by Garry Ryan
“Melissa and David Randall are aware I’m here. I’d like to sit to one side.” Lane eased his left arm out of the sleeve of his winter jacket.
The woman used her left hand to indicate direction, walking into the chapel and turning left. Lane followed her to the far left of the chapel. “Front or rear?” she asked.
“Front, please. I need to see faces.” She led him up front. He sat down against the wall. “Thank you.”
The woman nodded and left.
Lane folded his coat over the seat next to him and looked at the grey wall beside him. He looked at his grey sportcoat. I’ll blend right in. Just put on the face and disappear. “The face” was a survival technique Lane had learned as a child. It allowed him to fade into the background, a way of flying below the radar of recognition.
Mourners began to trickle in. David Randall walked in a side door followed by a girl of about fourteen. She wore a black jacket, black pants, and red pumps. Her black hair was cut short.
David said, “Come on, Beth, I just need to check and make sure everything is working.”
Beth looked at Lane; then her green eyes moved on to the back of the chapel where people were gathered. David touched a computer screen. It lit his face with blue light.
Lane thought, He looks like he’s lost maybe ten pounds.
“I already made sure everything is working. Besides, Aunty Peggy is here.” Beth’s voice was filled with a sarcastic blend of loathing and anxiety.
David looked over his shoulder, staring at his daughter, opening his mouth, closing it. “Can we just get through this without any drama?”
“Why is she here?” Beth turned to her father, looking for something to attack.
When you’re fourteen and angry, you have to take it out on someone.
David turned to the projector. A picture of his mother and father appeared on the screen. They were on a beach, smiling, leaning into each other, with Beth tucked under her grandfather’s arm. A smaller boy stood next to Elizabeth.
“How come you never stand up to Aunt Peggy?” Beth looked up at the image. “She was mad because we went to Mexico with Poppa and Nanny, remember?”
David shut off the projector. “What good would it do?”
“You’re such a wimp!” Beth turned around, her posture stiff with anger, and stomped out the side door.
David’s shoulders sagged. He turned to follow.
A seismic wave of braying laughter rolled through the chapel. Lane and David looked toward the main doorway at the back of the chapel. A woman with dyed-red hair, painted-on eyebrows, a six-foot frame, an oversized head, and a white dress threw her head back and performed again. She leaned on a Malacca cane. The posse of women surrounding her added lemming laughter.
Lane watched David’s face redden. The man stepped forward, then retreated out the side door.
The voices outside the main doorway grew louder. People trickled in, sitting on benches. Lane looked at his watch and saw there were only five minutes before the service was to start. The woman with the eyebrows stood in the doorway with two other women. They were deep in conversation, a car wreck in the centre of a downtown intersection. Behind them, people gathered, waiting to get inside.
The funeral director opened the side door, walking in front of Lane, then over to the blocked doorway. He smiled and took Aunt Peggy by the arm, guiding her like a bouncing front-end loader down a roadway to the front bench on the family side. Behind her, the other rows of pews filled with people until every seat was taken. Only a handful of seats next to Peggy remained.
Lane saw the suits and glittering jewellery. The carefully trimmed hair of the men and the elaborately coloured, stylishly coiffed cuts of the women. It’s been a while since I’ve been to one of these. The last time it was Dad’s funeral and I had to leave early. I remember the light coming in through the stained glass. He looked at the paired stained-glass windows behind the podium. They faced north, illuminated by reflected light. He saw David and Melissa set paper atop the lectern in front of the windows. Melissa wore a fitted red jacket, black blouse, and black pants. To their left a pair of brass urns held the cremated remains of their parents.
David lifted his head, beginning to speak even though many people in the chapel were still talking. “Thank you for coming to celebrate the lives of our parents.” His throat constricted with emotion, and he stopped. Some people in the pews continued to talk.
Lane looked right to see Aunt Peggy talking with the man and woman behind her. Lane turned back to the front.
Melissa put her left hand on the shoulder of her brother’s navy-blue sports jacket. She said, “Our parents did well with their business and thought it was important to give back to the community. They believed in deeds more than words. So we wanted to tell their story in pictures.”
A photograph of their much-younger parents was projected on the screen. They were tucked in close to each other, the Chateau Lake Louise in the background. It was summer. The lake was glacial blue.
A series of slides followed. Lane turned to watch the faces of the people in the chapel, systematically moving from row to row, face to face. He heard Melissa say, “Mom’s maiden name was McKenzie. We used to spend time in the summer in the Shuswap with our cousins from her side of the family.”
Lane spotted a couple of smiles from people who must have been her cousins. Another voice broke in. The smiles morphed into rage. “And we are proud of that name McKenzie!” Lane searched to find the face behind the voice. Aunt Peggy said, “I insisted on keeping my last name when I got married. I think there is reason to be proud of a name.” The voice was filled with implied superiority.
There was movement to Lane’s right. Beth stood up. Melissa stopped Beth with a smile. Beth sat down.
Lane looked up at a picture of the family sitting around a campfire in lawn chairs. A setting sun painted the lake waters in the background. Something nagged at the edges of understanding. He went back to cataloguing faces and impressions. He spotted a familiar face. Megan Newsome, neighbour to the Randalls, sat next to a man in a tailored black suit. On her other side sat half a dozen women with stylishly cut hair. Lane noted one was at least twenty years younger than the others.
“My grandmother and my grandfather took care of me before I went to school.”
Lane turned to look at the new speaker. Beth stood between her father and her aunt. “They took my brother and me for a holiday to Mexico for two weeks this winter. They took us to see Chichen Itza, and they took us to a place where the sea turtles nest. It was magical, and it is a memory I will hold close.” An image of Beth, her grandparents, and her little brother appeared on the screen. They stood in the tropical sun with the main pyramid at Chichen Itza behind them. Lane was struck by what had escaped him from the beginning of the memorial. The Randalls were a functional family.
David said, “Thank you for coming. Just a reminder about signing the guest book, and please join us for the reception upstairs.” Music began to play. Lane recognized Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. People began to stand and file out. Lane took the side door, making his way to the foyer where people were taking the stairs to the reception. He followed them, stopped, turned, and stood at the railing to observe goings-on down below.
Aunt Peggy, looking remarkably agile for a woman with a cane, made for the elevator, passing out of sight beneath him.
“But I saw you there that night.” The woman’s voice came from behind him. He turned, looking to find the person behind the words. A crowd of mourners shuffled through the double doors leading to the reception. He looked at the backs of people’s heads. Megan Newsome looked to her right. Lane saw she was surrounded by a quartet of carefully coiffed heads in
various shades ranging from brunette to blonde.
The elevator door slid open. Aunt Peggy sprinted out, joining the crush.
“Anyone in particular you want me to get a shot of?” Nigel stood next to him, his earlobes and nose red from the cold.
Lane pointed at the clutch of hair approaching the doorway.
Nigel lifted the camera above his head. The flash fired. People turned. The flash fired again to illuminate several faces, including Megan Newsome’s.
“Good,” Lane said.
Nigel faced his partner. “Your voice has changed.”
Furrows appeared on Lane’s forehead as he turned to Nigel. “What?”
“Oh.” Nigel turned away.
“What?”
“It’s just —” Nigel unzipped his jacket.
“Well?”
“You sound different than when you were in the car.”
“Oh.” How do I explain I know the killer is in this crowd?
“Uncle, can you hold Indiana? Dan is sleeping, and I want to have a bath.” Christine sat on the couch in the family room. Indiana was tucked in the crook of her elbow. His face and thick black hair were visible despite the floral blanket cocoon.
“Glad to.” Lane sat down in the easy chair, waiting as she brought the baby over to him. Indiana was warm against his chest. A tiny hand appeared from under the blanket. Lane found himself counting fingers.
“You don’t mind?” Christine asked.
“You’re kidding, right? I love holding him.” He watched as Indiana frowned. The white dressing on his forehead moved up, then down.
“Matt and Uncle Arthur took Alex shopping for clothes.” She put her hand on her uncle’s shoulder.
Lane looked up at her, raising his eyebrows.
“For Indiana. They went shopping for clothes for him.” She hesitated. “Do you love him?”
“What’s not to love? He’s beautiful.”
“My mother called you Pauline. Was it what they called you when you were growing up?” Christine asked.
Lane nodded.
“Is it the reason why you don’t like to be called by your first name?”
Lane nodded.
“I’ll be quick.” Christine turned and went upstairs.
Lane watched Indiana’s face. He heard Dan snoring in the bedroom. He heard Christine turn on the water in the bathtub. Then he looked at his reflection in the black of the TV screen. One of the pictures from the Randall funeral rose up to the surface of his memory: an image of Robert Randall holding a newborn Beth. Lane forced himself to relax his jaw to keep from clenching his teeth. Then his memory projected the image of Robert Randall’s head, his brains spattered over the wall and ceiling.
Fifteen minutes later, Christine came downstairs wearing sweats, a T-shirt, and a white towel around her head.
“Go lie down. He’s sleeping. I’d just like to sit here and hold him.”
“Wake me up in half an hour.” Christine caressed Indiana’s cheek with the back of her forefinger, then went into the bedroom, closing the door.
An hour later, Matt, Arthur, and Alex arrived with a stomping of feet and a swell of cold air flowing down the steps. Sam wagged his tail, whimpering hello.
Arthur looked down the stairs and saw Lane with the baby. Lane put his finger to his lips.
“The baby’s asleep,” Arthur whispered. Three faces looked down the stairs, smiling.
Within thirty minutes, everyone but Lane and Indiana was tucked away in bed while the Randall case ran a marathon in Lane’s mind.
A little after one, Lane heard footsteps in the upstairs hallway. A few minutes later, the toilet flushed. He turned on the TV, watching a movie without any sound.
“Uncle?”
Lane opened his eyes.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Christine had her new mother I’m-the-protector-of-this-child look in her eyes.
Lane studied a still-sleeping Indiana. “What time is it?”
“Six. I asked you to wake me up after half an hour.” Christine picked up the baby. “He’s wet.”
Lane looked at his shirt, seeing he was wet too.
“Sorry.”
SUNDAY, JANUARY 26
chapter 7
“They need us down in Kensington.” Nigel’s voice on the phone was businesslike.
Lane looked at their kitchen chaos. Bottles waiting to be washed, the countertop needing a wipe, the dishwasher needing to be run, a tea towel on the floor in front of the stove, the microwave timer beeping to tell him the coffee was ready in the Bodum. “How many dead?”
“Two.”
“In a house?”
“Nope. On a fire escape behind a bookstore. So dress warm. Fibre is on his way. I’ll pick you up in fifteen.” Nigel hung up.
Lane had time to shower and put on layers of cotton and fleece underneath his polyester-shell winter jacket. He tied up his winter boots and stepped outside. The sun was bright. It reflected off the snow on the street and the front lawn. A white cloud from a passing car’s exhaust told him the same thing as his nostrils when he inhaled the January air: it was at least minus twenty. He walked down the front steps, climbing in the passenger side of the Chev. “Thanks for warming it up.” Lane closed the door, stuffing his black leather gloves on the dash and reaching for his seat belt.
“No worries.” Nigel pulled away. The Chev’s tires crunched over the compacted snow.
“What have we got?” Lane unzipped his jacket.
“Two bodies, a male and a female. They’re both sitting on an outside stairway in a back alley.” Nigel looked sideways at Lane. “That’s a first.”
“What?” Lane tried to peer through the fog of exhaust as the cars in front of them accelerated when the light turned green.
“You haven’t shaved.”
Lane reached up, rubbing the shadow on his cheek. “Busy night. Indiana and I stayed up late working on the case.”
Nigel steered the car down Sarcee Trail. They looked over the valley where the exhaust from chimneys puffed into the arctic air. Lane looked east at the downtown where white smoke rose above the cigarette-shaped high-rises. The smoke flattened out at about five hundred metres.
Nigel said, “It’ll be nice when the warmer air decides to come down to ground level.” He steered the Chev along Crowchild Trail on their way into Kensington. Ten minutes later, he pulled into an alley running parallel to Memorial Drive with houses on the south and businesses on the north. They stopped behind a white-stuccoed two-storey building with black-framed windows and a metal stairway. It switch-backed to a second-storey door. Two forms huddled facing each other where the switchback turned east to west within a few feet of the white cinderbrick wall of the Plaza Theatre.
Down below, Fibre’s Forensic Crime Scene Unit was parked beside a red Volvo. Nigel left the Chev running as they got out, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape and zipping their jackets to shield against the cold. Nigel pointed at the Volvo’s licence plate. “Kind of ironic.”
Lane spotted the LVS4EVR Alberta plate, looked more closely at the scene. “Another tableau.”
Nigel turned to him. “You really think so?”
Lane nodded. “It’s staged. The bodies were carried up to where the stairway turns back on itself. Look at the set of tracks leading up to the stairway. The licence plate on the car is another convenient coincidence. It’s got the earmarks of a staged scene.”
“Lives forever.” Nigel shook his head. “This is one sick bastard.”
Lane watched Dr. Weaver, wearing his white bunny suit, step onto the bottom rung of the staircase. The metal steps thrummed on contact at this temperature. He looks like the Michelin man. He must be wearing a skidoo suit under there. Fibre stepped onto the second rung, taking photographs at each step. He made his way up to the first body dressed in a black wool overcoat. The body leaned up against the railing where it sat with its hands hanging between its knees. He called down to his assistant sitting in the cab of the van. “Male. Bullet wound to the forehead.” He stepped around the first body and onto the landing, looking down. He reached into the pocket of his bunny suit, set down a ruler, and snapped another photograph. He turned to the second body, which leaned against the wall of the building, facing the first. This one was dressed in a grey evening gown. “Female. No apparent entry or exit wound.”
“Try the mouth,” Lane said.
Fibre looked down at Lane, then turned back to the body. He put his left hand on the deceased’s jaw. “Frozen. It looks like there is some gunpowder residue on the lips. It will have to wait for autopsy.”
Lane felt dread at the pit of his stomach. “Any ID on the bodies?”
Fibre stared at the detective when he heard the tone of Lane’s voice. “I haven’t checked the pockets. No purse at the scene.”
“May I come up?” Lane asked.
Fibre looked down at the metal steps, then glanced to the right. “There is a patch of ice up here with a layer of snow and a footprint. Be careful of that.”
Lane reached for the railing. He watched where he put his feet on the sawtooth tread of the stairway. The metal sang out each time the sole of his boot made contact. He eased past the body of the man, looking into the frozen face of Megan Newsome.
“You know who it is, then?” Fibre asked.
“I do.” Lane eased down the steps, looking down between his feet, calculating the placement of each backward step.
Fibre did the same. “Name?”
“Megan Newsome. The male will probably be her husband.”