Why the Rock Falls

by J. E. Barnard

  Lacey retreated upstairs. Another lovely late August morning, and she’d be spending it in this stuffy office, staring at computer screens. But first she’d fix those cameras. She cued up the workout room and found the camera above the treadmill now caught more of the open bathroom door than the exterior one. Another adjustment to make, and her legs were already stiffening up from the wall-climbing. Next trip she’d be taking the elevator.

  When she hit the garage floor again, with the camera system’s iPad tucked into her tool belt, oil guy said, “If that’s your truck out front, best move it to the staff parking. The boss doesn’t like our vehicles to be seen from the house.”

  Tire guy muttered, “Earl ain’t our boss yet.”

  Oil guy frowned at him.

  Lacey said, “I’ll move it right now.”

  She drove along the garage to the staff lot and parked between an older Pathfinder and a crate-sided half-ton. Unlocking the chain on Wayne’s aluminum stepladder, she pulled it clear and carried the ladder over to the building. It stood easily on the concrete sidewalk, and she went up without a wobble to replace the dusty, cracked camera with a spare from the truck. With another spare and some hardware in a carryall, she hauled the ladder to the terrace and set it up under the bluff-stairs camera. As she climbed again with her calves grumbling, the sun lifted above the surrounding trees to kiss her face. She paused to appreciate the view. Down in the valley, ranch hands were loading horses and saddles into a trailer. Were they SAR-certified themselves, or merely providing horses to searchers who were? No one else seemed to be working with the cattle or repairing fencing or whatever else cowboys usually did. All normal ranch work must be suspended while Orrin and Tyrone were missing, just as up here, all the usual routines of the family were out the window.

  She, however, wasn’t here to idle. She had to discover which of the family might want Orrin out of the way enough to sabotage his vehicle. What if it was something to do with his business? Orrin made enemies every time he opened his mouth. In half a century of oil drilling and other businesses, that could be a long list. Too bad he didn’t have video surveillance on them all.

  As she leaned to unscrew the camera bracket, the ladder shifted in the gravel. She looked down in alarm in time to see two sets of hands grab the legs.

  “Need a hand?” asked Bart.

  “That would be great,” said Lacey. In a moment she had the old camera down and handed it off to Andy at the other side.

  “You brought extra cameras along?” Andy asked as she handed up the spare. “Did you already know how many there are out here? It’s like living in a psycho motel.”

  “Or Hearst Castle,” Bart added. “Citizen Caine of the oil patch. Ever see that movie where Hearst’s got guests on his yacht for the weekend, and he spies on them with cameras?”

  “Nope. But I was surprised how many cameras are inside the main house. Usually they’re only outside, against intruders.” Lacey connected the new one, waited for its green light to come on, and climbed down. “Thanks.”

  “No prob,” said Andy. “Earl’s girls are death on the cameras. How many were out of action this time?”

  “A few.” Were Earl’s daughters hooking up with the ranch hands, like Jake Wyman’s hockey guests with the trophy wives, or was that sheer rebellion against their grandfather’s overarching intrusiveness?

  “We’re going to work out,” said Andy. “If today’s anything like as tense as yesterday, at least we’ll start out calm.”

  Lacey waved as they started down the wooden staircase. She’d adjust that workout camera later, when the gym was empty. She hauled her equipment back to the truck and returned to the stuffy security office. First, she scrolled back through the night’s images. No disruptions at the gates, but with the dawn came a panel van sporting a TV news logo. It was still there on the real-time feed, parked directly across from the main gate on Highway 40. She ought to go out there and draw the line clearly for the reporters, before one of the ranch hands decided to. She glanced at her empty coffee mug. Soon.

  All looked normal on the other cameras. Gates were all covered by two people, and pairs were patrolling the fences on quads. Were they the same as yesterday, or new hires?

  She phoned Ike’s cell and left a message. “Did you get more hands who need my speech about handling reporters?”

  The gym camera over the treadmill showed a reflection of Andy working her upper body on a machine, and Bart’s upper body at the outside door. Lacey toggled to the surrounding cameras and realized there was no external coverage of that door, either. Probably the stable one was supposed to cover the outside. More of Earl’s girls’ work? Wayne wouldn’t have been so sloppy setting up. She’d fix that angle later, when she went down to true up that indoor camera.

  She flipped back to a view of Bart still in the doorway. From the back, he and his twin were similar in general build and hair length, although his shoulders weren’t as muscular. Full front, she’d spotted differences. Bart’s face was softer and less tanned, even at the end of August. Ben’s was bonier and weathered. Bart’s hair was short and styled, while Ben’s sun-bleached curls hung down his forehead, tossed around by the weather, the way he’d looked this morning when he strolled into the workout room. Truth to tell, he’d looked quite tasty, and if there’d been a few hay bales and stable blankets handy … She shook her head. Nope, no flings with hot strangers for her.

  How had he gotten in there, anyway, if he didn’t have a fob? Borrowed Bart’s for the night? Earl, the temporary master of the house, surely wouldn’t issue one to a brother banned by their tyrannical father. And this idle thinking wasn’t helping her identify a saboteur in the garage.

  She said goodbye to the bright morning outside her window and closed the blind. The darker the room, the better her night vision would be for the long slog through dim garage footage.

  Her phone rang: a number with no name attached. Telemarketer or a search update? “McCrae speaking.”

  “I expected a status report by now,” said a male voice.

  “Who is this, please?”

  “Earl Caine,” he said, in a voice every bit as snidely demeaning as Dan’s. “I’m in my father’s study. First on your left as you come in from the garage.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Earl wasn’t Wayne’s employer — technically that was still Orrin, until proved otherwise — but he’d be signing off on invoices and thus must be treated with deference, if not actual respect. Grabbing her travel mug, she locked the security office and headed to the main house.

  Earl sat at his father’s desk, grappling with a sticky drawer. She tapped on the door frame. He waved her in with a frown. “Well, report. How are you earning your fee?”

  If he expected her to be intimidated, he’d never met her old drill sergeant. And however much he might sound like Dan, she wouldn’t be thrown by that, either. She walked straight up to the desk and listed her camera repairs, with no reference to his daughters.

  “That’s it?”

  “I’ve briefed the staff on handling reporters and other trespassers and will do the same later today with any new hires. No reporters have attempted access yet, but there’s a news van at the front gate now. Do you want to make a statement, or do you want me to send them away?”

  He looked down at the drawer. “Tell them the family has no comment at this time. Refer them to the SAR manager at the airstrip.”

  “Yes, sir.” She headed out the nearest exit and meandered up the shady drive to find two cowboys staring suspiciously at the news van. One of them opened the gate for her. As she approached the driver’s window, it opened. A woman in the passenger seat leaned across the male driver and flicked on a hand-held recorder. Every word and movement would be on the record, just in case a story broke.

  “Good morning,” Lacey said. “Can I help you with something?”

  That woman asked, “Is it true Orrin Caine is missing? Which of his sons is with him?”

  “The family has no
comment. For more information on the search, the media centre is down at the airstrip.”

  The woman asked another question, but Lacey ignored it. She stepped back and snapped a couple of phone pictures of the driver and passenger to be circulated among ranch security at the other gates. She smiled at the reporters and walked away. Another hour, another camera recording her butt. It was that kind of day.

  In the ranch kitchen, she got more coffee and a fresh muffin, listening to the three cooks natter as they prepared sandwiches for the searchers. There was no revealing gossip about the family; in fact, no mention at all except when one said, following a phone call, “Mrs. C and Cheryl will breakfast upstairs. Call Cheryl when it’s ready.” Passing Orrin’s study on her way back to the garage, she saw Earl rattling the drawers of a file cabinet. So Orrin hadn’t trusted his supposed second-in-command with keys? She could have told him how to break in, but that wasn’t her business. What she needed was to find out who had a door fob for the garage.

  She tapped on the door frame again.

  “Excuse me, Earl. Can you tell me who all has key fobs for the various buildings? Do they all have access to everything? Or are some restricted?”

  He looked at her blankly for a minute. Would he ask why she needed the information? But he only shoved a folder toward her. “Don’t take it out of the room.”

  “It” was a printout dated last Monday and organized by fob number, the name of the family member or staffer who had one, and a series of letters after that, which she recognized as designating buildings on the ranch map. Her fob was one of five listed as Guest at the bottom, with her name printed beside the second “guest” number. The name beside the first one had been heavily scratched over in pen.

  “Who had this one?” she asked, looking up, and saw that Earl had gone. She lifted the page to the window. The scribbling-over had been thorough. She photographed the list and a close-up of the scribbled area. Maybe Jan’s artistic eye could sort out a name from that mess. Now, it was back to the security cameras and their very dark footage. At least nobody could be recording her butt while she was sitting on it. How did people live under this constant surveillance?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  With Monday’s breakfast sitting heavy on her stomach, Jan stared at the art director’s email in dismay. He wanted her to phone this Harder woman and invite herself over to take pictures of a complete stranger’s log house. At short notice, too. Maybe that was the Hollywood way. Did everybody there have daily housekeepers who kept their home camera ready? Here in Bragg Creek, people were lucky to have a weekly. Still, she had accepted the job and must therefore overcome her intense dislike of the phone.

  How bad could it be, really? When she was sickest, trying to concentrate and hold up the phone with fingers that shook, struggling to get her words out before she forgot what she was trying to say, it would have been impossible. Now she was better. Not cured, but functioning more hours of each day. She could do this.

  In the few seconds before the phone rang, she veered between Pick up so I can get this over with and Please don’t be home so I don’t have to do anything except leave a message.

  A woman answered. Jan introduced herself and invoked Mylo Matheson.

  “Oh, of course,” Mrs. Harder cooed. “I’m delighted to have him consider my humble cabin. When can you come over? This afternoon?”

  Already? Jan swallowed panic. It was only ten. Surely she could recover from a single phone call by after lunch. “How about two o’clock?”

  “Wonderful. Do you need directions?”

  “You’re off West Bragg Road, right? That’s not far from me.”

  “Wonderful,” said Mrs. Harder again and hung up before Jan could ask about accessibility.

  Jan disconnected, shaken. What had she let herself in for? The house might have huge stairs to its front porch or be down a steep riverbank from the parking area. She cued up Google Street View and found the address. Whew! No stairs out front. A gate, a level courtyard, and then a short, flat walk under a varnished-log porte cochère, leading to a middle-aged log house built long and low. It probably had picture windows on the river side that wouldn’t work for an 1890s ranch house, but she had to try. Meanwhile, on to the next job: contacting owners of paintings. She shook off the jitters and settled on the couch with her list of paintings from the museum’s loaner catalogue. The Harder name jumped out at her, marked beside several items. She phoned the museum.

  “Rob, what do you know about a local collector named Harder?“

  Rob said, “Harder?” Keys clicked. “Don and wife live in West Bragg Creek, donated two minor artworks to the Pioneers collection, and have ten other pieces they would loan if a suitable exhibit was being formed. Oh, it says he’s deceased. So I guess it’s just her. Why?”

  “I have to go see her log cabin for the movie people this afternoon. I can take a look at her paintings while I’m there. Want to come along?”

  “Nope. Michael is coming down with his nanny this afternoon. I’ve asked the clay club to let him attend their hand-building session this afternoon. Working with clay is really therapeutic for troubled emotions.”

  “I forgot you had that art therapy class among all your other courses. Are you seriously appointing yourself Michael’s grief worker?”

  Rob hesitated. “Well, we were around when he was conceived and knew his mother better than anyone here. We’re the closest he has to an aunt and uncle.”

  “I guess. I might stop by on my way back if I have the spoons left.”

  Jan hung up after Rob’s final caution against over-exertion. The risk was always there. If the house wasn’t too big, and if she could sit down while photographing the paintings, she’d get through just fine. Driving along West Bragg from her place to the Harders’ wouldn’t require any particular concentration, either, given the low traffic usual on a late-summer weekday. She had to get through it, or Terry would put his foot down about the job, and she’d have to use up more energy fighting with him.

  She was outside after lunch, loading her tripod and camera bag into the van under the blazing August sun, when Jake’s oldest paint horse plodded up the road, its head low. Jake touched the brim of his faded cowboy hat, and when she waved back, he turned the horse into the driveway.

  “Afternoon, Jannie. Where are you heading off to?”

  “I’m going to photograph some artworks. Do you know any Harders?”

  Jake’s grin faded. “That woman’s been married to two of my friends now, and only one of them outlived her. I think she has her eye on me for a third.”

  “Not interested?”

  “I had enough of marriage with the last one. Although,” he winked at her, “if you or Ms. Dee were available, I might just change my mind.”

  “You’re shameless.” Jan shook her finger at him and changed the subject. “I saw another RCMP van go up to your place this morning.”

  Jake tipped his hat back and frowned up the hill. “Yep. They’re putting divers into my pool today, looking for that poor woman’s cellphone.”

  “They haven’t taken anyone else away for questioning?”

  “Not so far as I can tell. Gotta say, Jannie, I’m mighty disturbed that this could happen at my place. It was bad enough thinking someone died accidentally in my pool. This other thing … No stranger could walk in there and do that without standing out a mile. And me with extra guards, too.”

  Jan shivered. “We have to hope the RCMP know what they’re doing.”

  “They’re working hard enough, I’ll give them that. You could keep thinking on it, though. It was you and young Lacey figured out the trouble last summer.” He resettled his hat. “I’ll be off and leave you to your picture taking. You don’t know me, mind, if she asks.”

  Jan watched Jake turn his old paint back to the road. He was too accomplished a horseman to slump in the saddle, but his hat brim dipped in parallel to the horse’s drooping neck. So much fallout. A chivalrous old man, shaken by the killing of a
fragile house guest. A lonely boy, devastated by the loss of his mother. Rob was angry, confused, and protective of Michael. And herself? She was furious. Shaking so hard suddenly that she couldn’t fit the key into the ignition. How dare someone wreak all this destruction on her friends?

  Dropping the key ring on the passenger seat, she called Lacey. When it went to voice mail, she said, “Hi, it’s Jan. You don’t need to call me back. I just need to get this off my chest.”

  Two deep, calming breaths later, she continued, “How on earth do you deal with murderers? Not the investigating part, the emotions. It’s very clear now that someone killed Kitrin, and I’m so freaking angry I’m vibrating. I want to find them and — I don’t know — punch them and kick them and hurt them so badly for what they’ve done to my friends.” She found her teeth clenched so hard they hurt and took a moment to waggle her lower jaw. “The cops are searching for Kitrin’s phone now in the pool. It doesn’t sound like they did anything about Chad. You did tell them, right? Talk to you later this evening, maybe?” When she hung up, her hands were less shaky. Now she had a job to do. She got the van started without difficulty, settled her dark glasses, strapped in, and started driving.

  Ten minutes later, she pulled into the Harders’ gate. The entrance was as flat as it had looked on Street View. She slung her camera bag over her shoulder, picked up the tripod, and headed for the varnished front door. A middle-aged woman with spiky auburn hair answered her ring. She was as tall as Lacey, and as lean, her exposed skin tanned and dry.

  “Mrs. Harder? I’m Jan Brenner. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Right. Come on in.” The woman stood aside.

  Jan set her camera bag on a gnarled log bench. “You have a lovely home.”

  “It’s not mine. My husband’s children from his first marriage could sell it out from under me tomorrow.” As Jan wondered silently if the movie would risk renting a house that might be sold before the shoot started, Mrs. Harder turned away. “I don’t know what all you need to see, but this is the main area, and there are bedrooms back down this corridor. Kitchen and dining that way. There’s an elevator to the lower level from when my husband’s mother lived down there. It’s quite modern, the basement. You probably don’t need that part.”