“Three nights at a spa for her and her sister.” He grinned. “Her mom’s idea. Marie deserves a break. She’s had the boys day and night all month.”
“Big deal at work?”
She listened with half an ear while he expounded on a tricky case involving suspected money-laundering and an overseas entity on the terrorist watch list. “Of course, that means CSIS was involved,” he finished. “You know how I love those guys.”
“Like that asshole who warned me off the kidnapping case in North Van. Dave Whatsit. Bowling pin with dark glasses.”
Tom wiped a sleeve lovingly over his gleaming new toy. “I ran across him recently. He was in town to interview at the universities. That’s what he said, anyway.”
“With him, that’s as apt to be bullshit as not.”
“Uh-huh. So what are you up to that needs input on oil company accounting practices?”
Lacey filled him in on her week, starting with Bull dragging her onto a crime scene in the wilderness. “Eric’s best friend explained how they’d uncovered malware at this oil company that was siphoning money during the cheque-printing process. Eric was carrying evidence of the scam to show the owner of the company when he disappeared. He later turned up dead in the owner’s woodshed.”
“The owner didn’t see him, then? Or did he?”
“Says he left for Calgary before Eric arrived, to avoid the approaching blizzard. Now he’s left the country and isn’t coming back. His company and his homes here are on the market.”
Tom threw the cover back over his new Cat. “I haven’t been working Calgary long enough to grasp all the nuances of oil companies, but basic corporate operations, sure. A malware siphon would alter the operating expenses reports. If the owner knew about it and stayed silent, he’d be party to fraud against any shareholders or future buyers, who base their decisions partly on the reported expenses. I don’t remember hearing TFB Energy mentioned, but then, I haven’t been listening for it.”
He led her out to the drive and pulled the garage door down. A chilly breeze blew lines of stinging snow over the driveway. Across the street, a jolly fat man made of red and white plastic lit up the deepening dusk. Kids dragged a hockey net out of the road as a car came along, then dragged it back. Their game continued. The mix of players’ ethnicities triggered in Lacey a wave of homesickness for the Lower Mainland, where people of varied ancestries mingled far more than they did in the parts of Calgary she’d seen. Or Bragg Creek, for that matter. She pulled on her gloves and fished the Lexus’s fob from her pocket as she turned back to Tom. “Would the penalties for that kind of fraud be high enough to kill someone over?”
Tom picked up a child’s sled and propped it up by the front steps. “When we were patrolling the streets of Surrey, we saw kids killed for twenty bucks worth of drugs.”
“True enough. If you hear anything — like maybe that JP Thompson has already sought a fraud investigation — I’d like to know. If you can, that is.” She wished him a merry Christmas and left him to his happy family.
When she reached Bragg Creek, she was struck anew by its Christmas-postcard appearance: rustic signs and log rails capped with fresh powder, evergreen boughs drooping under a pristine burden of new white. Home fit the image, too, with wreaths winking either side of the door and Jan Brenner’s white tree shimmering in the living room window. She opened the mudroom door to the heavenly aroma of freshly baked cookies.
“Who’s been baking?”
“Both of us,” Loreena called back.
Dee grinned. “Mom gave the orders and I did the beating. She and Sandy smuggled in cookie cutters, plus a whole bunch of icing tubes and sparkly stuff last week. We’re still decorating if you want to join.”
Lacey washed her hands and slid onto a stool, salivating over the racks of cooling cookies. She’d expected to come home to a sombre mood, yet here they were, festive as anything, squeezing red and green and glittery gold icing onto bells and snowmen and other shapes. For now at least, questions about dying were set aside for the joyful business of living.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At 9:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve, Lacey got a call from Cochrane RCMP’s Volunteer Coordinator. Coughing like a sea lion, she said she’d assembled the grief counselling material. “All this should have been done by their assigned volunteer already.”
“Maybe it was, and they forgot. That family’s not taking everything on board right now.” Lacey checked the time. “I can be there in half an hour, longer if I bring you all coffee.”
“That’s very Christmas-spirited of you, but I doubt the sergeant will be done with his interrogation any time soon. And he should be treating you, since you tipped him off about that young man’s prescriptions.”
“Calvin Chan, you mean?”
“That’s the one. I like Tims Double Double if you’re buying. And the receptionist drinks peppermint tea only. Pregnant.”
By the time Lacey reached the detachment with a tray of takeout cups and a box of homemade Christmas cookies, Calvin had gone. The two civilian women fell on the treats with glad cries. A patrol constable helped himself to a handful on the way out the door. When Bull appeared, Lacey asked, “Did you pull in Calvin Chan on my say-so?”
Bull reached for the box. “What’s it to you, McCrae?”
“Curiosity. Did he have the same kind of sleeping pills?” She lifted the lid, showing the iced and sprinkled cookies.
“Are you bribing a federal officer?”
Lacey grinned.
With a frosted reindeer in hand, Bull continued. “It’s his prescription all right. He claims the jacket Eric was wearing in the woodshed was one of his, and the pill could have fallen loose in the pocket at any time.” He bit off a leg.
“He does carry pill bottles in his pockets. I’ve seen them. Are you buying that it’s his coat?”
He chewed thoughtfully. “Not on a money-back guarantee. It might be a pre-emptive strike against hair or skin samples that link him to the body.”
“Calvin isn’t exactly stable, but from what I’ve been told, he is intelligent. It’s possible he went out there with Eric and disguised his involvement. Doesn’t explain where he ditched the car, though. If it were anywhere in the city or on the plains, it would have been spotted by now. Plus, how would he have gotten back home?” She took the smallest cookie from the box and nibbled a corner. “Did he account for his whereabouts that weekend?”
Bull led the way to his office. “Firm silence on the subject. Tell me everything he said yesterday.”
The report didn’t take long. Giving it felt almost like being back on the Force, although Lacey had never reported to a sergeant as relaxed as Bull. If she’d passed the undercover course, maybe she’d have found the culture different over there. Less militaristic than the patrol unit, and maybe less resentful over women getting promotions, too. Or was that a pipe dream? The whole Force was rotten with misogyny. At every rank, in every detachment, she’d encountered crude jokes and unwanted attention, sulks and sneers, until she’d gotten married, basically pinning a taken label on her collar.
When Lacey arrived home she found Dee and Loreena still in their pajamas, mellowing in the living room as a fire sparked and popped in the big fireplace. They had every photo album in the house stacked up on the coffee table and were reminiscing. Lacey went to Dee’s office and skimmed social media sites, dropped basic holiday greetings in a few people’s feeds, killed off a phishing email, and read one from Jan Brenner filled with sunshine, good cheer, and complaints about the price of internet access on cruise ships:
Thankfully we’re sitting at this port for two days. The sea’s like glass, but the constant vibration of those huge engines during a twelve-hour run between islands jangled me to the point of barfing. In port the engines are down to a dull rumble. Not as wonderful a trip as I’d expected, but it’s way better than being rolled up in blankets on the couch at home while Terry goes to all the holiday parties by himself. I’m able to walk around much m
ore than expected, wearing that heart monitor to warn me when I hit the red zone, and Terry carries my folding chair slung over his shoulder for when I have to rest.
Jan sent greetings to Dee and hopes for her mother to have a peaceful visit. Lacey hit Reply and started typing. If anyone could explain whether a young man’s interest in oil-well remediation and pipeline spills might become a motive for murder, it would be Jan’s oil-patch husband, Terry.
When Zoe woke up on the morning of the twenty-fourth, the whole king-sized bed was hers. She rolled to Nik’s side and nuzzled his pillow for a hint of his familiar scent. He’d crept out without waking her. He’d be downtown, waiting for his well to come in, missing dinner and possibly tomorrow’s breakfast as well. There’d be three or four other reservoir engineers doing the same. The whole northern half of Alberta was only open for drilling when the ground was frozen solid, so most of the patch worked over Christmas. If the well came in today, Nik would take Christmas and Boxing Day to evaluate the initial reports, monitor the pressure testing, and then learn if he had a well or another dry hole. Not that the oil was worth as much as it had been two years ago, but it kept them afloat. Just as long as it was all done before the twenty-seventh, so the kids could have their ski holiday.
No message from Nik on her phone. There was, however, a voice mail from Marcia. “Any chance we can make that ski lesson this afternoon instead of the twenty-sixth? I have a booking for a group trek that day.”
Traipsing downstairs a few minutes later, her old Garfield pajama pants flapping around her ankles, Zoe headed for the kitchen. The light on the coffee maker was on. There was a note beside the machine. They’re in the zone this morning. Could be a long day. Cross your fingers for a gusher. He’d signed it with an XOX. She tucked the note into her pocket before texting Marcia: This aft works. Black Rock Bowl at 1? Then she made herself a toasted bagel and settled at the table to eat while the sky brightened and the pale winter sunlight crept down the wall to kiss her face. The tension of the last week was gone. She felt like herself again. The sheer relief of talking about the ghost, of learning she wasn’t entirely alone in the experience, had given her nightmare-free sleep for the first time all week. She didn’t need to call the ghost-whisperer woman. She’d handled an oil company staff of sixty; she could handle one dead intern.
Now to get the ski equipment organized. Taking her second coffee to her office, she dialed Arliss’s number, put the phone on speaker, and leaned back in her chair.
“I’m calling to thank you for arm-twisting JP into paying for our ski holiday.”
“You deserve it,” said Arliss with her usual brusqueness. “Did you find somewhere decent?”
“Yep. Six nights at Marmot Basin starting on the twenty-seventh. Nik might not be able to go right away. He’s waiting on a well.”
Arliss groaned. “The oil-patch family in a nutshell. Drillers, riggers, geologists, engineers, all working when there’s work and to hell with the calendar. How many Christmases with his boys has he missed because of drilling?”
“Not quite half the ones they’ve spent here.” Zoe took another sip of coffee. “Speaking of the boys, I need to outfit them for cross-country skiing. JP says we can take whatever we want from the chalet, and we did use the snowboards the other day, but there might be things you want for when your kids are with you.”
“My children all have new stuff now. Phyl outfitted everyone for skiing in Switzerland over New Year’s. You take what you want.”
“That’s pretty much what JP said. But thank you. You’ve made a tremendous difference to our family vacation.”
After a brief silence, Arliss asked, “Can you get some equipment for Eric’s sister and brother, too? They haven’t told their parents they’re going skiing on Boxing Day. It must feel a bit like disloyalty, I expect. Smuggling their ski stuff out won’t be easy.”
“Their mother isn’t any better?”
Arliss’s sigh slithered through the receiver. “She might, in time, learn to disguise it, but no mother ever gets over losing a child.”
“I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t. But I’d try not to let the rest of my children suffer while I grieved.”
“That’s why you’re taking those children skiing.”
“Would you like to come along? You know them, and they’ve barely met me.”
“Not a chance. I have to run interference at their house. There are funeral arrangements to be made, not to mention withdrawing Eric from his university and cancelling his loans. His dad is, as usual, hiding in his den, leaving everything to Leslie, who isn’t capable of coping alone.”
“I’m glad they have you. At the Blue Christmas service they seemed so lost.”
Arliss’s voice trembled. “If I had been a good neighbour, I wouldn’t have recommended Eric for that internship. I feel like I contributed to his death.”
“You? Why?”
“I told JP to give the position to him, like I did when Aidan needed an accounting placement. I even went into the office with him and introduced him around. When Marcia wanted Eric fired at Thanksgiving, I insisted he be kept on.” She paused. “But JP agreed with me. Marcia has always been overzealous with the rules, and she never trusted my boys, either.”
“You’ve known her a while, then?” Zoe vaguely remembered Arliss saying something about that before, but not the specifics. “Since before she started working at the company?”
“I saw her on our annual visits to JP’s mother in Ontario. She was the accountant at Old Fran’s nursing home. I didn’t think that qualified her to leap straight into oil-patch accounting, but you may have noticed that Phyl always gets what she wants. That time, she wanted her pal to have a job in Calgary.”
“I can’t see snotty Phyl being best friends with no-nonsense Marcia. They must be twenty years apart in age, too.”
“When Phyl took up with JP, she inherited those annual holidays at the nursing home. The kids said she got Marcia to show her around the region while JP was sitting with his mom.” Arliss huffed. “After Old Fran died, Phyl got Marcia the job at TFB, and Marcia bought a cabin across the Bowl so they could ski together. On trails I bushwhacked thirty years ago.” She paused. “Sorry. I’m trying not to be bitter that she’s living the life I worked my ass off for.”
Zoe signed off as soon as she decently could and wandered back to the kitchen, where Lizi was now up and whizzing a smoothie together. “You want half, Mom? Wheatgrass and bone broth.”
“That looks utterly disgusting.”
“The broth is almost flavourless and full of protein.”
“I’ll take your word for that.”
Zoe’s phone dinged. A text from Arliss. I’ll send you boot sizes and such for those three. Hopefully before you leave for Black Rock. The one cell tower up there gets overloaded during the holidays and flakes out during high winds.
“Lizi, can you round up clothing layers to lend to that girl we’re taking skiing on the twenty-sixth?”
Lizi nodded on her way out, her smoothie in one hand and her phone in front of her face, leaving Zoe to hope that she had actually registered the request. Honestly, nowadays you had to tell kids everything five or six times to make it past their preoccupations. Probably it would be less aggravating to text her than to verbally remind her four more times. In the living room, in solitude, Zoe plugged in the Christmas tree. Then, snuggling under a fleecy blanket, she pulled a novel off the end table and settled in for a long, lazy morning. When Kai and Ari finally emerged from the basement, grumbling about time zones, she took her mug back to the kitchen.
“Change of plans, guys. Your cross-country ski lesson is this afternoon. Can you be ready to go in an hour?”
They got on the road with minimal fuss and an album from Ari’s phone playing through the speakers — a fusion of Maori tribal music and modern folk rock. A few of the instruments sounded strange, and some lyrics made Zoe’s ears twitch trying to understand them, but all in all the hour’s drive passed pleasantly un
der sunny skies.
JP’s yard had been plowed again. A path was shovelled to the ski room off the garage. As Zoe parked by the porch, she couldn’t help but notice the woodshed with its last fluttering strands of yellow tape sitting amid drifts of undisturbed white. She shivered and shifted her eyes to the rear-view mirror, terrified lest the dead boy’s eyes look back at her. But only Kai was there, gathering up his gloves.
“You remember where the ski room is,” she said. “We have to get stuff for you two and Lizi, plus another girl named Clemmie who’s a bit shorter than her, but about the same weight; Clemmie’s brother Aidan, who’s about your size, Ari; and another guy, Calvin, who’s smaller than either of you.”
The multi-year accumulation of winter sporting gear provided all they needed. They loaded up the van, and she drove them around Black Rock’s upper road, arriving a few minutes past one at Marcia’s small cabin on the north shoulder. As one of the few pre–ski hill buildings that hadn’t yet been redeveloped, Marcia’s place deserved its designation of “cabin.” The original log building with its sagging front porch had grown to include a lean-to on one end and a two-storey extension on the other. The old sash windows looked like they’d been scavenged from even older buildings, and the upper floor’s tiny windows had probably been repurposed from a 1940s basement. The vertical plank siding on the addition was painted brown, almost blending with the age-darkened logs. A rickety wooden shed backed on to the surrounding trees.
“This is more what I expected from a mountain ski shack,” said Kai.
Marcia came out to greet them, her stocky figure dressed in trim black-and-white ski gear. “Zoe, are you skiing with us?”
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