A Nose for Death
Page 19
“Joan, Joan is that you. Are you okay?”
She slowly opened the door a crack to ensure that, indeed, it was Gabe.
He looked over his shoulder before sliding into her room. “You left without saying a word.”
She was self-conscious about her bizarre appearance: baggy sweats, bright pink fuzzy socks, and hair standing on end.
Gabe didn’t seem to notice. “You’re shivering.” He wrapped her in his arms and she relaxed into the warmth of his embrace. “It’s like a fridge in here.”
“The bloody heating system is a joke,” she sighed from between chattering teeth.
“Come here.” He led her to the bed and drew her down.
“No, Gabe.”
“Shh. I’m just warming you up. I promise.”
She could feel him unbuttoning his rough duffle coat, a cocoon of wool alive with his scent. He opened it and drew her to him. Conflicting thoughts rushed through her brain: Staff Sergeant Smartt keeping surveillance, Marlena’s threat to expose Gabe, her own desire to be held, the fact that time was running out, how the large piece of cheese that she’d just eaten might affect her breath.
His strong hands turned her toward him. “Joan.” He looked directly into her eyes. “I’m staying the night.”
She buried her face in his chest, shaking her head “no”, and trying to swallow the lump in her throat.
He tilted her head back. “Why not?”
“You have . . . a wife,” was all she said. She’d given voice to the burden that was a rock in her gut.
“How do I make you believe that we’re not living as a married couple anymore. Listen, I wouldn’t have kissed you in public at Jacques. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He was still looking her squarely in the eye. “Or to her.” His voice softened. “I wouldn’t be here now.”
She couldn’t count the times she’d heard this story from her women friends, women facing menopause on their own, frantic that their only chance at love was passing. How many had insisted that their latest beau was only living with his wife out of convenience, that the wives were, themselves, done with the marriage? Like a skipping record, it always seemed to unfold that the wives were stunned to discover that their husbands were cheating on them. Although she hoped that Gabe was different, Marlena had made her doubt him. How could Gabe, her Gabe, whom she had known all of her life, how could he betray any woman?
When he brushed his lips against hers, she kissed him hard, then pushed him away so that she could read his reaction to her next question.
“Gabe?”
“Hmm?” he moaned the response softly.
“I need to know something. Why are you so sure that I didn’t kill Roger? And Peg, for that matter?” He gently brushed the hair from her brow as she continued. “I was the last person to see Roger alive. I had plenty of time to go up to Peggy’s on Sunday morning. How do you know it isn’t like Smartt thinks, that I invited myself to this party so that I could kill Roger? What if I wanted Peg silenced? How do you know it wasn’t me?”
“Because I know you. I always have.”
And at that moment, Joan knew they were fooling themselves. One of the things that she remembered about Gabe was his ability to separate passion and logic, which was why his protests were so convincing. If she were the lead investigator in this murderous puzzle, she’d be on her own suspect list. Before she could question him further, before she could ask if he had a prime suspect that he wasn’t telling her about, there was another knock at the door. This time, a not-so-subtle voice accompanied it.
“Hey Joannie, let me in!”
Gabe groaned. Joan shrugged and went to the door.
Hazel barged in with a hotel blanket, a pillow, and a large brown paper bag. “I knew you wouldn’t have extra blankets. They keep this place so damned cold.” She acknowledged Gabe as though it was perfectly normal that he should be in Joan’s room late at night. She turned to Joan. “You mind if I spend the night?”
Joan and Gabe forced smiles.
Hazel complained that Lila had kicked her out of her own hotel room, angry that she hadn’t paid her more attention at the dance.
Gabe made his excuses, kissed Hazel on the cheek, then kissed Joan on the mouth and whispered, “I’m not done with you,” and left.
Joan could smell the hot ginger beef and broccoli with garlic through the brown bag and tinfoil containers. She realized just how hungry she was and tied into the Chinese takeout with gusto. The two stayed up far too late, finishing a bottle of wine before they pulled out the hide-a-bed. Hazel was still talking as Joan drifted into her own pre-dream thoughts. She was glad that Hazel had saved her from temptation. Something nagged at her. She had been so relieved to see Gabe when she arrived in Madden, so swept up in her feelings for him, that she hadn’t questioned deeply who he had become. She had projected onto him the person she wanted him to be. Was Gabe keeping information from her? Did he know who had killed Roger? Was there another reason he was so sure that she didn’t do it?
The streets of Elgar were dead quiet when Gabe turned off the highway. He knew that there would still be officers working at the detachment office, scratching their heads over clues that didn’t seem to be leading them anywhere. It had only been seventy-two hours since Roger’s death. The Elgar RCMP were accustomed to identifying homicide perps quickly. Barroom brawls and domestic disputes left grizzly evidence and a clear trail of blood and witnesses to the killers. A lot was riding on Gabe’s association with the graduating class, but now he was beginning to worry that his pre-existing knowledge might, somehow, be blinding him.
Bypassing Centre Street and the office, he zig-zagged through the residential roads and finally turned into his crescent. At the far end of the street a dim light glowed in the second-storey window of the master bedroom. Betty was probably sitting up in bed with a bodice-ripper, the familiar cup of hot water and lemon by her elbow, one ear alert to his footsteps on the stairs. He parked as silently as if he were staging a surprise drug bust and quietly let himself into the house. Avoiding the two stairs that creaked, he made it to the top landing without making a sound.
He crept to his son’s door, slowly turned the knob and pushed it open a crack. Teddy, now a lanky six-footer, was curled up like a little boy, clinging to the covers that threatened to fall to the floor. His shallow breaths didn’t alter and Gabe pulled the door closed without disturbing him. It had only been three days that they’d been apart and Gabe had missed him. What kind of hole would it leave when Teddy headed to university in the fall? Facing the door at the end of the hall, he debated going in to say goodnight to his wife. As he shifted his weight, the floorboard beneath his feet cried out. Instantly the ribbon of light at the bottom of her door went dark. So much of their communication had become non-verbal over the past couple of years. This one said, “I have nothing to say to you.” He turned and went down the stairs.
The den was chilly. He pulled out the hide-a-bed and stripped down to his shorts. Now wide awake, he draped a woollen blanket around his shoulders and sat at his computer. After checking his email, he began to Google people of interest, to see if he’d missed anything; Joan, Roger, and Ed Fowler were all on his list, each for different reasons. The ticking of his father’s old wind-up mantle clock kept time from a scarred side table. Gabe knew it would be another sleepless night.
CHAPTER TWENTY
JOAN DREAMT OF BEES AND SWEET wine-scented vineyards warmed by the sun. She was jarred awake when the soft buzzing was interrupted by a loud snort. She rolled over to see Hazel sprawled on the pullout, deeply asleep, gently smacking her lips over her last snore. Daylight streamed in the skylight and Joan lay still a moment to get her bearings. She reminded herself that it was Tuesday, and that May was slipping away. The message light was flashing on the phone. She actually hoped it was Tony or Ted calling, needing her at work, desperate for her to solve a puzzle. It had been five days since she had left the office. This was the longest break that she’d had in over a year.
“It’s in honour of Peg and Roger, a tribute, remembering the good things. It’s what Peg would have wanted so . . . 6 pm. Be there or be square . . . ” She sighed then added, “as Peggy would have said.”
The reference to “everyone’s last night” confused Joan until she played the second message, which was from Corporal Cardinal at the Elgar RCMP detachment. Soft-spoken and considerate, he said that many people had expressed a need to return to their homes and jobs. The attendees of the reunion were being requested to please leave their contact information at the office.
She rolled onto her back and stared out at the clear sky. If the weather held, it would be the perfect day for the service. In the few short days she’d been in Madden she’d witnessed the transition from spring to summer. The musky smell of leaves composting in the drizzling showers had given way to the scent of new lawns, and the river, swollen with continued snowmelt and the heavy rains of last week, kept the air moving, fresh and alive. It was only four weeks from the longest day of the year. At this latitude that meant they’d have light until well into the evening. When they were kids, they had tested the length of the days by how late they could read an Archie comic outside without the use of a flashlight. As she lay with her hands folded over her stomach, she solemnly admitted to herself that once she left Madden, there was a good chance that it would be years, even decades before she returned, if she ever came back. There were a few things she needed to tie up before tomorrow. She wasn’t sure if there was a connection between the sordid photographs of her at the 1978 bush party and the reunion murders, but she was determined to resolve at least that mystery before leaving town. She dressed quietly, wrote Hazel a note about the memorial, and tiptoed out the door and into the daylight.
The first bell had rung and the teenagers slowly, reluctantly, gave up their freedom and filed into Madden Composite High School. With a little over a month until summer holidays, the upcoming weeks were the most challenging of the year for both students and staff. Exams conflicted with parties at the lake, droning teachers competed with spring fever and the hopes of summer romance. Joan became self-conscious as she followed a group of chattering girls through the double doors. She corrected her posture and added a purposeful spring to her step.
The students all looked so young. Did the farm kids still do a double shift, toiling in the fields at the end of the school day? At their age, Joan had been working full time in Vancouver and studying at night. David, her youngest brother, had paid for all his school clothes from his paper route, and Anthony had worked twenty hours a week washing dishes, covering his own expenses as well as handing a portion to Joan to help cover household costs. She’d made them show her their homework every night before they went to bed. Vi was a distant, frail figure in the shadows of Joan’s memory. That first year the slightest reminder of Leo would send their mother into tears. She had loved him so much, despite the trail of ruin he had left. The kids had been left to manage their own lives and to mourn as orphans.
Joan found the glass-walled school office and waited in line to speak with the secretary. She introduced herself as one of the graduating class visiting Madden. Immediately, the young woman offered condolences for the reunion that had become such a fiasco. Others in the office, overhearing the conversation, peered at Joan as though she were a species from another paleontological period.
She listened patiently to the secretary, until it was her turn to speak. “There was a yearbook, a 1979 yearbook, on display in the gym the other day. Is it here? There was such a crowd, I didn’t have much of a chance to look at it.” She smiled, hoping her request sounded innocent enough that it didn’t raise further questions.
The secretary answered proudly. “We have a copy from each year since 1953, when Madden started issuing yearbooks. I’m not sure it’s been returned yet.” Without waiting to hear more, the woman scurried into the principal’s office, where a grim-faced man sat ploughing through a pile of paper. He looked at Joan fleetingly through the open door, then nodded to the secretary and dismissed her with a wave. Returning to the main office, she went to a tall cedar bookcase and ran an index finger along the book spines on the uppermost shelf. She frowned then studied the lower shelf, finally selecting a slim volume with navy and gold binding. “Misfiled.” She smiled apologetically, cleared a space at the end of the counter, and placed the book there. “I’m sorry. We’re short on office space. Will this do?”
“This is just fine, thank you.”
“Can I get you a coffee?”
Joan looked at the coffee pot, a dark layer of brownish oil rising up the sides. It made her think of a badly kept chimney. “I’ve had way too much already this morning,” she lied. “But thanks anyway.”
She opened the yearbook at random and saw the photos of grade ten students. There was Anthony’s photo at the top of the second page. She touched his image and smiled. He’d been so nervous about starting high school, to the point that he’d vomited that morning. Joan sometimes wondered if it had been some sort of premonition. She flipped to the grade twelve section at the end of the book. Roger Rimmer smiled crookedly from the page. His ringlets touched the high collar of his shirt. The details printed beside his picture read:
Favourite saying: Yo, man.
Ambition: Get my picture on the cover of Rolling Stone.
Likes: The sweetest chick in the county. You know who you are babe.
Dislikes: Canned peas and wet grass.
Joan figured there had to have been a dozen girls who hoped they were “the sweetest chick”, but wondered who he meant on that particular day.
She continued flipping pages until she reached the sports photos. All the senior teams had been called Rockets, male and female, whether volleyball, basketball, or football. There was Hazel, beaming out from several of the team photographs, her broad grin lighting the page. Even on paper her personality stood out. Joan scoured the photos, searching for the most out-of-focus and poorly framed. Her suspicion was confirmed. Each fuzzy shot was identified by the credit, Marly. When she had seen it the other day, she had thought that this nickname was a misspelled tribute to Bob Marley. With the Wailers, he was at the height of stardom in 1979. His association with ganja had made him a particularly popular idol in Madden. Now, though, Joan had another theory. She flipped to the acknowledgement pages: coaches, special thanks to the grad committee, volunteers for the drama program. She searched until she came to the photo of the school newspaper committee. Slouching in the back corner, draped entirely in black, was Gabe, who had written a weekly column on activism, encouraging youth to question authority and take action for social change. Supervising teachers had scrutinized his rants for signs of sedition before publication. Occasionally, though, he’d snuck in wry analogies, to the delight of students thirsting for dissent. The credits printed above the photo included committee members who had not been present for the group photo. Joan’s name was listed as former co-editor, even though she’d only worked on the Madden Magpie for a couple of months. Gabe would have insisted she be recognized. She couldn’t suppress a smile. Then she found the image she’d been seeking. Posing in cheesecake fashion, with camera slung around her neck, was Marly: Marlena Prychenko. Joan stared for several moments until the secretary asked if there was something wrong. She mutely shook her head and the woman left her alone. As she lifted the book, a slip of faded pink paper fell out from between the pages. It was the original order form for this copy of the yearbook. “ Joan Parker, 12A” was printed in capital letters. Thirty years this book had been waiting for her. She was torn. On the school shelf its job was to represent the collective history of the school, b
ut it was her history too. The book belonged to her. Her parents had paid for it. She left the office with the yearbook under her arm. If nothing else, Vi and the boys would get a kick out of it.
When she arrived at the Stanfields’ glamorous house on the hill, Marlena’s luxury SUV was gliding into the triple-car garage. There was a gleaming powerboat in one bay and the last was empty. Daphne’s champagne-coloured rental car was nowhere in sight. The Stanfields’ houseguest must have left for the day, perhaps had already returned to Calgary. The entire street was eerily deserted, inhabitants either away at work or locked securely inside their suburban homes. Clutching the Crown Royal bag, she marched toward the garage. Marlena saw her coming and instinctively pointed the remote at the door. As the garage door was descending, Joan darted toward it and ducked inside, aborting the attempt to lock her out. The powerful combination of exhaust fumes, motor oil, and pine air freshener assaulted her as she planted her feet firmly on the concrete floor.
“So, what’s up, Parker?” asked Marlena. She was trying to appear nonchalant but her body was tense.
Joan had caught her off guard and didn’t want to lose the upper hand. She shoved the yearbook at the other woman. “Marly?”
Marlena retorted with a sneer. “Like that’s news to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were on the committee that tried to boot me off the paper.” Marlena grabbed her gym bag from the front seat and slammed the vehicle door for emphasis. “But I was the one who stuck it out in the end.” Joan’s throat tightened. Her greatest regret in leaving Madden High had been abandoning the Magpie. Marlena tossed the remote through the open SUV window onto the seat then took a step toward her. Light filtered through a small window high on the wall. “Do you know what’s even funnier?” Joan looked at her blankly. “The only reason I joined the school newspaper was because you were on it.”
Joan was stunned. “But you hated me.”