“Tell me about the food poisoning in Paris,” Lalonde said.
“Dad died nine days after eating at a burger joint called Alvin’s All-Canadian Café. The bacterium was in a mayonnaise-based salad dressing.”
“How many others were ill?”
“No one, according to my lawyers.”
“Lawyers?”
“I’d heard that adults stood a fairly good chance of surviving the toxin. I wanted to know if the hospital had been negligent. The lawyers didn’t think so. Apparently, botulism’s not easy to diagnose when only one person’s been infected, and it took too long to find the source. By the time the doctors knew what was wrong, Dad was too far gone.”
“Bit odd that only one person was infected, isn’t it?”
“I thought so. It turned out that some fool used the remains of a jar of mayonnaise that hadn’t been refrigerated. The restaurant was busy at the time and no one would take responsibility for it.”
The drive to the airport to collect his body had been surreal and, in some ways, offensive. She’d had to pick up Dad from the cargo area, not that she would have wanted him swooping down the chute at the luggage carousel. But still . . . cargo.
Losing someone she loved and trusted had depressed her for a long time. Her adult relationships had never been as strong or trusting.
“I guess a blood analysis hasn’t been done yet,” Casey said. No one answered. “You guys really don’t want to tell me much, do you?”
Lalonde kept his gaze on the window.
• • •
Casey rubbed her arms and shivered. The morgue was colder than she thought it would be, or was she shivering because of the possibility that all her grief had been wasted on a lie? An attendant accompanied Lalonde to a labeled, oversized drawer and Casey’s heartbeat quickened. Lalonde produced a key and unlocked the compartment. The attendant slid a shrouded body toward them.
Someone touched Casey’s arm and she jumped. Krueger. Sympathy flashed across his face as he guided her nearer the body. She’d tried to mentally prepare for the sight of mutilated flesh and a close resemblance to Dad. One of last year’s criminology classes had discussed body decomposition. Nasty stuff. She vowed to stay cool and calm.
Lalonde turned to her. “Ready?”
Feet apart, arms crossed, and standing strong, she said, “Go ahead.”
One glimpse of the victim’s face and her stomach somersaulted. Gashes crisscrossed his scalp and descended to what remained of the left side of his face. Dried blood and bits of gray stuff matted his hair. Dozens of cuts mangled the upper half of his left arm and shoulder.
“Is this man Marcus Holland?” Lalonde asked.
Memories of Dad raced through her mind, images so vivid it was as if no time had passed and grief was just beginning.
“Is he your father, Miss Holland?”
“Just a sec.” Her legs grew shaky. Casey looked at the attendant. “Is there an appendectomy scar?”
She’d only glimpsed the scar once, by accident, after Dad’s operation twenty years ago.
Lalonde nodded to the attendant who lifted the sheet. Casey looked at the floor.
“There is,” the attendant said.
“Well, Miss Holland?” Lalonde asked.
Casey swayed toward the body, then recoiled, terrified of touching it. She tilted to one side. Hands gripped her arm and shoulder. Perspiration dampened her upper lip.
Lalonde said, “Get her some water.”
How could this man be Dad? It didn’t make sense. “No bloody way!”
“Are you saying this man isn’t your father?”
Pulling free of Krueger’s grasp, she charged out of the room.
Two
NORMALLY, CASEY LIKED Mondays. If the day went well, it set the tone for the week. If today’s events had set the tone, she’d stay in bed tomorrow. Sitting here beside a grave marked “Marcus Adam Holland,” she wondered who the hell she’d been visiting for three years. Casey picked blades of grass. How many times had she come here to think things through? The silence had always offered answers. Now there were only questions. The peace Cedar Ridge Cemetery had brought her was gone.
She studied the marble marker Lou helped her choose. Greg hadn’t wanted any part in funeral arrangements, so Lou volunteered. He always had been more supportive than her husband. Lou had met Dad lots of times. Three hundred people strolled past the open casket that day, and no one had said a thing about mourning the wrong guy. His deception had been perfect.
Why had Dad abandoned the people he loved? She thought he’d been happy with his life. Busy with work and a parade of bimbos until he outgrew the silliness and hooked up with Rhonda. While Casey hadn’t seen much of him those last two years, they’d still shared problems and secrets. They’d been so much alike that she often knew his thoughts before he told her. Soulmates. Of course, she’d once thought the same about Greg.
How had Dad managed to fake his death? Casey smacked the black marble. Behind her, someone’s knee cracked. She turned to find Detective Lalonde picking a quarter out of the grass.
“Did you drop this?”
“Doubt it.”
He pocketed the coin. “With six kids to support, even the loose change counts.”
“Are all six yours, or is it a blended family?”
“Blended about as well as oil and water, but that stays between us.”
“My theme of the day,” Casey sighed, “Dads with secrets.”
“Did you hit the headstone out of frustration or anger?”
She ran her hand over the clipped grass. “The funeral was a scam.”
“Then the man in the morgue is your father?”
“Looks that way.” She stood up. “Sorry about running off. I needed time alone.”
“No problem. You were never out of sight.”
She met Lalonde’s gaze. “You said you found him in a house on Marine Drive?”
“On the main floor, in front of a chair in his den. It appears the killer came up from behind while your father was still seated.”
Casey pictured the cuts on his left side. “He must have raised his arm to ward off the blows.”
Not an image she wanted to dwell on. She focused instead on pansies surrounding a nearby tree trunk. A large, deep blue and black Steller’s jay squawked from a branch.
“What did your father do for a living, Miss Holland?”
“He was an architect with his own firm. His associate and friend Vincent Wilkes inherited the business.”
Lalonde removed a notepad and silver-framed glasses from his pockets. “Address?”
After providing the information, Casey added, “It’s a renovated house on Tenth Avenue, just off Granville, but I don’t know if Vincent’s still around. We haven’t kept in touch.”
She saw Lalonde’s attention turn to a man standing in front of a grave about fifty feet away. The man’s hands were clasped together, his head lowered.
Lalonde turned back to her. “Your father spent a great deal of time in Europe.”
“Dad loved to travel. He worked for a lot of Europeans who’d bought property here and he usually vacationed overseas. He was always bringing back exotic piece of art: masks, carvings, glass sculptures.”
“He must have been quite successful. But even though Mr. Holland wore expensive suits and owned a Jaguar, he hadn’t filed a tax return in three years and his checking account was almost depleted. Do you know if he had assets in foreign banks?”
Maybe loyalty was a habit, but Casey didn’t want Lalonde to know about Dad’s money problems. How on earth could he have afforded a Jaguar and a house in one of the country’s most expensive areas?
“He never mentioned foreign banks.”
“We found a one-way ticket to Amsterdam in his den. He was scheduled to leave this week. His passport shows that this was a frequent destination.”
“I don’t know anyone living there.” Casey gazed at the Fraser River on the other side of the cemetery. “D
ad was a social guy. Couldn’t stand being alone.” She turned back to his grave. “I still have trouble believing he cut himself off this way.”
“Maybe he thought he had no choice.”
She knew what he was thinking. Dad had broken the law and faked his death to escape, but then why stay in Vancouver? “Whose name is the house in? Who pays the taxes?”
“We’re looking into that.”
“It should be simple to find out, or are there complications?”
“Let’s just say that nothing about this case appears to be straightforward,” he replied. “Your father could have been in serious trouble, Miss Holland. Something so dangerous that someone felt compelled to kill him with a heavy knife or meat cleaver.”
“A cleaver?”
“Possibly—there was a collection of them in the kitchen. And bits of onion on the countertop. Dirty dishes by the sink. Looked like he hadn’t cleaned up from dinner.”
“Had he eaten alone?”
“It appears so.”
“I’ve never known Dad to use a cleaver.” She shook her head. “From the depth of some of those cuts, it seems someone was really pissed at him.”
“Someone close to him, perhaps?”
Crap. She should have realized she was a suspect. “In case you were wondering, I was at a baby shower for one of Mainland’s clerical staff last night from seven till eleven. A dozen people can vouch for me.”
“They have. Since you took so long getting back to the office, I had time to chat with your colleagues. They think highly of you, by the way.”
“Good to know.” But the gossip would be flying now. “I guess you’ll want to exhume this body?”
“Not until I hear from the coroner.”
“When you know who this man is, let me know, okay? And I’d still like forensic proof that the man in the morgue is my father.” Lalonde said nothing, and she had nothing else to tell him. “I’d better make some calls.”
“You do know you’re unqualified to investigate this matter, Miss Holland.”
She kept her irritation in check. “You don’t mind if I share the news with a few friends, do you?”
“You can talk to anyone you like as long as it’s commiserating, not interrogating.”
She started to leave when Lalonde said, “Do you know where I can reach your mother?”
A chill ran through Casey. “I haven’t talked to my mother since Dad booted her out of the house seventeen years ago.”
“She was the one who told us you were next of kin and where you live and work.”
Casey could almost feel the blood leaving her face. How long had Mother known? Why would she even care?
“How’d you find her?”
“Her name and number were in an address book at the house. It took several hours to reach her, which is why we didn’t contact you earlier.”
Why would Dad have kept that info? “I bet Mother thought it was funny that he’d died twice.”
“Shocked, I’d say. I’ve tried to reach her again, but her assistant said she’s left for the day. I gather you wouldn’t know where she is?”
“I don’t know a thing about my mother’s life.” Didn’t want to either.
“She runs her own clerical service agency in Vancouver, Holland Personnel.”
Casey shrugged, uncomfortable with Lalonde’s scrutiny.
“I’d still like you to compile a list of old friends, family, and acquaintances along with contact info,” he added.
“Okay, but I’d like to know if any names on my list show up in his current address book.”
Again, she started to leave.
“Did you know you’re being followed?”
Casey saw him nod toward the man she saw earlier. As the man started toward the cemetery’s south exit, Casey made a note of his height, clothes, and the black ponytail dangling down his back.
“Is he familiar?” Lalonde asked.
“No.”
“Krueger noticed a black Saab when we left your office, and again when you left the morgue. Every time you changed buses the car pulled over and waited.”
“When are you going to question him?”
“Shortly. Krueger’s running a license check. Meanwhile, here’s my card. Call me when your list’s ready.”
“I want to talk to that guy.”
“No, we’ll handle this, Miss Holland.”
She ignored him and marched toward the man, vaguely aware that her thoughts were frazzled and this was a dumb move, but the day’s events had mangled the sensible approach to mystery solving.
“Miss Holland, come back here right now.”
“Shut up,” she mumbled, and began to run.
The man must have heard them. He turned to her and then began racing toward his vehicle. Before Casey could reach him, he roared away in the Saab.
Three
FOR AS LONG as Casey could remember, Rhonda Stubbs had played a major role in her life. Lord knows she’d been a more involved and empathic caregiver than Mother. She’d been the only female friend Mother had had, until Mother destroyed it all by sleeping with Rhonda’s husband. By the time Rhonda was engaged to Dad years later, Casey had learned to appreciate her as a trusted confidante and source of comfort when things were tough.
So, why hadn’t she told Rhonda about today? Was it because of what happened when she broke the news about Dad three years ago? Rhonda had responded by pouring a large pot of beef stew into the sink. “It was for Marcus,” she’d said. “No point now.” She’d then collapsed. Tonight, Casey had tiptoed upstairs and into her apartment unnoticed. She’d told herself she wanted scientific evidence before saying anything about Dad. Truth was, she didn’t know how to tell Rhonda without traumatizing her again.
Casey paced around the living room. She had to find a way. Rhonda needed to be told and she deserved to hear it from someone she thought of as family. After all, Rhonda had evicted a tenant in this big old house so Casey could move in after she walked out on Greg. Casey loved the large rooms and hardwood floors in this third-floor suite. She especially loved the comfy, cushioned seat in the bay window. It was a great refuge when she needed to make plans or to relax. But relaxing was impossible right now.
Casey bumped into her in-line skates propped against a stationary bike. She’d hardly used the bike since Rhonda bought her a yoga video. Tonight’s workout would require something more strenuous than the mountain pose, so she climbed on and started pedaling fast so her muscles would soon burn.
To cope with the day’s shocks, she’d kept busy by calling Dad’s friends, but no one claimed to know anything about his resurrection. One guy called her a pathetic practical joker. Two more implied she was nuts and cut the conversation short while others were so patronizing she’d wanted to smack them. The most infuriating call had been to Vincent Wilkes.
Casey wasn’t surprised that Lalonde had already contacted him or that Vincent was still an architect. The shock came when he told her that Dad had built a house in West Vancouver just before he died.
“Marcus planned to tell you about it when the final touches were done, which they pretty much were just before his death,” Vincent had said. “So, I assumed you knew.” And then the infuriating part, “Your mother didn’t mention the house?”
She’d wanted to know how Mother knew about the place. All Vincent would say was, “About two weeks after the funeral, Lillian came by to pick up those photos of you that Marcus kept on his desk. She said she wasn’t interested in either of his houses.”
Casey peddled harder. Mother hadn’t been at the funeral, hadn’t been invited. And Casey hadn’t noticed the missing photos. Vincent had packed Dad’s personal belongings and delivered them to the house. Eighteen months passed before she could bring herself to open the box.
Casey didn’t expect to hear from Mother. The last time they’d spoken was seventeen years ago, on Casey’s thirteenth birthday, about ten months after her parents split up. Casey had been stunned to find Mother waiti
ng outside the school. Maybe it was wrong to refuse the gift Mother had brought with her, but she couldn’t let Mother think she’d been forgiven for wrecking so many marriages.
Casey’s muscles ached, but she kept going until she heard familiar taps on the door. “Come on in, Summer.” God, how would she handle the news? Summer was only eight when Dad died. She’d cried all through the funeral and wouldn’t go to school for a week.
Summer stepped inside, carrying a plate of half-finished chocolate cake and wearing her favorite night shirt and moose slippers with the floppy felt antlers. She really was growing fast. Every time Casey saw her, she looked a little more like Rhonda, thank god. The dark eyes and thick black hair made it easy for Rhonda to convince the world she’d given birth to her, a lie she intended to carry to her grave.
Grabbing a clean towel from the laundry pile she hadn’t got around to folding, Casey dabbed her brow. “Need a towel? Your hair still looks wet.”
“I’m fine.”
“How was your swim practice?”
“Good. Coach says I’ll do great at the meet, but I don’t know.” Summer prodded the cake with her fork. “Like, I don’t feel ready.”
“You said that last year, and you won a medal.”
“Only third place. Want some cake?”
“I wish, but chocolate brings on a crappy mood, remember?”
“I thought that was only chocolate bars.” She sat in Casey’s rocking chair. “How come you didn’t have supper with us?”
“Lousy day,” Casey rubbed the back of her neck and slumped onto the sofa. “I wouldn’t have been good company.”
“Sometimes I wish I could cook what I wanted. It’d be cool.”
“Sometimes it is, but your mom’s spoiled me too much. I need to do more on my own.”
Rhonda didn’t agree. Thought the new microwave was a waste of money.
“Can I borrow your bike for school tomorrow? Mine blew a tire.”
“Sure, and I’ll get you a new tire. A mechanic at work owes me a favor.”
Two quick knocks on the door told Casey who her visitor was. Trepidation quickened her heartbeat.
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