A Nose for Death
Page 23
“Of course we do,” he smiled. “That’s why we’re here.” But he didn’t take his eyes off her. He kissed her again and this time started unbuttoning her coat.
“We’re not alone.” Her voice quivered. She heard an engine start. Coincidence or telepathy? Gabe grinned and she knew that they were now alone. He slipped his hand under her T-shirt and she put her hand on top of his, at first to stop him, then to encourage him. “We shouldn’t,” she murmured.
“Life is too short for shouldn’ts,” he said as he flipped the armrest out of the way.
Tomorrow she would be gone. This could be the last time she was with Gabe for a very long time, maybe forever. She wanted to make love right here, right now. She wanted to say to hell with Smartt, the investigation, or men eating lunch. But who was she kidding? They weren’t a couple of adolescents, and they had serious matters to discuss that couldn’t wait.
“Not now, Gabe.” Her sudden shift in body language sent a clear message.
“Okay.” He shifted to business. “Daphne’s daughter rented the car for her mother. There’s no question in my mind.”
“I don’t think so, Gabe,” she said.
“But it was Patricia Pyle’s credit card, her driver’s license, used for ID . . . Maybe Daphne doesn’t have a credit card.”
Joan interrupted. “No, Patricia didn’t rent the car for Daphne. She rented it for herself. Daphne is Patti. Patti is Daphne,” she said.
“What do you mean?” But she could tell the answer was dawning on him.
She rummaged on the floor for her purse and pulled out the pink notebook. “I couldn’t figure out why she cringed at the memory of lemon gin but not at the strawberries. The woman who we’ve been calling ‘Daphne’ was chowing down on strawberries like there’s no tomorrow. She remembered hardly any details about Roger, but she remembered the mauve sweater I gave her.” Joan opened the notebook on her lap, found the page dated Labour Day weekend, 1978, where there was a detailed account of the bush party written in the telltale blotted scratching of a light-blue cartridge pen. The LG — lemon gin -incident was circled in red. She handed it to Gabe.
He read quickly. “Maybe Daphne wanted to remember those times specifically. Maybe she’s been using the notebook to try to recover her memory.”
Joan shook her head. “It’s not just that the diary entries are similar to what she remembers. They’re identical, word for word, as though she’s memorized them, including the lemon gin fiasco.”
“But we all do it to a degree,” reasoned Gabe, “depend on the record of events to reinforce what we remember. I recall exactly what you and I looked like trying to get up on water skies for the first time, what you were wearing, that red-striped bathing suit, how you wore you hair. Then I look at the photo album and it’s all there. But I can’t remember what you wore earlier that day or an hour later.”
Joan shook her head. “It’s more than that. Even if Daphne had brain damage it seems off that she would eat strawberries. When I was working on my Ph.D. I investigated the relationship between memory and scent. We fed rats oranges injected with lithium, so they’d get nauseous. You couldn’t get them to eat oranges after that, ever. A single bad olfactory memory will stay all your life. It’s coded into one of the most primitive parts of the brain. Daphne had a near-death experience when she ate strawberries as a kid. That’s going to make one hell of an imprint. It doesn’t make sense that she’d remember lemon gin but not strawberries. It’s the same part of the brain.”
“Couldn’t it be some sort of anomaly?” asked Gabe.
“Highly unlikely.” She tapped the open book. “Daphne wrote vividly about the lemon gin. There’s no mention about her allergic reaction to strawberries. No record. Not much in here about Roger either. Maybe Daph was honouring his demand for secrecy. It’s definitely not something she would have wanted her parents to know. Gabe, this book is her memory. Earlier today Marlena said something that’s stuck in my brain. She said that not everyone is who they seem to be. In Daphne’s case, it’s literal. She’s not Daphne. She’s Patti.”
“So where is Daph?” asked Gabe. “The real Daphne?”
Joan looked at him sadly. “I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”
“Why?”
“All sorts of reasons, but the main one? Her dad told me she was.”
“Daphne . . . Patricia — she may be a liar but it doesn’t mean she’s a killer. And, if she is, why Roger? Why Peg?”
“Daphne didn’t write much about Roger. Doesn’t mean she didn’t talk about him to her daughter. And there’s this.” She read from the telltale diary. “‘If I drink the gin all at once, maybe my problem will go away’.”
“Her problem?” Gabe shook his head.
“Yeah. Daphne wasn’t drinking to cut loose. It was a teenager’s attempt to induce a miscarriage. That first time it must have worked. But it didn’t when she got pregnant again. Remember the man’s shirt she was wearing in the picture?” Joan sighed. “Roger was Patti’s father. I’m almost certain.”
“You think she came here to kill him?”
“You’re the cop.” Joan shrugged. It was starting to drizzle again, “Maybe it was simply too much baggage for one young woman.” She stared at the rain on the window, one rivulet blending into another, then another, and another until they flowed as one steady trickle down the windshield.
He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “What’s the matter? Something else is bothering you.”
“Can you find out how Daphne died?” she asked.
“I’ll put somebody on it.” He looked at his watch. “Although I don’t know if we’ll get the answer today. You’re wondering if the answer will be cancer?” She nodded. “A lot of people die of cancer, Joan.”
“Then check to see if she suffered from ulcers. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, but it will take longer,” answered Gabe.
“While you’re at it, can you find out the side effects of all the medications that were found in Peg’s system?” She went on to explain. “When I’m designing a flavour I sometimes include a fragrance, not for its dominant characteristic, but for its lesser characteristic.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Marmalade. It’s made from the bitter peel, but the real target is the more delicate underlying orange flavour. It’s more subtle. It’s possible that the drugs weren’t intended to kill Peg, that they were given to her for another reason.”
“To put her out of commission?” asked Gabe.
Joan nodded, then asked, “Did Peg give Daphne an alibi for the night that Roger died?”
“She confirmed that Daphne was staying with her and told Des that she had come in quite early on Friday night.”
As Gabe spoke Joan remembered seeing her in the lobby chatting with Ed Fowler. “But, once she got to Peggy’s, did she leave again?”
“Peg was on Des’s list to do a second interview,” he paused then finished slowly, “on Sunday morning.”
“If Patti had seen her mother doped up on a cocktail of medications,” said Joan, “incapable of moving, too drugged to reveal secrets . . . ”
The pieces were falling into place like blocks in a game of Tetris.
“But why would she be carrying her mother’s pills around?” Gabe asked doubtfully.
Joan thought of the eclectic assortment of junk that had been in Patti’s bags and was now lying on Joan’s bed at the motel. Besides the diary there were faded concert tickets, letters, and makeup products that hadn’t been manufactured in years.
“It’s her way of holding onto her mother. She’s not operating in the same reality as the rest of us. There’s no telling what she’s thinking.” She paused. “Or what she’ll do.”
Before Joan had a chance to say another word, a vehicle squealed into the parking lot, sending stone chips flying. The contorted grimace on Staff Sergeant Smartt’s mug bordered on glee as he approached the truck. He’d finally caught them. Gabe climbed out and faced him.
�
��You’re off the case Theissen. Report to the detachment, now! You can be damned sure that disciplinary action will start immediately.”
“On what grounds?” Gabe’s voice was quiet and controlled. So controlled, in fact, that it made Joan shudder. She slid out of the truck and stood by his side. There was no time to lose and this pissing contest between Gabe and Smartt wasn’t solving anything.
“Listen to me,” she stated sharply. “There’s a murderer out there and we have to stop her before anyone else dies.”
“We? Her?” asked Smartt sardonically.
Joan ignored his tone. “Every suspicion that you’ve hurled at me applies to someone else as well.” She had his attention. “Daphne Pyle. Both our names were added to the invitation list after the fact. Both of us returned to Madden after a long absence. Neither of us graduated from Madden High.
Smartt interrupted. “But he was seen outside of your cabin. And, by your own admission, he attacked you thirty years ago.”
“But there’s another way our circumstances differ. My father’s death forced my family to leave town. Daphne left because she was pregnant.” She glanced at both men. “And the baby’s father was Roger Rimmer.”
Joan had felt like an imposter when she’d arrived in Madden. She hadn’t noticed that someone in their midst was wearing a much more elaborate disguise. Patti had found a life in her mother’s stories, and then used the information to create an illusion. “And that child is here posing as Daphne Pyle.”
“Oh, that’s ripe,” guffawed Smartt. “You’re not serious?” he asked, looking from Joan to Gabe. “You think I can’t tell the difference between a woman in her late forties and a thirty year old?”
Joan was surprised to see Gabe looking uncomfortable. She protested. “Our brains are driven to fill in the blanks. In my lab we trick people into thinking one thing is something completely different. Label kitchen compost as ripe blue cheese and testers will insist that they’re smelling Roquefort. ”
“Okay, so you fool a few housewives with cheese,” said Smartt.
Gabe was shuffling his feet. He wasn’t coming to her defence. It was clear that she was losing both of them. “Listen. Once I had to create a flavour for a cake mix. Subjects were asked to discern between artificial and natural flavours. Believe me, not one of them, not one, could tell the difference between the scent of a real orange and the one we created in a lab. Patti’s done the same thing, fooled us all. She’s not the real thing.”
Smartt looked at her as though she was crazy. Gabe appeared increasingly uncomfortable. She suddenly realized that she wasn’t the only imposter in Madden, celebrating a high school graduation she’d never experienced. They were all faking something: Marlena posing as a happy wife, Hazel as an unflappable pillar of stability, and Gabe as a satisfied cop and husband. So much had changed since those yearbook photos were shot. Smartt was probably hiding something too, beneath the slick veneer. Feeling panicked, Joan knew that she couldn’t risk playing her final card. If she explained that she had smelled Patti at the crime scene, it would be confessing that she had gone into Roger’s room.
Smartt turned to Gabe. “I’ll see you at the detachment.” The cop from Kamloops didn’t budge until Gabe was in his truck and driving away. Then he looked at Joan, shook his head, and walked off without a word, leaving her shivering in the cold spring air.
As she walked back to the motel, a twinge of panic needled her gut. If Patti was guilty of both murders, was Marlena also in danger? She’d dumped Patti’s belongings in the garbage. Joan had overheard her blabbing to Patti about her lust for Roger. Who knew what else she had done or said to her house guest. Daphne had seemed patient with Marlena, but maybe she was just biding her time. Maybe sleeping with Ray hadn’t been revenge enough. When Joan reached the Twin Pines, she used the reliable landline to call Marlena. It rang several times then went to voicemail. Joan threw on an extra sweater and raced to her car.
Driving through town at breakneck speed, she drew stares along Main Street. Only testosterone-pumped teenagers and emergency vehicles drove this fast in Madden. Swerving into a parking spot at the Stanfields’ curb, she dialed Gabe as she unclasped her seatbelt. He didn’t answer. Her message was simple. “I’m at Marlena’s. Call me.”
The garage was closed and there was no sign of either Daphne’s rental or Marlena’s SUV on the street. Joan dashed up the wide stone steps and pounded on the heavy wooden door. Minutes passed with no response. She tried the door. It opened easily. She stepped into the front hallway and called tentatively, “Marlena? Marlena, are you here?”
Another step into the ornate hallway and she saw a flash of movement as someone fled from the kitchen and down the hallway. Joan gasped, and took a step backwards, She heard shuffling from the kitchen and Marlena appeared, tying her robe to cover her naked body.
“Is that what people do in the city, just walk into someone’s house? God, you’re nervy.”
A toilet flushed down the hall.
“I’m sorry, Marlena,” she said. “I was worried that something might have happened to you.”
Ray came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. It didn’t take a genius to realize what they’d been cooking up in the kitchen. Joan wouldn’t have been more shocked if it had been Marlena with any other man in town. Every time she’d seen them together her old high school nemesis had treated her husband as though he was dirt under her toenails.
“What d’ya’ mean?” asked Marlena.
Joan didn’t want to get laughed at again or give Marlena fuel for her poisonous tongue, so she kept quiet. There was no proof that Patti had done anything besides posing as her own mother.
“If you’re here because of that thieving little bitch Daphne,” Marlena said, “you’re right. First she tries to steal Ray, and then she stole my cash stash. And I know how to hide cash in the house. I have two daughters, after all.”
Ray awkwardly looked at his feet.
Joan realized that she had a better understanding of life on Mars than of anything that went on in this household. No, farther than Mars. Neptune, at least Neptune. “Sorry to intrude,” she apologized as she backed out of the house.
Ray called after her. “See you at the memorial tonight?”
She gave a wave and an apologetic, lopsided smile as she headed to her car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE ONLY OTHER PERSON LIKELY to know the whereabouts of Patti Pyle was Ed Fowler. Joan suspected that his fall was no accident. Had the person fleeing through the gym door last night been Patti? Was she worried that she had said too much to Fowler? Would she make another attempt to silence him?
Joan took a left-hand turn off Main Street and wove her way through the quiet streets to the Couch, then pulled into the waiting zone behind an idling minivan. The front door of the old school was locked, but rehearsal had just ended and a stream of babbling young thespians trickled out the back. Joan caught the door as the teens made their way down the steps and into the mom-mobile waiting at the curb.
The dark hallway was illuminated by red exit lights at each end. She knew from the dank stench that the colourful murals on the walls hid a sadly rotting foundation. Local support of culture was superficial. Give the artists an old building too expensive to repair and let them stay until it disintegrates beneath them. She trod quietly, stopping to glance inside the gymnasium where Ray had debuted as Rank’s vocalist. It was empty. Farther down the hall, the door to the darkened lounge was open. There was no sign of Mr. Fowler. She took the three stairs into the sunken room.
Something rustled behind her. She turned abruptly. Patti Pyle was frantically searching through an open storage cupboard, emptying jars and cans. The young woman spun around and looked directly into Joan’s eyes, then blocked her path to the door. Tall, dark, and with the ferocity of a wild animal caught in close quarters, she looked ready to run - or pounce.
“Where is Mr. Fowler?” asked Joan, feeling the strain in her voice.
How carefully this thirty-year-old woman had laboured to perfect her masquerade to convince them all that she was their contemporary. The hair dyed a solid black and tightly coiffed, thick foundation, heavy eye makeup and penciled lips. As a trained esthetician, if indeed that part was true, Patti would have learned the standard tricks to try to hide age. She would also know that the same techniques, used on a younger woman, would make her appear harder, older. Joan couldn’t let Patti get away from Madden. Who knew who would be her next victim? She played along. “I’d like to help, Daphne, but I left my wallet at the motel.” She edged toward the door. “I’ll get it and come right back.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Joan felt her plan unraveling. She tried to hide the tension in her voice. “Then let’s take your car.” If Gabe spotted Patti’s rental car he’d stop them. He may have already issued an alert on the vehicle.
Patti followed her closely, their brisk footsteps echoing down the dark hallway, as the painted caricatures in the murals mocked them with ill-proportioned grins. Joan considered bolting but knew she would be no match for Patti in a race. When they stepped outside, Patti broke the silence.
“Let’s take your car instead,” she said stonily.
Although Joan was shaking inside, she played it as though there was nothing wrong, no urgency. “But the motel is on the highway. You could leave from there.”
“Mine’s on empty. I’ve been driving on fumes all day.”
“Sure. Hey, have you had dinner? We could stop at Jacques and . . . ”
“There’s no time. I have to go, now!” Patti’s voice was rising and her eyes were darting along the street, as though she expected to be entrapped at any moment.