And who were the ‘bad people’ to whom Michael referred? People from the church perhaps?
“Milk and cookies.” Grace Chan is placing a tray on the coffee table; it holds two glasses of milk and two plates each holding two chocolate chocolate-chip cookies. “Would you like some, Detective Rogan?”
“Yes, thanks. It’s very kind of you.”
They are home-made and delicious. They are similar to the one’s my mother baked most Sundays when I was growing up.
“I’m sorry if I upset Michael,” I say.
“He was very close to losing it just then. You have to be very careful when you push autistic children to do something they don’t want to do; you can end up with a major meltdown.”
That’s the same word that Mark Wright used about Terry.
“Does it happen often?”
She sighs and nods. I feel a wave of sympathy for her. My lovely Ellie can get angry on occasion but I have never seen her react with what could be referred to as a meltdown, like the way Michael reacted yesterday morning when I was here with Stammo.
“It must be tough,” I say.
“You don’t know the half of it, detective.” She gives me a wan smile.
“How did Terry’s parents handle it?”
“Good. Yes. I think it’s been harder since Mark lost his job. It must be what… three years ago now. They lost their house, everything. It was really tough. They were no longer able to afford therapy for Terry. Elizabeth had to go back to work at the hospital. Mark hasn’t been able to get a full time position. He’s doing some consulting work, but… Anyway they both adore Terry.” She realizes what she has just said. “I guess I should say adored.” She looks upwards and blinks.
I remember the expensive looking computer equipment on the Wright’s dining-room table. “Is he a computer techie?”
“Yes. I’m not quite sure exactly what it is he does. It’s very technical, mathematical in some way.”
I think back over my visit to the Wrights and one little fact becomes an itch that needs scratching. It still bothers me that Terry was able to climb out of the window of his bedroom without his father hearing at least something.
“I hate to have to ask this question, but we need to explore all possibilities.”
She nods.
“Does Mark drink? You know, more than normal. Or maybe take drugs?”
She blushes. “You’re putting me in a very difficult position. There’s stuff that Elizabeth has told me in confidence.”
I nod encouragement. I hope.
Long pause. An uncomfortable cough. Another pause.
“I guess if I’ve told my son that he has to tell the truth to the police, I’d better do the same.” She takes a deep breath. “Definitely no drugs. Mark never drinks at home, you realize. He would never do that; you know, not put Terry at risk. But lately Elizabeth says that he has been hanging around with a client. They go out a lot and Mark often comes home drunk. She says that she met the client once and took an instant dislike to him; she actually felt frightened by him. But she can’t say anything to Mark about it. He gets angry. He says it’s his only client and they need the income to pay their bills. I’m sure it’s nothing. Why would it be relevant to what happened to Terry?”
The thought of Mark Wright having a client who frightened his wife makes me think about Michael’s reference to ‘the bad people.’
“It’s probably not,” I tell her truthfully. “It just helps to understand what’s going on in the family. Neither of the Wrights will ever know we had this conversation by the way.”
“Thank you.” She looks relieved.
I stand up. “Thank you for your candor. And for the milk and cookies; they were great. If Michael says any more about oboe will you call me right away and let me know?” I hand her my card and she shows me to the door.
It’s four o’clock. From here it’s less than ten minutes to Ellie’s school but I have to drive across Vancouver in rush hour, drop off the car, stow my gun and then drive back. I rarely take my gun home, never when Ellie’s going to be there.
As I walk down the garden path toward the car, my happiness at the thought of seeing my daughter is marred by the feeling that I have accomplished little here other than upsetting the Chan’s son.
Stammo would say that this oboe stuff means nothing, get on with the real police work. Maybe he’s right. I am on what Shakespeare called a sleeveless errand.
So why can’t I leave it alone?
18
Ellie
I like it at Daddy’s; he’s very fun. Except when he asks me that question, “How was school today?”
“Good.” That’s a fib. I hate St. Cecelia’s, except for gym and recess. Oh, and music class.
“Do you want some more ice cream, sweetie?” he asks.
“Please.” Mommy’s strict about fruit and vegetables but Daddy isn’t.
“Do you still have the hamster in your class?”
“I’m in fourth grade, Daddy.” I wish we did have a hamster. I like them. When I’m grown up and have a pet shop, I’ll have lots of hamsters. And dogs, lots of dogs.
He’s looking at me and I just know he’s going to ask another question about dumb school.
“How’s Mommy?” At least it’s not a question about school. He worries about Mommy’s MS.
“Fine.”
“Was she doing something special tonight?”
I’m not supposed to tell Daddy the secret Mommy told me. But I’m not supposed to lie to Mommy or Daddy. I already told Daddy one fib just now.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“That’s nice. What’s she doing?” he asks.
I wish I didn’t have to keep secrets. Especially when I don’t like the secret.
“Nothing,” I say.
He just looks at me. It’s not fair! I’m not supposed to keep secrets from Mommy or Daddy. I eat some of my ice cream. It’s coffee. I love coffee ice cream; Daddy always gets it for me. I have another spoonful.
“Sweetie?” He says it like a question. He’s good at asking questions. He asks bad people questions and then when they tell lies he puts them in prison.
“She’s having a date.” I feel bad for Mommy that I’ve told. But she shouldn’t go on a date when she’s got Daddy and she shouldn’t make me not tell.
“Oh,” he says. “Who with?”
“Don’t know.” She’s been out with him a couple of times but I’ve never seen him.
Daddy looks sad. “Have you…?”
“What Daddy?”
He has that look on his face like Mommy has when she’s shopping and she can’t decide which blouse to buy. He has a couple of gray hairs, just above his ear. I never saw them before.
“It doesn’t matter, sweetie.” Now he looks very sad. I’m a little bit mad at Mommy for making Daddy sad. If she could see him like this, she would just want to marry him again for sure.
Poor Daddy. I want to make him laugh. “Knock, knock!” I yell.
“Who’s there?”
“Tom Sawyer.”
“Tom Sawyer who?”
“Tom saw yer underwear.”
He’s laughing but I can see he’s still a little bit sad. He comes around the table and picks me up out of my seat and hugs me. “I love you, my little sweetie,” he says.
I hug him super tight. “I love you too, Daddy.”
He carries me into the living room and sits in his favorite chair with me on his lap. He kisses me on the top of my head. I like it when he does that.
“In your class at school do you have any kids with special needs?”
“Yes. Justin. He has a helper.”
“Are you his friend?” he asks.
“Kind of. I like Justin but he’s a bit weird.”
“Will you do something for me?” he asks and I nod. “I want you always to be extra nice to Justin. Invite him to play with you. Talk to him if you think he’s lonely.”
“Sometimes he doesn’t want to play.”
>
“That’s OK. I just want you to be a friend to him. That’s all.”
“OK, Daddy.” I think about what happened in class today. “Justin remembers stuff,” I say.
“How do you mean sweetie?”
“Well, Ms. Ormond was reading from a book in English class this morning and at recess, I was standing talking to Emily—Emily thinks she’s my friend but I don’t really like her—anyway, I heard Justin and he was saying the words from the book. He remembered everything in the story.”
“Wow.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Were the words exactly the same as when Ms. Ormand read it?”
“I think. It sounded the same.”
He’s thinking. I look at his face; it looks so serious. He’s thinking about being a policeman. That’s so better than thinking about Mommy on a date. I give him a big kiss on the cheek and he gives me a big Daddy smile. “Knock, knock,” he says.
“Who’s there?”
“Justin.”
“Justin who?”
“Just in time to do the dishes.”
He’s funny. He picks me up and takes me to the kitchen. “You fetch me the dishes and I’ll put them into the dishwasher,” he says.
He’s not sad anymore. He’s probably forgotten that Mommy’s on a date.
19
Cal
Thursday
“Pentacles are almost always circumscribed with one, usually two circles.” Damien always was a precise kind of guy. “What you’ve got there is just a star. The damaged eyes and the cross on the lips are from a painting, I’m trying to remember the details. Oboe is blood. Definitely hex. LOL. Be back on Saturday, talk to you then. DC.”
His email was written while I was asleep. It’s straightforward enough except for the LOL. What makes ‘oboe is blood’, or the fact that it is a hex, funny? I’ve tried calling him but his phone is switched off. I hope he checks for messages.
I think twice before ringing the Wright’s doorbell. I didn’t tell Stammo that I was going to come here before going in to work. It could be interpreted as insubordination and jeopardize my official return to the department. I just need to do it, so I’m hoping it’s better to ask for forgiveness later than being denied permission now.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the living room curtains twitch. It reminds me of a nosy neighbor I once interviewed. Seconds later, the front door flies open and I am shocked by what I see.
Elizabeth Wright is transformed from the woman I interviewed earlier this week. The bags are gone from under her eyes, her hair is loose and looks great. She is dressed in fashionable gym gear. But what shocks me is her expression.
This is not the face of a woman who has just lost a child.
Overjoyed is an understatement, yet the joy is somehow tinged with fear and I feel the same spark arc between us as on Monday in Terry’s bedroom.
It all lasts but a second; she focuses on my face and everything disappears, leaving me with a feeling akin to loss.
And in a flash, I know what just happened; it makes me modify my plan for this interview.
“May I speak with you for a few minutes Mrs. Wright?”
“Uh, yes, of course.” She is flustered now. “Come in Detective, uh…”
“Rogan,” I supply. “Rocky Rogan.”
She leads me into the living room and I sense that something is different but cannot decide what. I look around; the furniture is the same and most of the dining room table is still taken up with Mark Wright’s expensive computer monitors. There are even left over breakfast things on the far end of the table.
She folds herself into an armchair. The movement is both elegant and sensual. She extends her hand indicating that I should sit, so I do.
“Is your husband in?” I ask.
“No. He’s at a breakfast meeting. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“I visited your church.” I say. When Stammo and I left here on Tuesday, she and her husband had refused to give us the name of the church yet there is no surprise in her face. She already knows.
“I was disturbed by something I saw there. There is a picture on the wall of a man lying dead—”
“Mutilated like Terry,” she says in a flat tone, expressionless eyes focused on me.
I deliver the understatement of the year. “It seems too much of a coincidence to me.”
I don’t yet comment on the fact that she was able to finish my sentence with such precision. How did she know to which picture I was referring? Unless someone told her of my visit and I’m pretty sure I know who that someone might be.
I leave my statement hanging, like a question, but she does not take the bait; she just looks at me in silence. “Does it seem like a coincidence to you Mrs. Wright?” I ask in as gentle a tone as I can summon.
She looks away from me, toward the door, and shrugs. In profile she is even more beautiful… vulnerable. Tears are welling in her eyes, making me want to go over and comfort her. Not a good idea.
“Do you think it is possible that someone in your church may have had a reason for wanting to kill Terry?”
She shakes her head and the tears are now flowing down her cheeks. “Mrs. Wright, I think you need to talk to me. Tell me everything you know.” She’s sobbing now and I wait. Finally, she manages to calm herself. She looks at me. She’s going to talk. I can feel a small tremble in my gut at the expectation; I smell a revelation coming.
But my Blackberry buzzes. I slide it out of my pocket. Damn! The caller is Stammo. Almost certainly about to ask me where I am and why I’m not a work yet. I wrestle with the options for a few seconds… then decide: I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb so I send him to voicemail, immediately regretting it.
His call disturbed the flow of my interrogation. “What were you going to tell me Mrs. Wright?” I ask. But Elizabeth Wright has used the moment to collect herself. Instead of talking to me she stands and takes one step over to a bookcase. She takes a CD from a pile and inserts it into a tiny player. The sounds of a capella female voices fill the room, singing a haunting chant.
“Hildegard von Bingen,” she says above the music as she returns to her seat.
“I’m sorry?” I don’t know the reference.
“This is her music. She was a Christian mystic who lived nine hundred years ago. She is one of the Transcended Masters we hope to emulate.”
The ancient music is beautiful, somehow overflowing simultaneously with both sadness and joy. It makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
“I can’t explain it, detective.” Her voice is calm and controlled. I am not going to get the revelation that I would have got if I’d ignored my Blackberry. “No-one at the church would have any reason to hurt Terry and even if they did, they would not profane his body by using an image from one of the black pictures. They represent the evil aspects of humanity which we must all guard against.” She is using the speech patterns and tones typical of people who are members of cults. Ten or so years ago, Steve and I busted a so-called church that was bilking its members and their wealthy families out of thousands of dollars. Even when their leaders’ mendacity was revealed, the followers still spoke of the church, it’s leaders and it’s members in hushed terms of respect.
“How many members are there?” I ask.
“Over a hundred true followers,” she says with some pride.
“So you knew Mrs. Marguerite Varga?”
“Of course. Not well, but I knew her. So tragic that she died on her way to worship.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that she died the day after Terry?”
“Everything happens for a reason detective. Maybe Marguerite was chosen to help Terry in the afterlife.” True believers explain everything within the context of their belief systems—come to think of it, we all do—however, she is giving none of the signs of dissembling.
“What about Seth, the Reverend Harris’ brother? Is he a true follower?”
Her smile confirms my earlier conjecture. “Seth
is still learning The Ways.” Her voice is gentle. “He is new to the Church. He joined after the death of his father, the former Reverend Harris. In time he will be a wonderfully strong follower of the Masters.”
Her glowing endorsement of Seth does not jibe with my feelings about the taciturn dog handler. Nor do they quite align with the Reverend Morgan Harris’ demeanor toward her brother and his dog.
Elizabeth is a true believer and I know I am not going to get any unbiased information on the church from this meeting. Time to focus on other areas. I want to follow up on something Elizabeth said last time I was here with Stammo; it was triggered in my mind by Grace Chan yesterday afternoon.
“Tell me about your husband’s business?”
The pleasant, almost dreamy look disappears. “Why do you want to know?” she asks.
“It must be very interesting work if…” I start but cannot finish. I feel guilty about the reason I was going to give; it will only help to drive a wedge between them. Mark Wright was engrossed in his work to the extent that Michael was able to sneak out of the house unnoticed.
I’ll take the higher road and tell the truth.
“When I was here with Detective Stammo on Tuesday you said something like, ‘If Terry was killed by someone wishing to hurt us, ask my husband about that.’ What exactly did you mean?”
She blushes, wipes a wisp of errant hair from her face and tucks it behind her ear. The gesture reminds me of Sam and last night’s conversation with Ellie comes rushing back to me. I can’t bear the thought of Sam out on a date with another man. I’d thought, wanted, hoped that she would be considering the possibility of a reconciliation. I try to push the thoughts out of my mind and refocus on Elizabeth Wright.
“You must understand that I was distraught. I wasn’t thinking straight,” she says.
“Is there anyone your husband knows who would want to hurt him or pressure him in some way? A competitor, a former colleague,” I pause, “a client or someone?”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 43