The Girl in the Moss

by Loreth Anne White

  “It’s good to put faces to the names in Justice Monaghan’s file,” Angie said. “She gave me a list, and I did manage to make contact with Willow McDonnell and Trish Shattuck last night,” Angie said. “They’re in the phone directory and live not far from here. I’m seeing them on my return to Victoria. I guess I can cross Donna Hill and Hannah Vogel off my list now, since they’re deceased. What about Irene Mallard and Kathi Daly? Do you know where they are?” Angie asked.

  “Why do you want to speak to any of them?”

  “To get a feeling of what Jasmine’s final days were like, hear what they thought of Jasmine and what she might have told them.”

  Rachel eyed her. “Kathi lives up island, in Ladysmith, not far from where my daughter, Eden, now lives. Eden’s a psychotherapist. She has a practice in downtown Nanaimo. Irene lives in Australia now. Do you really have to interview them all?”

  “Is there a problem with asking them?”

  “No, no, I just . . . I feel responsible for what happened in some ways, and I don’t want them feeling harassed now because of my trip.”

  “When I spoke with Willow and Trish on the phone, they told me they were more than happy to meet with me. It’s completely voluntary of course.” Angie offered a smile that she hoped was warm and encouraging. “I’m not a cop anymore. I’m not in the business of forcing anyone to do anything. I’m just trying to paint for myself a picture of the trip and of Jasmine’s last months leading up to it.”

  “You’re indulging Justice Monaghan. Do you know that?” Rachel’s gaze locked with Angie’s, and Angie detected hostility.

  “She has questions. She offered me a fee to try to answer them.”

  Rachel gave a soft snort. “So maybe it’s more a case of you taking advantage of her, taking money from an old woman losing her mind.”

  Angie crooked up a brow. “That’s rather harsh.”

  Wind gusted, and Rachel pushed wisps of silver hair off her face. “I’m sorry. But the justice has . . . she has a reputation for being a self-centered rabble-rouser. She was like that throughout her career. A pontificating bear on her bench. Ask Willow. She’s a defense lawyer and has had the misfortune of appearing in Monaghan’s courtroom. She’ll tell you Justice Monaghan is probably doing this just because she can, to cause trouble and entertain herself.”

  “You don’t like her?”

  “I don’t like that she’s digging all this up again. It was hard enough for us to get over it the first time around.”

  “I think I can relate to what the judge is doing,” Angie said. “I’ll be discreet with your friends. I just have a few simple questions. Beyond that I really don’t want to upset anyone.”

  Rachel looked away. She exhaled deeply. “Fine. What else do you want to know from me?”

  “Can you tell me how you first met Jasmine Gulati?”

  Rachel moistened her lips. “Jaz took one of my script-writing courses. I used to give a summer series at the University of Victoria. She was an English major, was doing her master’s at the time of the trip, so I knew her as one my husband’s students as well. Doug was an English professor before becoming faculty dean.”

  “Doug probably knew my father,” Angie said. “My dad was an anthropology prof at UVic.”

  “I know.”

  Their gazes met. And it struck Angie just how correct Jock Brixton was—she was infamous. Strangers knew personal things about her life. It would be nigh impossible to conduct future investigations without people knowing who she was, what her past was. What she’d done. But she was determined to use this to her advantage, cut her other losses. It was her only choice if she wanted her own agency and to get onto solid footing with her man.

  “Can you tell me briefly your recollection of those last hours before Jasmine disappeared?”

  Rachel took a sip from her mug as she cast her mind back. “We’d pulled out the boats in a camping area upstream from Plunge Falls, and we’d moved our gear up to what was to be our campsite for the night. The two guides—Garrison and . . .”

  “Jessie,” Angie promoted.

  “Yes, Jessie. Jessie Carmanagh and Garrison Tollet. They pitched the tents and put out snacks. The rest of the group had gotten themselves set up with drinks. Jaz said she’d seen a hatch in a cove just downriver, and she was going to try a few more casts before it got dark. She left while Garrison and Jessie lit a fire, but they needed more wood. So they left the campsite right after Jaz to gather some.”

  “And everyone else stayed put?”

  “I also left the camp. After the guides. I followed the bank upriver along a promontory of land that jutted out into the Nahamish. From the point I filmed some footage looking back at the campsite. I wanted the ambience of the fire and smoke in the gathering dusk. I was there filming when I heard men screaming. I hurried back as fast as I could through the trees. When I got back to camp—” She paused, gathered herself. “That’s when I learned Garrison had seen Jasmine’s body going over Plunge Falls. He’d seen her from high above, where he was standing on a shale slope. He had a good view down to the waterfall.”

  “You say ‘body.’ Was there a sense Jasmine was not alive at that point?”

  Rachel set her mug down carefully. “No. I suppose I say that in retrospect, knowing now that she’s gone.”

  Angie put another photo of the women in front of Rachel. She pointed. “In this image Jasmine is holding a purple book. Justice Monaghan believes it was her journal. She says Jasmine journaled compulsively for most of her life.”

  “Yes. She was writing in it on the trip. Usually in the early evenings by the fire.”

  “Any idea what happened to that book? It was not with the belongings returned to Jasmine’s family.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “I have a copy of the itemized list. There’s no journal on it. Any idea what could have happened to that book?”

  Rachel pursed her lips, then shook her head. “I can only surmise that it got lost among all the other camping gear at some point.”

  “So someone else might have it?”

  “They’d have returned it in that case, surely?”

  “One would think.”

  “Unless . . . it’s a wild stab, but when the guides asked Jaz what she was always writing in her book, she intimated the diary contained erotica—too hot for them to handle, she said.” Rachel gave an apologetic shrug. “That was Jaz. A tease. All about sex. Maybe one of the guys tried to sneak a peek and was too embarrassed to return it once the heat was on after her disappearance.”

  Angie mentally filed this away as she set the photo of the diamond ring on the table. “Did Jasmine mention where she got this ring?”

  Rachel pulled the photo closer. “No. She wouldn’t tell us. We asked, but she came across like it was some ‘big secret.’”

  “Do you know if Jasmine had a significant other in her life? If she was perhaps engaged to this person?”

  “No. Again. Big secret.”

  “Why was it a secret, do you think?”

  Rachel gave a derisive snort. “Hell knows. Maybe this mystery man wasn’t real. Maybe Jasmine bought the ring herself and was playing her own game with us all. Maybe she was pathologically needy. Maybe she even believed in her own fake engagement. Didn’t stop her flirting with the guides, though.”

  “She was capable of believing in her own fantasies?”

  “Jasmine was like that. She was a bit . . . odd.”

  “Yet you invited her on the trip.”

  Rachel’s lips curved into a wry smile. “Back in ’94, the TV show Survivor was still just a gleam in Mark Burnett’s eye, but the concept was at play in my idea for Women in the Stream. I wanted conflict, some edge to my women forced into close proximity and away from civilization. My hope was to see the trip participants working through their conflict on film. If they’d clashed and burned, it would have made even better television.”

  “The documentary never aired in the end?”

  “No
pe. Jasmine’s father, Rahoul Gulati, threatened to sue if it ever saw the light of day. In the end the sponsors pulled the plug, and I just stuck all the unedited tapes into storage.”

  “You still have the uncut footage?”

  “Stashed it all in boxes in our basement. The tapes are still there, buried at the back somewhere.”

  “Any chance I can view the footage?”

  “It’s in old VHS format. And there’s a whole bunch of tapes.”

  “I’d like to see the footage if possible.”

  “Technically it belongs to the sponsors, but it can’t hurt if you don’t intend to use any of it. You’d need a VHS system to view the footage, or you’d have to get it all digitized.”

  “That I can do.”

  Rachel regarded Angie, a look of distrust entering her features. “Am I missing something here? All this trouble just to give Jilly Monaghan a picture of Jasmine’s last days? Because watching all those unedited tapes is going to take you a long time.”

  “Justice Monaghan is paying me well for my time.”

  Rachel moistened her lips and nodded slowly. Again, that wry smile. “I see. One wonders who is indulging whom.” She came to her feet. “They call her Jukebox Jill, do you know that?”

  “No.”

  “And do you know why? Because when her memory suddenly gives up on her, she breaks out in song to deflect attention from her illness. She can sing just about every request you might think to make, like a real live human jukebox. Her memory of the lyrics is genius, but it’s a pure diversion tactic. It spooks people, makes them forget what they were talking to her about.”

  “She’s a damn fine singer.”

  “Right. I’ll get Doug to fetch the boxes of tapes out of the crawl space.” Rachel checked her watch. “But you’ll have to excuse me. I have a Skype meeting I need to prepare for.” She opened the sliding door into the living room and stood waiting for Angie.

  Angie clicked off her recorder and gathered up her photos and file. She put everything into her bag, came to her feet, and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Do you know if Jasmine ever gave birth to a baby?”

  Rachel blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Had Jasmine ever had a child?”

  Rachel stared. “No. I . . . Heavens, no, not that I’m aware of.”

  “In retrospect, was there anything she said that might support the notion she’d given birth?”

  “No. I . . .” The mistrust on her face turned to a look of suspicion. “I just wouldn’t have dreamed that possible. Why do you ask this?”

  “Just a question that came up.”

  “How did it come up? In the postmortem?”

  “Nothing unequivocal.”

  Rachel held Angie’s gaze, weighing her. Wind rustled fall leaves across the patio paving, and the air turned cool. “I just don’t see it.”

  Doug appeared from the direction of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. Rachel glanced at him. “I’ve got to get ready for my call. Doug, could you fetch those documentary tapes for Angie?” She faced Angie. “It was nice meeting you.” But as she turned to leave, she hesitated, then swung back. “It’s probably irrelevant, but you’ll see it mentioned in some of the footage. There were three men following our boats. Up on the bank. They spooked some of the women. I believe that was their intention.”

  “Following you?”

  “I think they were part of a group of guys we met in the Hook and Gaffe pub on our first night. Bunch of drunk rednecks. Jaz antagonized them, and I think they decided to come mess with her, or all of us, as payback. I believe it was harmless, though. Just thought I’d mention it.”

  “Jaz antagonized them? How?”

  She gave a snort. “You’ll see on the footage. I managed to capture Jaz in full-blown action.” A pause. “It would have been a damn fine female-focused documentary. You’ll see that when you watch the tapes. The cassettes are all marked, and the scenes are listed on an accompanying inventory list.”

  With that, Rachel disappeared down the hall, presumably making for her office.

  CHAPTER 16

  On her way to Colwood, a city that lay within the greater Victoria metropolitan area, Angie phoned Eden Hart and set up an appointment at her practice in Nanaimo. Doug had given Angie his daughter’s number along with the boxes of VHS tapes now on the back seat of her car.

  She slowed her vehicle as she checked the numbers on the houses. She found the one she was searching for and pulled into the driveway. Neat lawn. Manicured flowerbeds. The kind of orderliness and subjugation of nature that seemed at odds with a lesbian couple who loved the wilderness and fishing untamed rivers. Or maybe that’s exactly why people like Willow McDonnell and Trish Shattuck did love the wilderness. It provided escape from the constraints of suburbia and social expectations.

  Doug had told Angie that Willow and Trish, now sixty-three and sixty-six, had eventually managed to adopt a five-year-old girl from Korea. The adoption had come through about six months after the tragic Nahamish trip. They were now proud grandparents, which was evident by the toys littering their yard. Trish, Angie had learned, was retired but used her architectural landscape design skills for charity work. Willow still worked as a criminal defense lawyer for a legal aid clinic; much of her work these days was pro bono.

  The front door opened before Angie had fully exited her vehicle. A compact woman in a red fleece, cargo shorts, socks, and Birkenstocks stepped onto the porch. As Angie climbed the wooden stairs to the porch, the woman came forward, her hand extended.

  “Trish Shattuck,” she said, shaking Angie’s hand up and down heartily. Her smile was broad, her teeth square and bright against a face weathered and tan from the outdoors. Her silver brush cut grew slightly longer on top of her head and was spiked up with gel. She wore glasses with red-rimmed plastic frames. “Come on in.”

  Inside, Angie removed her jacket and shoes and padded in socks along the hardwood floors as Trish led her into a large kitchen. Steaks marinated in a dish on the counter, and the room smelled of freshly brewed coffee and baking. Through the window Angie could see a small garden with a pool and a neat lawn. Two bug-eyed King Charles spaniels peered in through the slider, snouts smearing the glass. Trish opened the door and let the dogs in. They wiggled and sniffed around Angie’s jeans. She petted them, fur soft as silk.

  “Willow will be through in a sec,” Trish said. “She’s in her office just finishing up a legal brief. Coffee? I have freshly baked oatmeal choc-chip cookies.”

  “You bet,” Angie said with a grin. She’d had coffee at the Harts’, but the cookies and this coffee smelled too good to pass up.

  “Take a seat.” Trish motioned to a stool at the granite counter. She took pottery mugs down from a cupboard and poured three cups of fresh brew. She set a mug in front of Angie along with cream and sugar followed by a plate of cookies. Angie snagged one, bit, closed her eyes.

  “Oh, this is heaven. Did you bake them?”

  “Heh, it’s about all I’m good for these days,” Trish said with a chuckle. “Amazing what having grandkids around can teach you. Ah, here’s Willow.”

  Angie did a double take as the woman in her sixties entered the kitchen. She had the physique of an ex–ballet dancer, her movements liquid grace. Her features were fine, and her eyes were a clear, pale amber. She smiled, nabbed a cookie. “You must be Angie Pallorino?”

  Angie got up and shook the lawyer’s hand. Willow bit into her cookie, assessing Angie in a way that made her feel a little naked. “Do you suspect foul play in Jasmine Gulati’s death?” she said, cutting right to the chase.

  Angie explained to them what Justice Jilly Monaghan was seeking. They listened attentively.

  Willow pulled up a stool and reached for her mug. “I can understand where Justice Monaghan is coming from. She was—is—a formidable woman. I’ve had my share of professional encounters with her in the past. One didn’t dare go into Justice Monaghan’s courtroom ungirded.”

  Angie cu
pped the pottery mug in her hands, the shape comfortable. Warm. Like this couple, like this home. This was the kind of home she wanted with Maddocks one day. A place that exuded this same kind of geniality. The thought—the visual image, the feeling of it—blindsided her. Angie’s heart beat faster. She set her mug down quickly and cleared her throat, refocusing on why she was here. “Do you mind if I record this interview, just for my own reference later?”

  The couple exchanged a glance. “Fine by me,” Trish said.

  “I’m good,” Willow added.

  Angie took her digital recorder from her bag, activated it, and set it beside the plate of cookies.

  “Did you guys get to know Jasmine on the trip?” she asked.

  Trish’s features turned serious. She eyed Willow again. Willow seemed to give an almost imperceptible nod.

  “We didn’t like her,” Trish said. “I’m just going to say it straight because maybe that’ll help you paint the picture you’re looking for.” She reached for her mug. “Jasmine was probably a good kid at heart, and maybe she was just going through a phase, but on the trip she came across as self-centered. Arrogant. Provocative.” She looked at Willow again. “I leave anything out?”

  A crooked smile curved Willow’s mouth. “She wasn’t easy to warm to, unless she felt she needed something from you. Then Jasmine was all smiles and irresistible, cajoling charm. Under her facade I believe lay real depth. She was intelligent, well read. Philosophical at times. I got a sense she was really trying to find who she was, testing ground, pushing boundaries to see just how far she could get. Maybe she was a lot like her grandmother, in truth. Jilly Monaghan had—probably still has—an abrasiveness both in and out of her robes.”

  “Did any of the others on the trip warm to Jaz at all?” Angie said, intrigued at this picture of Jasmine Gulati that was emerging.