Cold Mourning

by Brenda Chapman

  “I did. Dad sends his love. Merry Christmas to you too.”

  “Give him my love back when you next talk to him.” She paused and he didn’t try to fill in the silence. He could hear her deep intake of breath. Her words came out quickly. “I know this is short notice, but I decided to take your advice. Gordon and I are getting married at city hall four days from now, on New Year’s Eve. Around three o’clock. I was hoping you could come.”

  It took him a moment to speak. “I’m happy for you, Frances, for you both, but I can’t promise anything. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation.” Even as he said the words, he knew they were inadequate.

  Her voice lost some of its bounce. “I know it’s unusual, but it would mean so much to me to have you there. Maybe you could come to the Weston for the reception afterwards if you can’t make the ceremony. We’ll just be thirty or so and you wouldn’t have to stay long. Will you think about it, Jacques?”

  “Are you sure you want me there?”

  “Yes, we’re both sure. We’ll be leaving the next day for Paris. We’re planning a few months away, or as long as my health holds up and the doctors let me. Remember how I always wanted to visit the south of France and swim in the Mediterranean? I’m excited for this trip.”

  “I’m glad for you, Franny. I truly am. I can’t promise to make the ceremony but I’ll try to get to the reception.”

  “Thank you. It would mean a lot to me … to us. You can bring someone if you like. It would be nice to meet who you have in your life.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll probably come alone.” The silence lengthened. “Take care, Fran,” he said before hanging up the phone. He stood for a long while afterward without moving, his eyes fixed on the frosted window pane.

  He’d failed her in so many ways over the course of their marriage. She’d wanted to travel and see all the exotic places she’d read about in the novels she inhaled like fresh air. She’d minored in art history at university and spent many Sunday afternoons visiting Ottawa’s museums and art galleries, returning with pamphlets, maps, and dreams of foreign lands. He’d used his job as an excuse for not taking her the places she’d wanted to see and convinced himself that her increasing silence about distant places was a sign she’d lost interest in going. He’d allowed his work to colour his personal life, rationalizing his neglect by falsely believing that Frances had accepted the routine of their lives. Those days, he’d been overwhelmed with the toll of long work hours and the weight of murder cases. He’d wanted nothing but to be home with her on his time off. Home where they were safe from the ugliness of the world. He knew too late that he should have tried harder. They should have bloody well gone to Europe. He could have taken her dancing before she went looking for another partner.

  He turned and crossed the floor to take his coat from the hook on the wall. He flicked off the lights and started down the hall on his way out to the parking garage. A few uniforms were around but most were on patrol or home with their families.

  When he crossed the Pretoria Bridge and stopped at a red light across the street from the Royal Oak, he looked at his face in the rear view mirror and grimaced at his appearance. He’d aged a lifetime since Frances’s first call.

  A woman in a short white coat and frizzy hair stood at the corner turning tricks. Three men spilled out of the pub and walked past her without a second look. Hopefully they were going home to their wives or partners and ending their evening of drinking. The light turned green and Rouleau pressed on the gas pedal harder than he’d meant to.

  He didn’t want to see Frances married to someone else or to raise a glass at her reception, but it wasn’t about him anymore. God knew he’d made enough wrong moves while they were together. He would do what it took not to add to them now.

  22

  Wednesday, December 28, 10:00 a.m.

  Susan slept in as she had every morning since Clinton went back to the base, happy that he was miles away. She’d stopped feeling bad about wishing he’d never come home. Sometimes the thought of never seeing him again was what kept her going. The trick was to keep him from finding out.

  As she made her way downstairs to the kitchen, she mused on how her life had turned into a cliché: older wife, living in a loveless marriage with an abusive military husband. How had she allowed her life to turn out so horribly wrong and why couldn’t she stir herself to get out of it?

  She sat at the dining-room table in front of the bay window to eat her toast and yogourt. Her interest in food still hadn’t returned, but she was forcing herself to eat to get her strength back. She had to be at full power when Clinton returned home for New Year’s Eve. He revelled in any sign of weakness.

  She looked out the window toward the back of the property. The sun should have been well up by now, but the sky was grey with clouds that blocked the light. Gloomy. The world was in tune with her weary thoughts. The first snowflakes drifted past the glass as she watched. She smiled at this reminder that beauty was waiting to show itself when least expected.

  The sparkling white flakes spurred her into action. She’d wait to have her tea until she’d returned from her morning walk. Normally she would have called on Pauline to walk with her down to the river on the well-worn pedestrian path, but Pauline had refused any offers of exercise lately. Susan understood this need for solitude and wouldn’t press. A part of her welcomed the break from her friend’s self-absorbed view of the world. Pauline was all about Pauline, and while Susan accepted her secondary role in their friendship, sometimes she was happy for a reprieve.

  She took her dishes into the kitchen. Maybe she should think bigger than a walk. She’d put off skiing since Tom died and her body was getting sluggish. She had more than enough time to go farther afield across the border into Quebec to her favourite trail. A change of scene in the big outdoors was just what the doctor ordered. First a shower and a start on the housework, and then she could enjoy the afternoon outdoors without thinking about the chores she had let slide. She’d drink her tea when she was drying her hair and would bring a thermos with her on the excursion.

  It was just past one o’clock when she loaded her cross country skis into the back of her Mazda van. She climbed in and backed out of the driveway, aiming toward downtown. The snow was light and wouldn’t be an issue on the woodland trail. She crossed the MacDonald-Cartier Bridge into Quebec and continued west on the road that ran parallel to the Ottawa River until she reached the Gatineau Parkway. The parkway wound north into the Gatineau Hills and the preserved parkland. Already, the tightness in her chest was loosening. She joined in with “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” on the radio, a silly song that always made her smile.

  She pulled off on a side road that she knew about from previous visits and travelled a few kilometres to a parking lot sheltered deep in the woods where she unloaded her skis and poles. A car and van were there ahead of her. New ski tracks disappeared down the trail into the forest. The wind was ruffling the tops of the conifer trees back and forth and soughing like a cello. One of her favourite things was to lie in bed before falling asleep and listen to the wind howl around the house. Today’s wind gave her the same feeling of comfort.

  She strapped on her skis and started down the path. Her plan was to ski for a half hour or so before stopping to eat the apple she’d brought. She’d find a spot to hang the suet ball she’d grabbed from the pantry for the birds and then return to the car. She’d make it home in plenty of time for Clinton’s six o’clock call.

  She passed two women who were skiing back to the parking lot half a kilometre in. She stepped off the path to let them pass and they called a greeting. Another fifteen minutes and she met a young man and his dog, a husky that bounded ahead through the deeper snow. They were also on their way back to the parking lot. The man wished her a good journey before disappearing around the bend in the trail.

  She skied another hour once her arms and legs found their familiar rhythm. She realized how much she’d missed the outdoors and this sp
ort. Fatigue seemed a thing of the past, but she knew that she mustn’t overdo it. She found a shelter of pine trees and ventured off the path to sit on a fallen log where she could comfortably eat her apple and drink some sugared tea. It was a peaceful spot with animal tracks crisscrossing into the woods and birds playing in the branches overhead. The trees cocooned her from the wind and cast dark shadows across the snow. She threw the apple core onto the path for a deer to find, then skied over to a tree with drooping branches. It took her a few minutes to fasten the suet ball to a lower limb. She moved back onto the trail and stood silently for a while, watching the birds land on the bough to eat from her offering.

  She hadn’t realized how tired the exercise had made her until she started the long trip back. A headache was throbbing just behind her eyes, reminding her that her energy reserves were still depleted. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been quite so ambitious when setting out on the trail. She’d ski back slowly and not overexert herself, even if it meant having to listen to Clinton rant about missing his call.

  It took almost two hours of repeatedly skiing a short distance and stopping to rest before she finally broke into the clearing. The woods had darkened as the sun had begun to set, and her van was a welcome sight. It was the only vehicle left in the parking lot and dusted with snow that would only take a moment to clean off. She was surprised to see tire tracks close to her car and partially covered boot prints that didn’t look like hers. Somebody else had come and gone while she was skiing in the woods.

  She took off her skis and loaded them onto the rack, fatigue and cold making her movements cumbersome and slow. The air was getting chillier now that she’d stopped moving. It was with relief when she made it into the front seat. Her gloved hands fumbled with the ignition key. The engine didn’t start the first time, which was odd. Normally, the engine turned over without hesitation. By the fifth try, she knew she was in trouble. She squinted at the gas gauge and her heart sank. The needle rested below the red line. Why hadn’t she heard the warning bell go off?

  She banged the steering wheel with her palms. Why hadn’t she brought her cellphone? It didn’t matter that she rarely used it; she should have taken precautions travelling into the wilderness. What was she going to do now with the afternoon light already starting to fade and the temperature dropping? Please let somebody come along soon, or there’d be no choice but to set out for the main road to flag down someone to help her. She just hoped her strength didn’t fail her before rescue arrived.

  Kala finished her reports late morning, just before Rouleau’s daily team meeting. Rouleau gathered them in front of the crime scene photos pinned to the wall. His mouth was set in a grim line. She knew he’d spent the last hour on the phone with Vermette, an activity that would knock the sunshine from anyone’s face.

  “Listen up,” he began. “We have several lines of investigation going but no firm suspect or motive. I don’t need to remind you that the clock is ticking. Let’s be sure to keep each other in the loop about our separate strands of the investigation in case one piece of information can be pieced together with another to give us a new slant. I’ll be going through all your updates this afternoon. Make sure to include every detail in your daily reports, no matter how insignificant it might seem.” He turned toward Grayson and Malik. “Go back to Underwood’s workplace and interview all his co-workers and partner again. See if they remember any detail about Underwood’s last movements and his state of mind. Watch for contradictions. Stonechild, focus on the family. We’ve received some interesting information about Underwood’s will, particularly the fact that he left a chunk of money to his ex-wife and son. It’s time to interview Laurel again. Take Bennett with you and see if you can rattle something out of her.”

  “A confession would be nice,” said Malik.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Kala. She smiled at him.

  “Gage, continue going through the computer documents. We need to know if there’s anything buried in his files,” continued Rouleau. “So far, our search has been wide open, but we need to start narrowing in. We’ve got a list of suspects but no stand outs. Motive? There are lots if you read between the lines. Money, power, jealousy, hatred. We don’t even know for sure if his killing was personal, business, or stranger. As for forensic evidence, we haven’t got much. There’s nothing in Underwood’s car that links the killer to him. Either they were incredibly smart or incredibly lucky.”

  “It points to a professional,” said Grayson. “They lured him to a private place and killed him without witnesses or physical evidence left behind. My money’s on a hit.”

  “Then get me some proof,” said Rouleau. “We need an airtight case and not just a gut feeling.”

  Grayson shrugged and smiled as if Rouleau’s words hadn’t held an unspoken rebuke. Kala stood to leave with the others. Rouleau motioned for her to stay behind.

  “Sir?”

  “Here’s a copy of the will. Read it through before you head over to Laurel’s. Underwood changed it a week before he died. Try to find out if Laurel knew beforehand. She says she was sleeping when he left that morning. See if anyone can confirm that. Interview the staff.”

  “You’re not convinced about the hit?”

  “If it was, Laurel could have hired someone as easily as his business partner. She stood to lose a lot in a divorce. I’d say she’s still in the running.”

  “It’s often the spouse.”

  “I know. Find out if she was seeing anyone on the side.”

  Kala’s stomach dropped. She nodded before walking away from Rouleau toward her desk. She sat down and began reading the will, but her mind wasn’t on it. Hunter’s face kept interrupting her train of thought. She had to find out how involved he was with his stepmother even though she wanted to believe him when he said nothing was going on. She gave herself a mental shake, squared her shoulders and forced him from her mind. This was a murder investigation and she could not afford to look at any one of them as anything less than a potential killer. If Hunter and Laurel were in on this together, she would find out and bring them to Rouleau without hesitation. Regret would be kept for another day. She stood and packed up her file, certain she’d read enough of the highlights to prepare for Laurel’s interview.

  Laurel had lost weight. The skin around her eyes was bruised from lack of sleep, but her beauty was heightened if anything, not diminished. Kala waited while Laurel organized Charlotte at the dining room table with cookies and juice before she came into the family room and sat at the other end of the couch. Bennett had shown tact by selecting an armchair out of Laurel’s line of vision. Kala sent him silent thanks.

  Laurel leaned forward toward Kala. Her violet eyes brimmed with suffering. “Have you found who killed Tom?” Her hushed voice trembled as if she could barely control her tears.

  “No, but we will,” said Kala.

  “I won’t rest until they pay for what they’ve done. Charlotte will grow up without a father.”

  “Did you know about your husband’s new will?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your husband signed a new will about a week before he died. Were you aware of this?”

  Laurel shook her head, but not before Kala saw hesitation in her eyes. “Tom looked after us. I know that. He was always generous where Charlotte and I are concerned.” She grasped her hand around a thick gold bracelet on her left arm and slid it up and down her wrist. She looked down. “Tom wrapped this for me before he died. I found it in his drawer after … after I knew he would never be coming home.”

  “It’s lovely. Were you aware he left Pauline two million dollars?”

  Something in Laurel’s eyes shifted. “I knew he planned to leave her something. I wasn’t aware how much.”

  “He spoke with you about it?”

  “Of course. I was in complete agreement.”

  “And yet earlier you said that you and Pauline didn’t get along. It’s hard to believe that you wouldn’t be upset that Tom was leaving he
r money, let alone so much.”

  Laurel shrugged. “I know he left me a lot too and this house. I’m going to sell it and move into something smaller. Charlotte and I won’t starve.”

  “Why did he tell you that he was changing his will?”

  Laurel hesitated. When she spoke, her voice was harder. “I didn’t know that he’d actually gone ahead and signed anything. He wanted to make amends for pain he’d caused, but he told me that Charlotte and I wouldn’t suffer. I believed him.”

  “Even though he was making amends with his ex-wife?”

  “I had no idea how much he planned to leave her. I would have fought him on that, but I wasn’t opposed to the idea of giving her something if it eased his conscience. To be honest, I thought it was to be less than a hundred thousand. How much did he leave Hunter?”

  “You knew about that?”

  “As I said, he was making amends. I’m not the money-grabbing wife some in the family paint me.”

  “I’m told that you were engaged to Hunter before you married his father.”

  “So?”

  “You must know how that looks.”

  “People fall all over themselves to judge me, but I loved Tom. I was infatuated with him soon after we met. He saw to that. They might do better to ask how a man my father’s age would set out to seduce me. I was young and naive, and yes, foolish. I gave up my soul mate for a transitory feeling.”

  “Hunter is available.”

  “And now, so am I. Just what are you implying, Detective?”

  Kala waited silently, her eyes never leaving Laurel’s face. The corners of Laurel’s mouth lifted in a self-mocking smile.

  “Hunter doesn’t want me, and that should make everyone in this hypocritical family happier than wolves chewing on a dead deer. He’s been kind to me but nothing more. He’s a decent man, which I know is rare in this cynical time. I wasn’t mature enough to know what I was throwing away. I’ve had other lovers since I married, yes, but none that threatened my marriage. Tom and I had reached an understanding.”