by Lou Allin
An animal lover, Holly reached forward in reflex to pet the dog, but it gave a wicked growl, then a snap, and she pulled back her hand with an involuntary gasp.
“Sorry,” he said and gave the dog a mock shake, fastening its leash. “I’m Paul Gable. Vice principal.” He gave a gentle smile, then firmed up his lips as he watched her turn a fresh page. “It’s hard to believe this is happening. I don’t know where to start.”
He explained that Notre Dame sponsored a senior trip at the start of the year. The class had raised money through candy sales and car washes. Botanical Beach had been chosen for the hiking, kayaking, swimming and marine life, as well as its convenient distance from Sooke. That the area was rural and isolated was a bonus, since administrators hoped to keep the inevitable substance abuse to a minimum. They couldn’t prevent the occasional mickey of rye, but at least driving was already arranged. This year, two teachers had come down with early flu, so they were short on supervision. “I had to fill in myself at the last minute. Camping with teenagers isn’t my choice of weekend activities.”
Holly looked around. The crowd at the fringes had vanished. A slight headache from the sun began to explore her temples. Her hat felt tight. “So where are your students now?”
He looked wary, then embarrassed. “Um. Hope I didn’t make a bad decision, but I loaded up the kayaks and sent them back in the vans.”
“Back to?” If the students had already left for home, this was going to be much more difficult.
“To the campsite in Port Renfrew. It was awkward. We got to the beach around ten this morning. Didn’t even know Angie was missing. Some thought she had slept in, stayed behind.” He stuttered over the next words. “Then the diver found her. They say he moved...the body. Poor guy. I would have done it myself. You can’t let...” With a crack, his voice trailed off, and he looked at the sand.
“It was a natural reaction, Mr. Gable.” Holly’s reassurance seemed to relax his shoulders, and she smiled. “How long will you all be staying?”
“Scheduled for another day, but the trip is over. Preparations will have to be made. The family contacted.”
“I see. We’ll need to talk to some of the students. While they’re together, it’s more convenient for everyone.”
“Tell me how to help. The girls are all crying, and the guys aren’t far from it. They’ll probably need some counselling. Father Drew is a great guy in a crisis. A prayer assembly, then individual conferences as necessary. Teenagers don’t expect death to come calling. I remember when a boy in my fourth grade fell from a cliff. Harold Bach was his name. Just a quiet little guy, but he crawled out on a dare, and the ledge gave way.” He turned to her with naïve wonderment. “Why do I still recall his name? So weird. He wasn’t a close friend, and I didn’t go to the funeral. None of us did. Wasn’t expected in those days.”
The way he was rattling on seemed morbid. She needed to learn how to direct an interview, but sympathized. “Do you think about Harold very often?”
He scratched his head. “Once a year on Hallowe’en. That’s when it happened.”
“Then you’re reinforcing the memory, bumping the curve back up each time.” She checked her watch. “We’d better get to the camp so that you can start home now. Sooner is better than later for collecting information.”
Along the path, she pointed to the bike. “Yes, it’s one of ours,” he said, inspecting a metal tag welded to the frame. “We brought six trail bikes. They’re not allowed on the beach, but they’re fine for the park roads.”
“Could Angie have ridden it here?”
He shrugged. “I suppose so. Someone is supposed to be in charge of inventory at the end of the day, but maybe they slipped up, and it’s been here since we came over yesterday.”
“We’ll toss it in the car,” she said, motioning to Chipper to collect it.
As they returned to the lot, Gable stood awkwardly with Chucky, spreading his arms in a question. “My ride’s gone. Can you...”
She opened the rear door. “He’s welcome. We’ve had worse passengers. At least he’s sober.”
The trunk contained emergency equipment. A shovel, plastic cones, a blanket, rain gear, bottled water, even a stuffed bear in a plastic bag for when a child needed comforting. Chipper secured the bike, then tied the lid with polypropylene rope. He got into the front and started the engine. In the back seat, Gable shuffled around with Chucky in his arms, perhaps uncomfortable in the confines of a vehicle with reinforcements to prevent glass breakage. On one of her favourite shows, Cops, a suspect had braced himself and kicked out the rear window of a cruiser.
Holly rolled down the windows to catch the breeze. With its computer equipment, radio and brackets for a shotgun, the vehicle was crowded. Opening the clear slider so that they could talk, she half turned towards Gable. Phrases from psychology and interpersonal communications courses came to mind. “This must be a terrible shock for you, sir.”
“Please, Paul is fine.” He wiped his freckled forehead. His arms were strong, and knobby, hairy legs protruded from his tan shorts. She recalled that he also wore sandals with white socks. “You can’t imagine, or maybe you can in your line of work. It’s just impossible that this could have happened to Angie.”
In minutes, they turned into Les’s RV and Camping, following Gable’s directions to the group area at the forested rear section beside the showers and washrooms. Chipper turned off the vehicle and excused himself. Holly led Gable to a picnic table, where Chucky began to nibble on grass.
He told her about the activities the day and night before, leading to the discovery of the body and the steps to contact the authorities. In the second stage of the interview, she began writing.
“And her full name is...please spell it, too.” She poised with her pen, listening as he proceeded.
“Angie Didrickson. Our star swimmer. Butterfly champion of the province.”
Now the physique made sense. Holly jotted more notes. “A reliable girl then. She’d have to be to undergo that kind of discipline and training.” She paused, her memories searching back. “But Notre Dame doesn’t have a pool, does it?”
“No,” he said, “but we have an arrangement with Seaparc. Angie and a few other diehards would be there at seven every morning to practice.” He wiped at his eye. “She was headed for a full scholarship to the University of London. Her dad was so proud, and so was the school.”
“And her mother?” Holly felt herself wanting to understand that this victim was a human being with a life behind her. Was it worse to die at eighteen or to disappear in your forties? Unholy balances.
“Grace Didrickson died in an auto accident a few years ago.
Nate did a damn fine job raising her and her little brother.”
“And the last time you saw her...”
He gave a sniff, pulled out a handkerchief, and honked his small, beaked nose. “You mean...”
“Of course. Alive.” She cautioned herself to show more patience, even though the questions were obvious. This wasn’t a race. Slow and sure, Ben would say.
“That would be last night at the campfires. A sing-along. Marshmallows, the traditional thing. Started near dark, around nine. The chaperones and I had our own blaze, but I made the rounds from time to time to keep everybody honest, not that I was counting heads. You have to give kids some degree of trust. And you can’t expect them to be tucked in by ten.” He smoothed his thick hair, a cowlick raising a stubborn shock. “I’m sure on the perimeters the usual vices were present. Cigarettes, a can of beer, maybe even a joint or two. But not in sight.”
“So you saw her as late as...” She kept her pen poised. Reports with initialed changes were frowned on.
On the road, the guttural roar of a motorcycle caught their attention. Whimpering, the dog started running circles, entangling the lead, and Gable kept trying to undo it. “Chucky, stop.” He looked at Holly with a plea. “Can I tie him to a tree over there? This is distracting.”
“Sure.�
� String him up was more like it. Holly hated illbehaved, aka ill-trained animals. If any dogs were neglected in obedience matters, the small varieties were. Much easier to scoop up the thing and tuck it under your arm than teach it manners. German shepherds had to be under control, at one with their master, their partner. She missed that bond.
On his return from attending to Chucky, Gable said, “Now where were we? Oh, right. The time. Somewhere near eleven. It was pitch dark. I don’t have one of those glow model watches. Anyway, the kids seemed to be heading off to bed without problems.” He gave an ironic laugh. “That’s how much I knew. Jesus, she was out there and—”
“It must have been difficult in the dark. And you can’t put a teacher in every tent. How many students are on this trip?”
“About forty-five. Our graduating class, minus a few who had other things to do. Not all the kids like camping. On the weekends, some head for Victoria for the music scene, whatever that is now. I’m still listening to the Beatles. Sort of retro at my age. At least I’m not into Elvis like my wife’s family.” A flash of embarrassment crossed his face. “Listen to me going on. Guess I’m nervous.”
“Everyone reacts differently to this kind of stress. Take your time. Tell me about your chaperones.”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Me, Kim Bass, who teaches English, and Terry Grove, our coach. I blame myself for the short staff. We should have done more to find someone to help or postpone the trip. Father Drew would have come, but he had to take mass to a shut-in.”
She thought of the difficulty of juggling all those teens and their hormones. “Just three, then.”
“I know what you’re thinking. That’s fifteen each to keep track of. But the school has had a fall trip since it was founded in 1950. That’s a long tradition. There was a bit of pressure. Established dates for future weekend activities. The kids would have been disappointed.”
Holly’s idea of camping was to grab a backpack and head into the wilderness with her dog. “So who was in Angie’s tent?”
Gable took a list out of his jacket pocket. “Just Janice Mercer. She’s very shy. These trips build self-esteem. Students like that I didn’t want to disappoint. Having a successful senior year can make all the difference. Rites of passage. Ninety-five per cent of our students go on to university. Edward Milne can’t compete with that.” He referred to the public secondary school in Sooke.
Holly glanced at her watch. This was taking too much time. Though in charge, she couldn’t and she shouldn’t do all of the interviews herself. The students might appreciate a younger officer....provided that they held no racial prejudices. And even if they did, Chipper had to face his demons like she’d dealt with Playboy centrefolds on her locker during training.
Calling Chipper over, she directed him to sort out those with helpful information. She’d take the two teachers, and if his numbers were high, share the students. “I’ll need you to explain the layout,” she said to Gable.
At the campsite, a few dozen students sat on logs and stumps, on the ground, at picnic tables or milled in the area with pop cans or bags of chips. Gable pointed out a village of tents in various sizes. He, Coach Grove and Kim Bass each had a small pup tent. The students slept in the other eight, two, three, four, depending on tent size. Gable introduced the teachers to Holly. Chipper, in his usual organized fashion, had lined up the students and was talking to each one privately. She was impressed at the way he’d sorted everyone out without a ruffle. Even in the sombre moment, some of the girls seemed entranced with him, heads together in chatter as they watched him.
Grove, a fit man in his late thirties, hadn’t seen Angie after dinner. Muscles corded on his weightlifter’s body as he fastened an expensive mountain bike with front and rear shocks onto a carrier. Smelling faintly of herbal soap, he wore denim cutoffs, a polo shirt with Notre Dame Saints and a halo logo, and hi-tech sandals on his large feet. He repeated Gable’s praise of the school’s star swimmer and ran a hand over his curly black hair, prematurely thinning at the temples.
“With her training, I find it strange that she drowned,” Holly said, leaving an implied question.
He bit his lip and looked at the ground, where a line of ants was reaping the crumbs of campers. “A cramp. Alcohol. Kids make bad decisions. Maybe this was her first and last drink. Nate is going to take this hard. She’s his princess.”
“Paul Gable mentioned his suspicions that someone brought liquor. Do you know she was drinking? Did you see or smell anything?”
He bristled at the implied accusation. “If I had, I would have confiscated it. No one on our teams drinks during training, or they’re out. But Angie’s the last—”
“How about her friends?” At Notre Dame, everyone knew everyone’s business.
“She was dating Jeff Pasquin. Went to the junior formal with him last year. As for friends, Lindsey Benish.” He paused to think, rubbed his finger pads together. “But they must have had a falling out. These kids and their head games. It’s even worse in a small school. Feelings get hurt.”
“Point them out to me.” Not much had changed at the home of the Saints. A tapestry with knots behind it. How dense and how deep? What looked perfect on the surface was a tangled mess behind.
He nodded toward the group, a few elbowing each other to take their turns with Chipper. “Jeff ’s got his head shaved. He’s a swimmer, too. Went all the way to the Nationals. And Lindsey...” He craned his head as a girl with extra pounds only a seventeen-year-old could carry well blew her nose on a tissue. “She’s the one in cargo pants and the polka-dot bikini top. Nothing shy about her. A few more years, and look out.” Then he cleared his throat and smiled, revealing one chipped incisor, which added a touch of vulnerability. “Any other questions? I’m overdue to call my wife. She’s eight months pregnant and keeps me on a short leash.”
Kim Bass, the English teacher, had an oval face with high cheekbones. About Holly’s age, she wore wheat jeans and a faded plaid shirt. Her sleek black hair was razored at the sides. She wore soft, beaded moccasins that looked more comfortable than Holly’s hot, stiff boots, which had raised a blister on her heel with the prolonged and irregular beach walking. Kim’s voice was husky and low, sweet as lemonade on a July afternoon. “Angie was in my British Lit survey this year. I also had her in tenth grade for Communications. Straight A’s.”
“When did you see her last night?”
She shuddered, even though the day was warm, sun streaming through the trees. A sheen of sweat broke out on her brow. Doe eyes and a faintly darker complexion made Holly wonder if she had First Nations connections. “Dinner, of course. There was a volleyball game.” She pointed to an open area, where a net was set up. A lone, deflated ball sat to one side. “We were all playing.
Angie won nearly every serve. A natural athlete.”
“And afterwards?”
“I developed a headache and went to my tent for an early bedtime. Smoke from the campfire maybe. Kills my sinuses.” She gave a small cough into her hand. “Not that I expected to get much sleep with all these teenagers, but I took a sleeping pill.”
Holly’s eyebrow rose. “I see.”
“My head was throbbing like a jet engine.” She levelled her gaze at Holly and gave a weary sigh. The sclera were pink and inflamed. “You remember slumber parties. Girls can yak all night. The boys keep it down.”
“Lucky you brought a supply, then.” Had the woman been unconscious? Was she on a medication with unusual side effects like sleepwalking?
“Just generic stuff. They were in my personals bag from a trip to England a year ago. I always take a couple on the plane.”
* * *
Having been told that Jeff had been Angie’s former boyfriend, Chipper directed the young man to a bench under a massive Sitka spruce with its trademark cracked bark. “Do you carry one of those cool daggers?” Jeff asked, unable to take his eyes from Chipper’s uniform.
Chipper’s soft smile hid an internal eye roll at th
e naïve question, but he refused to answer directly. “Actually, it’s called a sword, though the use is purely ceremonial. It’s a very old custom dating back over four hundred years.”
“Wicked. I’ve seen a few. Way better than crucifixes and rosaries.” Jeff awarded himself a congratulatory snort on the joke.
Chipper explained the interview process to the young man. “And your relationship to Angie?”
Jeff straightened his broad shoulders and completed a bullish neck roll. “We were dating. Were. Not this year.”
“What happened between you, if I may ask?” Chipper made a point of writing neatly. It was one of his trademarks.
Jeff blew out a contemptuous breath. “That’s no secret. Everyone used to see us arguing.”
Chipper’s pen poised. The boy seemed more angry than wounded by the death. On instinct alone, he didn’t like the teen. Cocky and immature. Interested in immediate gratification. Disciplined about his sport, but accustomed to the accolades as a birthright. Jeff wouldn’t have had to fight for anything. Chipper found himself listening to his inner voice instead of his subject and gave an internal shake. “Arguing about what?”
“Hey, man, you know chicks. Teasing you. Gets to be a hassle.” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
“We need to be clear. Are you saying that she wouldn’t... have sex with you?” One ebony eyebrow arched into a question. His stomach rumbled faintly, and he shifted.
“Don’t spread it around, man. I had all the guys thinking I’d been into her pants for months.” Then his eyes narrowed, and he turned away, miming a cigarette toke at a friend raising a pack. “Almost finished, dude,” he called.
“Were you trying to get back together with her last night?” Chipper asked, annoyed that Jeff seemed to have his own agenda. He needed to take back the interview. A small muscle in his neck started aching from tension.