Winter of Secrets

by Vicki Delany

  But Winters wasn’t here to call on the LeBlanc family.

  He went up and down the street, knocking on doors, considering himself lucky to find most people at home. At each house he asked if anyone had noticed a yellow SUV on the street on Christmas Eve. Fortunately that was an easy day for most people to remember.

  Unfortunately no one had noticed much of anything. A few of the neighbors gave him their uncensored opinion of the LeBlanc family. He thanked them and moved on.

  He was heading back to the van, dreaming of a mug of Eddie’s strongest coffee, when a blue Toyota stopped in the middle of the road. The woman behind the wheel rolled down the window and gestured to him. He’d spoken to her at the first house he’d called upon, but she had nothing to tell him.

  He crossed the street.

  “I’ve picked up my mom from Church,” she said. “I mentioned you’d been asking about Christmas Eve and she said she might have something to tell you.”

  A fragile, white-haired lady smiled at him from the passenger seat.

  “Follow me,” the driver said.

  He did so.

  He was invited in for tea. Outside, the house was warm wood and glass. The inside was modern and sparse, painted neutral colors with lots of mirrors and pale hardwood floors topped by what real estate agents called cathedral ceilings.

  He was led into a small room overlooking the street, crammed with heavy, dark, old-fashioned furniture. Black-and-white and faded color photographs sat on round white doilies, covering every surface. The last time he’d been in air this warm, he’d been in a sauna.

  Winters was offered tea, which he accepted only because he suspected that the elderly lady liked a cup after church.

  The daughter left to get the tea, and the older woman, introduced to him as Mrs. Frances James, sat on a stiff-backed, wooden-armed chair covered in brown and orange print. She placed her large black patent leather handbag on the floor beside her. Feeling like the Detective Inspector in a mystery novel of the classic age, Winters leaned against the fireplace—electric, unlike those of the classic novels.

  “I do wish Ruth would at least allow the children to accompany me to mass on occasion,” Mrs. James said. “But she sees fit not to. Except for Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday.

  “Speaking of which, when Ruth picked me up at Church she mentioned you were asking about events on this street on Christmas Eve.” Mrs. James waved her left hand. The diamond on her third finger wasn’t much smaller than the Koh-I-Noor.

  “That’s right. I…”

  “When my husband died, my daughter and her husband were kind enough to invite me to come and live with their family here in your lovely town.” Mrs. James’ thin lips were outlined in deep red lipstick and pinched in disapproval. Winters guessed that she wasn’t all that happy living at her daughters’ invitation, but she’d die before admitting it. “I accepted, realizing they need help with the children. It is difficult these days, what with families requiring two incomes.” If Mrs. James hadn’t been such a lady, she would have spat on the floor. “It was understood from the beginning I’d need my private space.” Another twist of the lips. “They arranged this room for my use. Isn’t it lovely?”

  It wasn’t lovely at all, at least not to John Winters’ eyes. But it did sit at the front of the house, with a big bay window and a clear view of Aspen Street. And the LeBlanc home. Which was all that mattered.

  The door opened and a tea tray came in, followed by Mrs. James’ daughter. She placed the tray on a glass-topped wooden table with ornate legs. “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. James said. “It’s rather cool in here. Turn on the fire, will you.”

  “Sure, Mom.” Ruth grimaced at Winters, but she flicked the switch to start the electric fire.

  He took a seat by the window.

  Mrs. James poured the tea. “Sugar?”

  “Please.”

  She placed two slices of shortbread on the saucer and handed the cup to her daughter. Ruth gave it to Winters.

  “This is my mom’s sitting room,” Ruth said. “She spends a good part of her day in here. She might have seen something on Christmas Eve, right, Mom?”

  Mrs. James touched her cup to her lips. Winters nibbled at a cookie and repressed a sigh. Mrs. James, he thought, only wanted to be entertained.

  But she surprised him. “I must confess to an officer of the law that I find the goings on across the street to be as entertaining as the television, if not more so. However, I won’t go on too much. You’re interested in Christmas Eve and the day before, Ruth tells me.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “My name is Frances. In my youth people called me Franny. Not at all dignified, was it? Never mind. Back to Aspen Street. I don’t sleep at all well these days. Old bones can’t quite settle. I often get out of bed and sit here where I can look out on the street and read for a while.” Two books were on the table beside her chair. The one on top had a picture of a statue of Beethoven on the cover. Cemetery of the Nameless, it was called. Nice title.

  “It was the night before Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve Eve the children call it. They were getting most excited. Supper was long over. The children had gone to bed. I’d watched a movie with Ruth and Joe and came in here to read before turning in. When I sat down, I happened to glance out onto the street. Ruth said you’ve been asking about a yellow vehicle, what I believe you call an SUV. I saw one parked outside number 484. Two men came out of the house. I can tell you, Mr. Winters, they were in a most dreadful state of agitation. Yelling and waving their arms and generally carrying on. As I watched, one of them struck the other.” Her pale blue eyes shifted and she looked at Winters to judge his reaction.

  He kept his face impassive. Hard to tell, sometimes, if a witness was telling you what they saw or what they thought you wanted them to have seen. Or even what they thought would make them sound the most important.

  “Can you describe the men?” he asked.

  She shrugged thin shoulders. “One of them was the boy who’s been living there the past few weeks.” Gary. “The other was tall, dark haired, quite nice looking.”

  “Come on, Mom, you couldn’t see his features from here.”

  Mrs. James huffed. “I am an excellent observer. You’ll note, Sergeant, that despite my daughter’s sarcasm, I have not mentioned the color of his eyes, or that he had a dueling scar running down his left cheek. I am merely reporting what I observed. The street light is located at the end of their path, remember. You,” she glared at her daughter, “can believe what you will. Or not.

  “They punched at each other, but I suspect they had some trouble keeping their footing in the snow. They never shovel the walk over there, you know. It’s quite a hazard. I’ve a mind to call the city about that.”

  “The fight, Mom. You saw a fight.”

  “Yes, I did. She was there, that girl who lives there.”

  “Lorraine?” Winters asked.

  “I’ve no idea as to what her name might be. In my day she’d have been driven out of town, but these days we look past her behavior to the life the poor girl’s had to live. Well, most of us do.” Mrs. James sniffed toward her daughter.

  “If you’re referring to the time we…”

  “What happened with the fight?” Winters interrupted.

  “They pushed and shoved at each other. The girl stood on the stoop yelling at them. And that was about it. The tall one, the one I didn’t recognize, pushed the other man into a snowbank and got into his car. The girl joined him, and they drove away, leaving the man sitting in the snow.” Mrs. James threw back her head and laughed, showing teeth yellow and misshapen. “He did look rather comical trying to stand up.

  “More tea, Sergeant?”

  “Tea? No, uh, no thank you.”

  Mrs. James talked for a bit longer, but she had nothing more to report about the fight she’d witnessed on Christmas Eve Eve.

  So Gary and Jason had a fight on the steps of the LeBlanc home the night Ewan disappeared. Presumably th
e fight had been over Lorraine. And Lorraine had then left with Jason.

  Winters snatched another piece of the excellent shortbread and finished his tea before saying good-bye and thanking Mrs. James for her help. He left his card on the table beside the chair overlooking the street. He considered signing the old lady up as a police informer, but decided that the daughter might have some objections.

  He was in the van, turning the key in the ignition when the thought struck him.

  A tall, dark man had fought with Gary LeBlanc, while Lorraine (and Mrs. James) watched. He’d assumed the man had been Jason. Jason who was involved, apparently, with Lorraine.

  A white man, tall, dark, brown hair. A yellow SUV.

  The description suited Jason.

  It didn’t fit Ewan, who was a good bit shorter, and slimmer, than his friend. Mrs. James wasn’t much taller than a garden gnome; to her almost everyone must look tall.

  Other than being white, young, short haired, and physically fit, the two men didn’t look much alike.

  Did the similarities count for more than the differences?

  Could Ewan have been killed in mistake for Jason?

  And did Jason, realizing that, panic?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth was still staying at the Glacier Chalet Bed and Breakfast. When she’d phoned her parents’ hotel looking for a room, the receptionist had almost laughed out loud. As Mrs. Carmine hadn’t pushed her bill under her door, she decided to stay put.

  She’d listened at the top of the stairs, checking that all was quiet, and peeked over the railing into the common room to ensure it was empty. She snuck out of the house and walked into town to meet her parents at George’s for breakfast.

  It had not been a pleasant meal. Her mother obviously wanted to talk but her father kept shushing her as he threw dirty looks at passing waiters and the occupants of nearby tables as if they were all here only to listen in on the family’s troubles.

  They left half-finished plates and no tip and went out to the street. Wendy wrapped her scarf around her neck. Her mother touched the wool. “Is this new, Wendy?”

  “Nice, eh?”

  “I saw one almost exactly like it in the craft store yesterday. Handmade. It was lovely, but very expensive.”

  Wendy lied. “Got it at a second hand place on Queen West.”

  “Never mind the goddamned scarf,” Doctor Wyatt-Yarmouth Number One snapped. “I want to know what the hell we’re going to do now.”

  “We can do nothing,” Doctor Wyatt-Yarmouth Number Two replied, as she took Wendy’s arm and began to walk. Her husband followed. “The news isn’t good, honey,” she had said.

  The front door closed behind her. Wendy stood to one side and peered through the etched glass. Her parents were heading back to town. They walked together, but so far apart that her father was almost stepping into the road and her mother had one foot in the snowbanks. Wendy twisted her hands.

  She’d managed to stay calm while her mother told her that the police had doubts about Ewan’s and Jason’s deaths. Doubts, Wendy’d asked, how can they have doubts? They’re dead.

  Patricia explained what she’d learned from Sergeant Winters while Jack puffed and fumed.

  Wendy listened quietly and told her parents that she’d be perfectly fine and planned on joining the others at the ski hill later. Her parents had walked her back to the B&B.

  From behind the front door, she watched them round the corner, turning left, toward their hotel. Wendy left the B&B and marched down the street. She went right, into town. When she’d bought the red and gold scarf at the craft gallery she’d seen a fabulous necklace of beaten gold set with stones so blue you could imagine swimming in them. It would be perfect for a blue summer dress.

  She couldn’t afford the necklace, but right now she deserved a dose of retail therapy.

  Murdered. The police thought Ewan had been murdered.

  ***

  Lucky Smith drove Moonlight to her apartment.

  They didn’t say much.

  A snow plow was coming down the alley, and Lucky pulled over to the side of the street.

  Moonlight didn’t get out. Lucky reached over and patted her hand.

  “That didn’t go well,” Moonlight said.

  “Christa’s got a right to be worried.”

  “I don’t see Charlie coming after her. He has to know what’ll happen if he breaches his parole order. And, even more, what’ll happen if he…well, if he attacks her again.”

  “Unfortunately these men with their obsessions and their power complexes don’t always see reason, Moonlight. Is there anything you can do? I mean the police?”

  “Probably. This is a small town. A disadvantage when it comes to keeping Charlie away from Christa but an advantage when it comes to keeping an eye on him. I’ll give John Winters a call and mention it. This is important to him, Mom. He’s the one who found her, after all. Catch you later.”

  Moonlight got out of the car and slammed the door. She crossed the street, and gave her mother a wave as she ducked into the alley that led to the back of Alphonse’s Bakery. It was snowing again; fat flakes fell onto Moonlight’s golden head.

  Children. You never do stop worrying about them. And even about those that aren’t yours.

  Lucky drove up hill to Aspen Street.

  Moonlight would not be at all pleased to know her mother was planning to make a call on Lorraine LeBlanc. But Lucky knew Lorraine from the years when the girl had hung out at the youth center where Lucky volunteered. Lorraine hadn’t been seen at the center for years, but as far as Lucky was concerned, that was an irrelevant detail.

  Parking was difficult on Aspen Street, but making one of her famous U-turns, she found a spot outside a concrete and glass monstrosity that was the very definition of gentrification.

  She locked the car and marched down the sidewalk.

  The walk had not been cleared so Lucky made her own path by stepping in half-covered footprints.

  She pressed the doorbell. She didn’t hear anything in response. It was ten o’clock. An unlikely time to find a sixteen-year-old girl awake. Too bad. She was here now.

  She looked around. The paint on the door frame was peeling, a section of window set into the door covered with plywood, the cement steps cracked and broken. It was possible the doorbell didn’t work. She knocked on the door. That got a response: inside the house a dog barked and something moved. She’d raised her hand to knock again when the door opened. Lorraine was nicely dressed in a long blue sweater over jeans. Gold hoops were through her ears and a gold necklace shone at her throat. She had her hand on the collar of a big mutt. The dog strained at the restraint, but it didn’t bark again.

  “Yes?”

  “Lorraine, I’m glad to find you at home. I was pleased to hear Gary’s back in Trafalgar. Hearing about Gary naturally led me to think about you and I thought I’d drop in and see how things are going.” Lucky smiled. She never had any qualms about butting in where she might not be wanted. As far as Lucky Smith was concerned, if she wasn’t welcome, she soon would be. And if not, there was obviously something wrong and she needed to find out what.

  “That’s nice of you, Mrs. Smith.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch before this,” Lucky said. “But we do get busy with our own lives don’t we? Tea would be nice.”

  “Tea?”

  “That’s if you have time, of course. I wouldn’t want to stop you if you’re going out.” Reverse psychology. Worked every time.

  As it did this time.

  Lorraine stepped back, releasing the dog. “Sure, I can make tea. Come on in, Mrs. Smith.”

  Lucky held out her hand to the dog and let it have a good long sniff, knowing that her clothes must be full of the smell of Sylvester. When the dog seemed satisfied, she stepped over the threshold. The house was shabby and desperately in need of paint and a hammer and nails. But it was reasonably clean. She followed Lorraine into the kitchen. The dog fo
llowed Lucky.

  The dishwasher door was open and the sink was full of white foam from which the handle of a frying pan stuck out.

  “I was putting away the dishes,” Lorraine said. “Gary says the dishwasher has to be turned on every night before I go to bed whether it’s full or not. It’s a bother, but it makes Gary happy so I do it.”

  The dog crouched in front of its water bowl and drank with enthusiasm. Contented, it lifted its head and yawned. Water and drool dripped from the big jaws.

  “Never mind him, Mrs. Smith. Rex isn’t nearly as tough as he looks.”

  “I guessed that already. He obviously can smell my dog, Sylvester, and thus knows I’m a dog friend.”

  Lorraine opened and closed cupboard doors before saying, “I don’t think we have any tea, Mrs. Smith, sorry.”

  “Not a problem. I had coffee with my daughter earlier. You know my daughter?”

  Lorraine leaned against the counter and studied the floor. It wasn’t so clean you might want to eat off it, but neither was it providing a breeding ground for toxic mould. “Constable Smith, right?”

  “Yes.” Uninvited, Lucky took a seat at the kitchen table. “Word around town is that your parents left once Gary came back. If you’d like some support, Lorraine, I’d like to give it.”

  “No thanks.” Lorraine watched the dog make circles on the floor before finding a spot to settle. “I’m good.”

  “Glad to hear it. My daughter tells me you’ve made friends with some young people here for a skiing vacation.”

  Lorraine lifted her eyes. They were very wet. “That’s right. I’m sure she told you what happened to…to…my…to Jason.” She dropped into a chair and her shoulders shook and the tears began to fall.

  Lucky stretched her arm across the small table. She rubbed the back of Lorraine’s hand with hers until the sobs subsided.

  “No one cares. No one. Jason loved me, he really loved me. That rich bitch of a sister of his sticks her nose in the air as if I’ve brought in a bad smell, and his father has me thrown out of a restaurant, and his friends laugh when they pass me in the street. He loved me, but no one understands. He was sharing a house near the university, and I couldn’t move in there, so he was going to move out of the house and get us an apartment. It would be easy for me to find a job and I’d support us while he finished med school.”