“Upstairs in my bedroom at the end of the hall.”
He returned with a pillow and blanket and helped her to get comfortable. “Are you hungry? I make some mean scrambled eggs.”
“You’re fussing, Gundersund. I hate when people fuss.”
“Actually, I’m hungry. If I make you something, I can make extra for myself.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I stopped at the store yesterday so you’ll find bread, milk, eggs, and cheese. Cook away.”
He turned the radio on low and hummed along to golden oldies as he worked. Cooking was something he enjoyed in his down time even though he joked that he was bad at it. Pasta and seafood dishes were his specialties. Fiona had said the fact he knew his way around the kitchen was one of his better features. He prepared a tray for Stonechild and filled a second plate for himself. As he was about to bring the food to her, he heard a scratching at the door. He let Taiku in and filled his bowl with dry dog food that he’d found in the cupboard, then proceeded to the living room. Stonechild was awake. She propped herself up and accepted the tray.
“It’s good,” she said with her mouth full. “I didn’t think I was hungry, but all of a sudden, I’m starving.”
Gundersund sat across from her in the recliner and began eating.
“When will Meeza and Dalal get to see Nadirah?” Stonechild asked.
“Wolf and Claire are taking them over first thing in the morning.”
“You trust Wolf with your fancy Camero?”
“It’s just a car. He offered to drive the Shahan girls back tomorrow, and since you insisted on leaving, I took him up on his offer.” He smiled at her and speared another forkful of eggs.
She put her fork down and sighed. “Do you ever get weary of it all, Gundersund? All the awful things people do to each other?”
He took his time answering. “I focus on the good we do and don’t try to spend much time on the nastiness. For every bad person, there are thousands of people trying to do the right thing. We’re making a difference in their lives. That’s what gets me through the shit.”
“It’s just hard to deal with sometimes.”
He waited until she met his eyes and kept her gaze. “If we stop feeling, we stop being good at our jobs. You saved a life today, Kala. Maybe three lives, when you count Nadirah’s sisters. Wolf says he’s going to take them in until they get on their feet. There are details to be worked out, but they’re going to do okay. He told me that he can offer counselling in his home, basically a residential setting. He’s also taking in Gail Pankhurst when she gets out of the hospital. He’s a decent guy. He’s one of many decent guys out there.”
“Yeah, I guess. Thanks.”
He knew she was thanking him for more than his words of wisdom. “You’re welcome. Are you done with that?”
She handed over her plate. “I can’t eat anymore.”
He ate the rest of her meal while she watched. Her eyes closed a few times and he knew she was fighting sleep. He stood and picked up the dishes.
“I’m heading over to get Minny but I won’t be gone long. See if you can sleep.”
She stopped him at the doorway. “Gundersund, I’m not going to stay around Kingston much longer. I haven’t told Rouleau yet but thought you should know since you’re my partner.”
“And I felt like we were just getting started.” He said the words lightly to cover his disappointment. “I’ll be sorry to see you leave.”
“Maybe not too sorry after today.” She shot him a quick smile.
He took their dishes into the kitchen. On his way to the back door, he stopped in front of the sliding patio door and looked at his reflection in the glass.
He could still hear the shrill screams of Mrs. Shahan as he chased her down the beach, leaving Wolf with Nadirah and Stonechild once he knew help was on the way. She’d switched to screaming in English when he’d finally caught up with her in the woods. Her hijab had slowed her down. He’d tackled her, pinned her arms behind her back, and cuffed her. The evil in her words had shaken him: “My daughters are better off dead than bringing shame on our heads. They do not deserve to live. I wish they had never been born. I should have cut off their heads when I had the chance.”
The local police had caught up with Ghazi in his car outside of Brockville.
He heard a cellphone ringing and Stonechild saying hello. He moved back down the hallway and listened in case the call concerned the case. By the time he realized it was a personal call, he’d overheard Stonechild say that she would drop everything to help. Gundersund moved back down the hall and stepped outside onto the deck.
Chapter Forty-Five
Rouleau bought two pints of Guinness and handed one to Gundersund. They clinked glasses and wandered over to the table where Ed Chalmers was holding court. They took up positions at the ledge nearby. It was Saturday night in the Merchant and the retirement party had moved over from the dinner and speeches at the hall. A local band was belting out cover songs on the raised stage in the corner. The place was crowded with patrons standing in groups around the bar. The noise level was high.
“Looks like he’s having one drink for every year of service,” Gundersund observed. The table was filled with empty glasses, the steady pitchers of beer supplied by the team.
“He’s trained for this day his entire career,” Rouleau said.
“Any word on Della Munroe?” Gundersund asked.
“The Crown is laying murder charges in the morning. First degree.”
“I thought as much after the Shahan kid admitted to helping her fake the rape. Why do you think he admitted to that?”
Rouleau shrugged. “We might have suggested that he helped her kill her husband. He wanted to make it clear that he hadn’t.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I have no doubt he killed Leah Sampson but I don’t think he killed Brian Munroe. Della Munroe accomplished that all by herself.”
“What about his parents?”
“Their involvement will be harder to prove. The mother was certainly part of the attempted murders. We have nothing on the father.”
“Will the daughters move back with him?”
“I doubt it. Nadirah intends to look after her sisters. Even if we can’t charge their father, the girls know what went on. They might be convinced to talk.”
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
Rouleau turned. Heath had appeared at his shoulder and they shook hands. Rouleau looked past him and nodded at Laney Masterson. She was stunning in a cream silk blouse, tight blue jeans, and knee-high boots. The light picked out red highlights in her hair, which tumbled loose on her shoulders. She smiled at him before turning her face and saying something into Heath’s ear. Heath nodded and she slipped past him on her way to the washrooms.
“Laney had to work late and missed dinner but was up for a nightcap.” Heath looked around. “This place is hopping.”
“A typical weekend at the Merchant,” Gundersund said, raising his glass.
Heath signalled the waitress and ordered two glasses of wine. He turned back to Rouleau. “So the new man starts Monday? Bennett, is it?”
“Bennett, yes.”
“Vera tells me he’s from the Ottawa force.”
“He is. He was a uniformed officer and helped us with a murder investigation. He wanted to get into Criminal Investigations and applied. He’s young and ambitious.”
Heath nodded toward Woodhouse, who was sitting next to Chalmers. “That’ll make for a nice change. What about Stonechild? Is she staying on?”
“She’s taken some time to attend to a personal matter.” Rouleau didn’t add that she hadn’t made any commitment to return.
The wine and Laney arrived at the same time. Heath took her by the arm and nodded toward Chalmers. “We’ll just head over and have a word with the man of the hour. See you lads later.”
They weaved through the crowd to join those surrounding the Chalmers’s table. Rouleau watched as Woodhouse stood and gav
e Laney his seat. She sat next to Chalmers and angled her chair to watch the band. Rouleau felt like he was nineteen again, watching the pretty girl he liked with another guy.
Gundersund caught his eye. “I thought they were finished. His wife must be out of town.”
“Heath’s married?”
“Didn’t I tell you? His wife comes from a long line of money. They tied the knot about five years ago after a quick courtship. Get you another beer?”
“Yeah.” Rouleau watched Heath bend down and say something to Laney. She looked up at him and laughed. “On second thought, I think I’ll switch to Scotch. It feels like that kind of night.”
Gundersund lifted an arm and signalled for the waitress. “Then I’ll join you. It feels like that kind of week.”
The woman across from Kala shuffled a stack of papers until she found the form she was looking for. Her nails were painted a deep blue, complimenting the streaks in her spiked pink hair. Kala placed her close to forty. She had to be a lifelong smoker judging by the network of lines around her mouth and the stale smell of nicotine around her desk. The hardness in her features was softened by the compassion in her brown eyes. She cleared her throat.
“I’ve been in touch with social services in Kingston and they’ll be assigning a worker for Dawn. You will be living at the address you provided?”
A loaded question. Kala knew this woman wouldn’t release Dawn to her care if she knew Kala was between jobs with no fixed address. Deciding whether to keep moving or commit to Rouleau’s team was out of her hands if she was to keep her promise to Lily. Such were the mysterious workings of the universe.
“I’ll be at that address. As you know, I’m with Criminal Investigations on the Kingston force.”
“Her mother asked that she live with you and based on your file, I believe this is the best place for Dawn at this time.” The woman stamped and signed the form. She flipped it around to Kala and handed her the pen. “If you agree to being her guardian, sign here.”
And if I don’t?
“Will I be able to see her mother before we leave?”
The woman shuffled the papers as if buying some time to come up with an answer. She gave a sideways smile that bonded them in some kind of off-colour joke. “The thing is … she doesn’t want to see you.”
Lily can’t look me in the eye but wants me to take on her kid. The whole setup was lunacy.
Kala stood with the woman and shook her hand. “I guess I’ll be hearing how her trial goes.”
“Of course, although I don’t expect she’ll be out for some time, given it was armed robbery and she was caught on film. She’ll be tried in Ottawa where the crime took place. Her partner as well. He’ll be arriving from Calgary tomorrow and they’ll both be transported to lock up in Ottawa this week sometime.”
“My cousin never did things the easy way.”
Kala followed the woman down the hallway to collect the twelve-year-old girl who was now her responsibility. Instant substitute parent to an almost-teenager — life was about to get a lot more complicated and she had absolutely no idea if she was up to the challenge.
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks go to the Dundurn team — in particular, my eagle-eyed editor Jennifer McKnight, who pours hours into making certain I’ve gotten the story just right, and my publicist Karen McMullin, who is helping to get my books into the hands of a wider audience. Jesse Hooper and Laura Boyle once again created a striking cover design. I am also forever indebted to Dundurn President Kirk Howard and Vice-President Beth Bruder for your ongoing support and belief in Canadian writers, especially of the crime fiction variety!
While Butterfly Kills is a complete work of fiction, the issues raised within its pages are not. My communications career in the federal government introduced me to research issues of family violence that sparked the germ of an idea for the overarching storyline. I would like to thank all of my colleagues in the Communications Branch and other sectors at the Department of Justice who have shown such interest in my writing and cheer my successes.
Thank you as well to so many friends and family — your support keeps me writing — and to my growing base of readers. I would like to send special thanks to Janet Bowick for going above and beyond, even as far as Monterey; Dawn Rayner, who always has my back; and to Ottawa City Counsellor Katherine Hobbs, who never turns down a request to MC an event or promote my work and the work of all of those in our arts community. Finally, thank you to my husband Ted Weagle, who fits my writing obsession into our lives without qualm, and my daughters Julia Weagle and Lisa Weagle and my new son-in-law Robin Guy and his peeps Jane, Bill, and Adam Guy.
Prologue
Toronto — 2011 Immigrants
Her breath came out in white slashes. February was a hateful month, inhuman and frozen over. She was late and not for the first time. It wasn’t her fault, but that wouldn’t matter to him. She willed her feet to hurry, watching warily for ice. No good falling and breaking her neck on top of everything else. His words came back to her in the crisp, precise tones of someone who had learned English as a second language: I need punctual help, Irma. I don’t appreciate dawdlers, even if you’re just cleaning my toilet. I expect you to be on time. Please don’t let it happen again.
Please. He’d said please at least.
What he hadn’t said was what would happen if she showed up late again, though she had a sinking feeling she was about to find out. He was a wicked man. There were no warm feelings, no acts of kindness stirring in his depths. A snowman planted in one of the yards reminded her of his tiny eyes and bleak, humourless gaze. Yuri Malevski.
“Bloody Macedonians — hard as rock!” she swore under her breath.
She would beg, if it came to that. She would remind him she was honest. Nothing had gone missing by her hand in the two years she’d worked for him. Everyone knew stories about the help who stole and pillaged, taking what wasn’t rightly theirs. She would never steal so long as she had food to eat and a roof over her head. She was poor, not desperate.
It was the same from house to house. She scrubbed toilets, mopped floors, and wiped the children’s bums, all without question. She walked pets and toted empty liquor bottles quietly out the back door so the neighbours wouldn’t see. There was no end to the services she provided. The women were the worst. They expected perfection: floors you could eat off, countertops you could see your reflection in, toilets you could drink from. She wondered that some of them didn’t ask her to screw their husbands to save them the bother.
They all took advantage. No papers, Irma? Tsk-tsk. Here’s what we will pay you, then. What choice did she have? They might be surprised to know she’d grown up with finery. As a girl, she had ball gowns and jewellery and cut flowers in the house. Back home she’d had manners and once — once! — she’d been beautiful. Then time caught up with her. She wasn’t young anymore. Even her hands were pitiful to look at now.
Everywhere she went, they wanted something from her. This one especially, with his parties and the boys coming and going at all hours in all states of dress and inebriation and god knows what else. The tales she could tell, if she had the chance. He was almost like a woman himself! Fancy clothes and expensive haircuts and all the trappings. He once told her how much he’d paid to have his hair done. She was shocked! It was more than he gave her for an afternoon’s wages.
No wonder everyone took from him. Boys he met god knows where, eating his food and drinking his alcohol. Because he let them! He just laughed. And then there was that dreadful one she’d run into early one morning, neither man nor woman. She could hardly countenance that.
“Filth. Depravity.”
She spat the words like stones then looked around to see if anyone had seen her talking to herself. No one had noticed.
Yes, the stories she could tell. There were drugs in that house and worse. Oh, far worse! She couldn’t choose her employers, but she could pray for their salvation. It was her duty. God’s little test. She
had the pamphlets in her purse. She would leave another one on the counter today. Maybe one day he would read it.
She turned the corner onto Beatty Avenue, counting the steps to the grey monolith. The house loomed. Stone, built in the last century, with three separate chimneys. Necessary, no doubt, back in the day when people heated everything with coal and the rich had servants to stoke their fires. She shivered, grateful at least that she lived in the present age. It was hard being poor today, never mind in centuries past.
She let herself in the iron gates and pulled them closed, trudging along the path like a dwarf approaching a giant’s castle. Yesterday’s snow lay undisturbed. No one had shovelled or swept the drive. If Yuri Bloody Malevski was so proud of his yard, he might pay one of those boys to clear the way. Or get them to do it for free for all the parties he threw.
She gripped the railing with a gloved hand and hauled herself up. The door was double-locked from inside. Strange, because that only happened when her boss went out of town. He’d texted her a new entry code the previous day, but he hadn’t said anything about being away. He was a stickler for security, having been burgled twice. She knew that because he made a point of telling her. His home was full of valuables: artwork, rare books, carpets, antique table settings. The sort of things you found in the best residences in Europe. All the doors and windows were alarmed. He made sure she knew that, too.
She stepped back and looked up at the house. Dark and unwelcoming, that was how she always saw it. The windows were uniformly large, but darkness showed behind them all, even in daytime. A devil’s house. It made her shiver. There was nothing for it but to go all the way around back.
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