than her brother. She shared my colouring, pale blonde hair, turquoise-blue eyes that her father called green, fair complexion easily sunburned. She was starting to fill out and, with her new bobbed haircut, was starting to look too grown up for my liking.
“What?” she said, mistaking the reason for my stare. “I questioned the Community Officer last time he visited our class.”
“Of course you did.”
I checked on Boone. He had his father’s colouring – golden brown hair and hazel eyes. He had my sturdy build, but I guessed he’d soon enough have his father’s height. For now, he still looked like my little boy. His expression was calm, but I could feel him shake where he pressed against me. Then he did something he hadn’t done in public for a year or more. He held my hand.
Kallas’s partner cleared his throat. He had acquired a clipboard and was ready to use it. I guess he hadn’t been paying attention to names either because his eyes widened slightly at my name.
“Yeah, I know. Who calls their kid Prudence anymore?”
An unwed mother, that’s who. My mother didn’t want me to make the same mistake she did. Of course, I couldn’t say too much. I’d called my kids Hope and Boone.
Address: 13 Wildwood Crescent.
Date of birth: November 12, 19MYOB.
No, I didn’t actually say that.
Place of work: Home office.
He wanted details.
“I’m a writer. Mostly I edit and proof-read papers for faculty and students at the university. I do resumes, cover letters, and the occasional curriculum vitae. I also write short fiction for science fiction and fantasy magazines.”
When I was younger I wrote a Star Trek novel. Since it was rejected, I didn’t mention that.
My mother thinks I need a proper day job.
I think my son tends to agree. Boone is the sensible one. He has a paper route and saves his allowance for must-have items like the latest video game systems and state-of-the-art running shoes—items he’s not going to get on my income. He’d save up for university too, but his father is a professor and the kids can attend tuition-free so long as they have the qualifying grades.
Hope, on the other hand, thinks I should spend more time working on my novel. She’s counting on me to help her with her career as a screenwriter. She wants to revive Nancy Drew as a TV show—with her as the star—or maybe create a younger version of Jessica Fletcher in Murder She Wrote.
“Can I see the body?” Hope asked, after confirming that she hadn’t entered the house.
Seth, the officer, and I answered in unison, “No!”
I remembered the smell in the living room and shuddered.
Boone had a death grip on my hand. He answered questions and sounded calm enough, but his hand was cutting off the circulation in mine. When we’d given our statements, he pulled me down to whisper in my ear.
“I want to stay with you.”
“Maybe they’ll let us all go soon, but if I have to stay, I’d prefer it if you went home with your Dad.”
Seth, who claimed selective hearing as a disability, heard his son’s whispered plea and interrupted his own interrogation to respond.
“Your Mom will come to our place when she’s done. We’ll make up the couch in the den for her, okay?”
Boone nodded and I gave my ex a grateful smile. Sometimes it irked me that he married so soon after we split, but I had to admit, he was a better friend to me now than when we were together.
“Mrs. Hartley?”
I turned and looked up into the face of a man whose suit and demeanour screamed undertaker.
“I’m Detective Don Parrino.”
He sounded like an undertaker—solemn but approachable—voice pitched deeper than you’d expect with his long, narrow frame.
“I need to make a preliminary survey of the scene. Then we can talk. However, there’s no reason to keep your children out in the cold. They can go with their father.”
“I want to wait with you, Mom,” Boone insisted. He gave me the lost puppy look—big eyes staring up soulfully as his mouth quivered in a pout.
“Not a good idea buddy,” Parrino said, his tone lighter. “Your mother has to help us with our investigation and you need to sleep so you can go to school in the morning. If you don’t go to school, you can’t tell your friends you were questioned by a real detective.”
Circulation returned to my fingers as Boone relaxed his grip. Parrino gave me a hint of a smile. This man was a husband and father. A quick glance at his ring finger confirmed the husband part. My momentary fantasy of romance with a detective was shot down—like the guy in my living room.
I swallowed a couple of times. I didn’t want to throw up in front of my kids.
Parrino left us, pausing at the front walk to sign in with Kallas. I guessed she had the job of keeping track of everyone. Next, he stopped to put on gloves, shoe covers, and a cap.
“That’s to make sure he doesn’t contaminate the scene,” Hope told us, just in case we couldn’t figure it out. “They forget that part on most of the TV shows. Oh, look! There’s the medical examiner. Can we at least wait until the body comes out? Please?”
Seth and I exchanged glances. This could take all night.
Parrino returned, maybe fifteen minutes later, surprised to see Seth and the kids still there.
“Time to go,” Seth said, taking the hint.
I kissed Boone and Hope good night, promising to call as soon as I knew anything. As soon as they left, as soon as I didn’t have to be brave for the kids, I collapsed. Fortunately, I was still leaning against my car. It stopped me from falling back, but I slid down as my knees gave way.
Parrino caught my elbow before I hit the ground.
“Would you like to sit in one of the cars?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“I’d rather have fresh air.”
He led me to an unmarked car and opened the rear door.
“Sit on the edge, facing out.”
I did as directed and felt better. He crouched in front of me, just like the paramedic had done for the children.
“Do you know the deceased, Mrs. Hartley?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. I didn’t get a good look. He was face down with a gaping hole in the back of his head.” I gave an involuntary shudder. “I just wanted to get out of there before my kids came in and saw him.”
“Understandable. Did you touch anything?”
“No . . . yes, the light switch on the inside wall and the door knob.”
“Did you notice that anything was missing or out of place?”
“Uh . . .” I tried to think. I came. I saw. I backed out quickly. Pretty lame. I should have looked around, took notes, or memorized details. Hope would be so disappointed in me. “I didn’t notice,” I admitted. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Hartley. You did a good job not panicking and by calling 9-1-1 immediately.”
Almost immediately, I thought.
“I want you to stay here,” he continued. “Constable Kallas will stay with you while I take another look at the scene.”
In other words, Constable Kallas will guard me because I am a suspect. The first person on the scene is always a suspect unless proven otherwise. Kallas was a woman. Maybe she was there in case I had to be searched.
Oh, joy. I pulled the blanket around me.
I looked around, taking in the details so I could tell Hope later. Crime scene tape stretched across my front yard, down my side alley, and presumably enclosed my backyard too. Since I lived in a semi-detached house with a shared front yard framed by our respective driveways, my neighbour’s walkway and front door was part of the crime scene too. Good thing I didn’t live in a townhouse.
The patrol cars formed a
wider perimeter. Outside, about a dozen or so people had congregated. It was hard to see because the immediate area was brightly lit, but I could identify a few of my neighbours and at least one reporter. The flash in my direction gave him away.
Kallas moved so she was standing between me and the reporter.
“Do you want to get in the car?” she asked.
“No. But I’d trade that reporter an exclusive interview for a cup of coffee.”
She smiled. “I’ll see what I can do about the coffee. What do you take in it?”
“If it comes from Tim’s, I’d really like an English Toffee Cappuccino. If not, black coffee is fine.”
She turned her head and talked into the radio attached to her bulletproof jacket, just below her shoulder. The coffee order was embedded in a stream of police technobabble. At least, that’s what it sounded like to me. I was getting very tired and a little spacy.
More time passed. A man in uniform brought me a grande low-fat vanilla latte, saying it was courtesy of a neighbour. It had to be Walter. He owned the other half of the duplex and was the only neighbour who would know what I ordered at the local Starbucks.
Fortified, I took the notebook I always carried out of my bag and started writing everything that had happened since I arrived home. Then I worked backwards. The latte was gone and I was halfway through an extra-large English Toffee Cappuccino—ET Capp to the cognoscenti —before the ME finally brought the body out the door.
Parrino signalled Kallas and Kallas nodded to me. I put my notebook away and allowed myself to be escorted to the coroner’s van.
“We’d like to see if you recognize the deceased,” Parrino explained. “Sorry, but this isn’t going to be pleasant.”
No kidding. That was like the dentist saying that I might feel a little pinch when he pried my mouth open and stuck a needle in my gums. I pulled my blanket tightly around me, trying to offset the sudden chill.
The cadaver was now in a body bag. The ME unzipped it so only the face was showing. The smell hit me first—a pungent mix of blood, gunpowder, and other stuff I didn’t want to think about. I forced myself to gaze at his face. It was almost as bad as the back of his head. The worst part was that I did recognize him.