Cold Mourning

by Brenda Chapman

  She paused, “My other fear is that it was someone Dad dealt with in his business. He told me once that he didn’t like a lot of the people he negotiated with, and he’d become evasive lately. He was making deals with the military and an inventor in Montreal. I got the feeling this latest deal wasn’t sitting easily with him.”

  “Did you tell this to the police?”

  “They haven’t asked me yet. I’m just not sure what was bothering him. Maybe it had nothing to do with work at all. What if I implicate somebody and they’re innocent?”

  “I think it’s somebody from his business dealings. I can’t truly believe any one of his family or friends capable of such a cold-blooded act.”

  Geraldine nodded. “Any of us except Laurel … well, and maybe J.P. The man is slime. Oh yes, there’s also Benny. The way he looks at me sometimes when he’s visiting Max gives me the creeps.”

  Susan shuddered. “I never liked J.P. either. I have no real opinion about Benny one way or the other. I don’t think he and I have ever had a full-length conversation.” She paused. “I think your father was getting ready to leave the partnership. I’m not sure who else he told.”

  Geraldine looked away. Had Max known? He’d been acting strangely of late. She’d put it down to the baby, but maybe he’d been plotting to move up in the firm. If it was anything more than that, if he’d actually taken steps to hurt her father, she didn’t know how she would do it, but if it took the rest of her life, she’d make Max pay.

  18

  Monday, December 26, 8:30 a.m.

  Kala had found it difficult to fall asleep. Her legs were aching and it was hard to get comfortable on the narrow bed. She remembered looking at the clock at three a.m. but must have fallen asleep soon afterwards because the next time she opened her eyes the room had lightened. She lay for a moment, trying to orient herself to her surroundings. Noise in the hall must have woken her because she heard something thumping against the wall and a man’s voice. She sighed and rolled over to face the clock. Eight thirty. No!

  She leapt out of bed and grabbed her towel and soap on her way to the communal showers. Luckily there was nobody in sight, and she showered in five minutes flat. She raced back to her room where she braided her hair and scrambled into clean black slacks and a wrinkled white blouse. She gave up trying to smooth out the creases by covering the blouse with a black pullover. There was no time to eat. She took the stairs to the lobby and jogged east the few blocks to the police station to pick up her truck. First, she’d check in with Rouleau.

  One glance around the empty office and she cursed under her breath. She could hear the rise and fall of male voices and saw the team through the partially closed door of Rouleau’s office. She shrugged out of her jacket, grabbed her notebook and a pen, and tried to slip in unnoticed. An unlikely feat. Malik looked up at her and smiled. Grayson was reading aloud from his notes while Rouleau was half-turned in his chair, looking out the window. Gage and Bennett, both in navy uniform, stood next to each other leaning against filing cabinets. They’d left a chair vacant for her and she nodded at them as she sat down.

  Grayson lowered his notebook. “So we’re done going through his office. Whoever he was meeting the morning he died wasn’t recorded anywhere we can find.”

  “Phone records?” asked Rouleau.

  “He called his wife Laurel around three the day before he went missing and she called him back on his cell. There was a call to his daughter Geraldine two days before. The other calls that week were work-related. He was dealing with an engineer named Pierre Archambault in Montreal. There were four calls, two in and two out, with Archambault. We followed up and he was in Montreal at the time of the murder. He was expecting Underwood to fax a contract the afternoon he went missing. It didn’t arrive, obviously.”

  “What did you find out about that?”

  “J.P. and Underwood own two munitions factories under the name Integrated Industries, one outside Ottawa and one in New Brunswick. They build heavy artillery and sell to the Americans and our armed forces. The deal in the works with Archambault was for the design of a vehicle that could withstand running over a land mine.”

  “Why were they contracting out research? Don’t they have their own engineers on staff?” Rouleau asked.

  Grayson nodded. “I thought of that too. Archambault designed a prototype but doesn’t have the capital or resources to test and mass produce. He approached Belliveau initially. The deal was for financial backing and production if the prototype turned out to be as good as Archambault claimed. Underwood and Belliveau were gambling but they had to move fast. If the prototype turned out a dud, they still owed Archambault half a million just for sewing up exclusive rights. A company in the U.S. was interested, so they had to convince Archambault not to go looking further afield for a better deal.”

  “Where was Belliveau in all this?”

  “He set everything up. Word around the office was that Underwood wasn’t thrilled with the deal because they could lose half a million and he wasn’t convinced Archambault had invented anything extraordinary. Underwood wanted more time to test the product, but the Americans were willing to invest based on the specs. Since Underwood was the company’s closer, he had to carry the ball and get the contract signed.”

  “Was Underwood right to be cautious?”

  Grayson shrugged. “J.P. admitted that Underwood thought they should stick to research and design in-house and not gamble on an unknown. J.P. also said Underwood had changed lately. He didn’t have the drive he once had. Said it worried him. I set up an appointment with Archambault at noon at his Montreal office.”

  Rouleau looked at Kala. “Malik will be checking out a lead on the missing homeless woman Annie Littlewolf. How’s your French?”

  “Je parle,” she answered. “I spent a few years fully immersed.”

  “Good. You can go with Grayson.”

  “I can handle this alone. No need for two of us to go all that way.” Grayson said.

  Rouleau fixed his eyes on Grayson. “Stonechild has had the most dealing with the family. It’s time she branched into the business end of his life so she can help us put the pieces together.”

  Kala listened uncomfortably to the exchange. What Rouleau said made sense but he wasn’t making her any friends. Malik shifted in his chair and caught her glance. He seemed to be sending her a warning.

  Rouleau looked around. “So what’s everyone waiting for? You know what you have to do.”

  “Right, Sir,” said Kala. She stood with the others and walked out of the room ahead of Malik. Grayson stayed behind.

  Malik caught up to her as she was putting on her coat. “Rouleau asked me to give you this information on Archambault.” He handed over a thick file. “I wrote a one-pager on top with the highlights.”

  “Thanks.”

  Grayson passed them with his head down, heading in a straight line to his desk. He dropped into his chair and picked up the phone, punched in a number, and swivelled the chair so his back was to the room. Malik followed the direction of Kala’s gaze.

  “He’s a good detective but doesn’t share well. Don’t let him get to you.”

  She turned toward Malik to respond but he was already on the way back to his desk. “Great,” she said to herself before she sat down and opened up the file.

  She willed Grayson to get off the phone soon so they could get this trip over with. The two-and-a-half-hour drive to Montreal would eat up the day, but if they got back in time she could make another visit to the ByWard Market. The feeling she was running out of time was becoming so strong that it was all she could do not to just chuck this job and spend all her waking hours looking for her cousin. Yet a feeling of dread wasn’t a good enough reason to let Rouleau down. She felt like she owed him something and the feeling didn’t sit well. She never liked to be in debt to anyone — or attached either, but his sadness was a magnet. She could see the loss in his eyes when he thought nobody was looking.

  Susan left Ger
aldine and Pauline after two cups of coffee and three homemade sugar cookies. It was the first food she’d eaten since Clinton made her poached eggs and toast the evening before. Her strength was returning but still fragile, feeling as if a good wind would blow her away.

  She walked through the blocks of houses back toward her home, passing her street to reach the Jock River, a smaller river that fed into the Rideau. She started down the pathway that split off from the road, careful to set her feet in tracks made by others ahead of her.

  She loved this city with its three major waterways, web of bike paths, and unexpected forests. During the coming summer, she’d walk the length of the canal, taking time to sit under her favourite oak tree at Dow’s Lake before climbing the hill to the Central Experimental Farm. She’d linger in the gardens and sit on the stone bench by the shallow rectangular pool, watching the plump goldfish pass lazily through the veil of tangled plants. The police said they’d found Tom there. Not by the pond but close by in the visitor parking lot, hidden in the trunk of his car. She couldn’t let the image take shape in her mind. The strength in his hands, the mind that never stopped, the energy that verged on hyperactive — she still couldn’t believe the essence of him had been extinguished. Surely, he was just taking a break from the world and would call her one day when he was ready.

  She let her feet take her down the slippery incline, the path trampled by cross-country skiers and dog walkers. Clouds were moving in fast, already hiding the sun. The shadows turned the river dark and dangerous. Further out, she saw breaks in the ice where the current churned without end. She stood well back on the path, watching the shifting ice and bluish shadows in crevices of ice and snow.

  She thought back to the first time she’d seen Tom Underwood. She’d been in grade nine, new to the west end neighbourhood. Her older sister Rhonda let her tag along to the Britannia Theatre to see a matinee. It was an Elvis Presley movie and she’d begged to be allowed to go. They’d only lived in their townhouse a few weeks but Rhonda already had a circle of friends and seemed to know everybody in the new school. She was outgoing and popular while Susan was ill at ease with people. She always thought they were judging her and seeing the flaws she saw in herself.

  They’d paid for their tickets and walked into the lobby, a cavernous, noisy room decorated in red and purple with giant movie posters covering the walls. Tom was there with two other boys who walked over to say hello to Rhonda. He’d stood out from the others, even then. Black hair and blue eyes that saw everything, and a self-assured swagger that let you know he was going places. She’d felt something inside shift when she’d looked at him. It was a dazzling lightness in her chest that she’d never experienced before. The intensity of her feelings frightened her, but in a good way. He’d barely looked in her direction, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She’d watched the back of his head three rows in front for the entire movie.

  The boys had left while she waited for Rhonda outside the washroom. It wasn’t until they were walking home that she’d asked Rhonda who he was.

  “Tom Underwood. He’s in my math class,” Rhonda had said. “He thinks he’s really something.”

  “Maybe he is,” Susan had said without thinking.

  Rhonda had stopped walking to stare at her. “He’s not the kind of guy you should go for. He’s too good looking and self-centred to be true.”

  “As if he’d ever look at me twice.” She said it to keep Rhonda from guessing her true feelings.

  Weeks sped by. She made friends with Pauline Green. They were both on the girls’ volleyball team and walked home after practice together. They both liked sports, weren’t doing well in school, and both wanted to be movie stars. Susan couldn’t believe someone as popular and pretty as Pauline Green would want to be her friend. Up until then, she’d only been allowed on the fringes of the in crowd — not a full fledged member, but not one of the complete losers either. Pauline liked having her around for reasons known only to Pauline.

  The first dance of the year was being put on by student council. It was the week before Halloween. Susan shyly told Pauline that she liked a boy in her sister’s class and he’d probably be at the dance.

  “What’s his name?” asked Pauline. She was tall and slim with large breasts and dark hair that she wore long and straight.

  “Tom Underwood,” said Susan. Just saying his name made her feel hot and flushed. She immediately regretted sharing the name that made her heart beat fast; the face she saw just before falling asleep.

  “I know Tom,” said Pauline, linking her arm through Susan’s. “I’ll introduce you.”

  Susan hadn’t known Pauline well enough to be wary.

  She wasn’t able to sleep the night before the dance. She kept running over and over in her mind what she would say when Pauline introduced her to Tom. She felt like she was going to meet her destiny.

  The gods must have been laughing up their sleeves.

  Pauline told her a month later on the way home from school that she and Tom started seeing each other the weekend before the dance. They’d met in the parking lot of Dunkin’ Donuts on Carling Avenue, and he’d told her she was the sweetest thing he’d ever seen. She got into his car and they drove around until he found a dark spot in the empty Carlingwood Mall parking lot. They’d made out in the back of his car. She’d kept it secret until then to spare Susan’s feelings. She was sure Susan would have forgotten about him right after the dance. She hadn’t meant it to go like that, but Susan hadn’t even met Tom so it wasn’t like he was hers to steal.

  Susan shivered inside her winter coat. Flakes of snow were drifting down from the sky. She lifted her face and closed her eyes. The cold was good on her cheeks and forehead. She still felt feverish from the flu. Her stomach hurt and she was tired. Perhaps she should have taken the car to visit Pauline. The walk suddenly seemed like more effort than she had to expend. She turned to walk back up the slope to the road, hunched over like an old woman. The walk home would take her twenty minutes. She’d reward herself with a soak in the tub before taking a nap. She’d wake up in time to wait for Clinton to call, as she did every night when he was away.

  19

  Monday, December 26, 2:00 p.m.

  Archambault was tall, stooped at the shoulders, and filled with apologies for keeping them waiting. He said he’d been stuck in traffic driving in from the west end. His entire family had gathered for Boxing Day lunch, and it had been hard to get away. They sat in his office on the third floor of a white stucco building on the outskirts of downtown Montreal. Kala could see the four-lane highway from his window. The sound of traffic was a constant low hum, rising up from the snow-covered pavement.

  Grayson asked the questions while Kala took notes. She watched Archambault’s eyes for signs that he was lying. He fidgeted with a pen that he sucked on between responses. He’d chosen to sit behind his desk as if he needed a physical barrier to separate them.

  Grayson’s face was skeptical and his voice held a undertone of disbelief that grew with each response. Kala wasn’t sure if he this was his interview style or if he was letting his annoyance at having her along show through. Whatever it was, he wasn’t helping her figure out Archambault, who was growing increasingly on edge.

  “This firm isn’t in the armoury business,” he repeated. “We build bridges and infrastructure. I worked on the design for the armoured car in my spare time. The study of war is my hobby. I became curious about a better way to protect our men and women in war zones. Most of those killed or maimed have run over land mines or homemade bombs. It seemed like a good idea to come up with something that would give them better protection, a chance to survive in one piece. I’ve been working on a design with the latest materials for three years. I used a recently invented product in the chassis but structured it in a new way. Then I went on to design the undercarriage and the body. I built a small prototype in my garage and ran tests.” He leaned forward in his effort to convince them. “It looks very promising. Exciting, trul
y.”

  “How did you end up dealing with Tom Underwood?”

  “It was through his partner, J.P. Belliveau. I approached Belliveau with my idea after I had it patented. He came to Montreal and we met. I’d researched their company and knew they supplied the armed forces with vehicles. Belliveau said he was going to get Underwood to set up the deal. He said this vehicle, if it was as good as I said it was, would make us all very rich.”

  Archambault kept adding facts to what he’d told them before. Kala jotted down the latest pearl.

  “Was Underwood as convinced that this would make them rich?” Grayson leaned back in his chair as if he was listening to the biggest tall tale ever told.

  Archambault’s face paled. He looked toward Kala, his eyes begging for support. “Underwood was crunching numbers. I believe he arrived at the same conclusion as Belliveau. This was going to make us all some serious dough.”

  “You believe or you know?”

  “I know. I’m sure. The contract was to come through that day. The day Underwood died.”

  “The day he was murdered,” said Grayson.

  “I had nothing to do with that. Why would I kill the man who was going to make me rich? I needed him.”

  “Maybe he saw through your design. Maybe he was going to scrap the whole deal and you couldn’t handle that.”

  Archambault shook his head. “No. That’s not how it was. Underwood had come around to believing in my product. He reviewed my credentials, all my material, the tests, everything. He knew my prototype could withstand a roadside bomb.”

  “Where were you the week before Christmas?”

  “I was right here, in Montreal, when he was killed. I haven’t been to Ottawa since last summer. You have to believe me. This is a good product. It will do what I designed it to do. Belliveau already was speaking to the brass at the Department of National Defence. They were very interested. We’re all going to become wealthy men once this deal gets completed. It’s a virtual certainty. I spent that day by the fax machine, waiting for the contract, but it never arrived.”