The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  “Was the door locked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone on the streets in the area?”

  Mona squints a moment, thinking. “No, the streets were empty.” She takes a long drag on her cigarette, and rises fluidly to pluck a saucer from the cupboard. Leaning against the counter, she flicks ashes into it, giving Darby a long, hard stare. “I didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Any idea who did?” Darby asks.

  Mona’s jaw clenches and she concentrates on her smoke. “No.”

  “Have you noticed anything different? Anyone behaving strangely around here lately?”

  Mona’s laugh is harsh. “Just the usual.”

  Darby raises an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly.

  “I’m kidding. Nothing different.” She grinds her cigarette in the saucer.

  “You say he is your boss?”

  “Yeah. Gabe. He and his partner own the place. I manage it.”

  “They get along well?”

  Mona shrugs, and looks at the dead man in the corner. “Gabe’s father and Steve were partners. When his father died Gabe took over. So it’s not exactly a match made in heaven, but yeah. They get along.”

  “Anyone that didn’t get along with Gabe?”

  Clackety clackety clack. Mona’s long tangerine-painted nails drum on the counter. She crosses her legs, leans backward. Darby glances over at Brandon who is chatting with a young CSI. She tries to catch his eye. She needs him. Something tells her that Brandon will have more success than she will getting information from this woman.

  Finally, Mona speaks, her voice a hesitant drawl. “He was a lady-killer. I suppose there were lots of people who didn’t like that.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  She snorts dismissively. “Pretty much any man with a wife or girl-friend.”

  Darby takes out her notebook. “Tell me about Gabe. His full name, marital status . . . those kinds of things.”

  “His name is Gabe Harrington, and he’s part owner of five Ritz Restaurants that are spread across Western Canada. He’s married with one child, and lives here in Rockydale where he was raised. He is thirty-three years old, born May 24, 1986.” She recites this in a monotone, her flinty eyes hard and closed.

  “His wife’s name? Address?” Darby mirrors her frostiness.

  “Cindy. 5597 – 48 Ave., Rockydale.” Mona lights another cigarette. Either the woman has a head for details or she’s closer than she’s letting on.

  Brandon sidles up, looking fittingly sorrowful, and aims his honeyed eyes at the woman leaning against the counter. She suddenly comes to life, shifting almost imperceptibly, but the change in her attitude is dazzlingly evident.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” His voice is tender; sincere.

  Mona melts. She gazes at him, her face crumpling in sorrow. She slides to the floor. He moves to crouch beside her, and she cries into his shoulder. “He was so young and full of life.”

  Darby watches a completely different Brandon than she’s used to seeing, patting her back, murmuring condolences.

  “Who would have shot him?” Mona sits up straight, looking into Brandon’s face. “He reminds me of you. A people person.” She succumbs to tears once again. “I know he and Steve had their differences over the business, but Steve’s a softie. He’d never kill anyone. Or Tom . . .”

  Darby’s ears prick up, but she lets Brandon schmooze. ”Who is Tom?”

  “He’s one of our waiters.”

  “Did Gabe have problems with Tom?”

  “Over Ana. It was just his kind of innocent fun,” Mona blubbers. “He wasn’t trying to rape her or anything. Tom’s just naïve . . .”

  Darby is struck with new admiration for Brandon’s interrogation skills. By the time he offers to drive Mona home they have learned that Steve and his wife, Chloe, mostly run the business. Gabe is – was - inept. Besides having to cover for him and fix his screw-ups, Steve has been upset over Gabe’s handling of things and they’ve had some blow-ups recently. Gabe has, in Mona’s words, ‘come on a little too strong with a young waitress, Ana. She and a waiter, Tom, seem to have a relationship, and Tom lashed out at Gabe just last week. Gabe may have been involved in extra-marital affairs. He and his wife were separated for a year. They have recently gotten back together. Mona claims that everyone loves Gabe for his irresistible charm. Do I sense bitterness? Darby wonders. There’s something . . . A flicker of her eye . . . Did he lavish his charms on Mona and then reject her?

  Chapter 19

  ~ Grace

  It’s been a whirl-wind, and Grace is flying high, not just from the little shots of heroine she’s injected to keep going. The exhilarating, mind-blowing, wonderful feeling knowing that she’s pulled this whole thing off without a hitch has her walking on air. She’s eaten and drank and partied, listened and learned from experts

  In one discussion she even contributed; hearing her own voice as if it were someone else’s, ringing clear and confident. “I can tell pretty quickly when I’m in a restaurant - just noting how genuinely friendly or not the staff is, and by watching them interact – noticing whether or not they are happy. That feeling is pervasive, and profoundly affects my enjoyment,” she said. I might be a junkie but I can still use big words! No one gave her strange looks. Several even nodded in agreement, filling her with a pride as sweet and rich as melted honey.

  Chloe should be happy. Her Facebook page is riddled with pictures of a wonderful, successful conference weekend. Grace fit in with this new group of ‘normal’ people who sleep on clean sheets and brush their teeth in gleaming sinks, leaving their rooms for maids to clean. She couldn’t believe it! They drank and cursed and told dirty jokes as boorishly as her ‘own people’ – the druggies and hookers she lives amongst. This weekend she sat right next to these pillars of society and no one realized what she was. Whenever they’d had a chance, she and Sue retreated for walks on mountain paths, breathing in the fresh beauty of nature.

  She’d made a friend, an honest-to-goodness friend; a soul-mate. Sure, she’d had pals through the years. There was Jan, who she sometimes shared a room with. Long ago, Grace had confided the pain she felt over her loss of Gabriel and Jan had been a good listener, but to this day she knew little to nothing about Jan’s life, except for their mutual, constant need for a fix. She was surrounded by a human sea of suffering, living on a treadmill of that never-ending dependency, fucking and fixing. Day after day.

  In her regular world Grace has established a place in the pecking order and, though she’s taken her knocks and had the shit kicked out of her many times, mostly the other girls leave her alone now. It’s a competitive, dog-eat-dog world she lives in where relationships are born from need and convenience. “Never trust no one,” an old prostitute once told her. She’s learned that lesson many times the hard way, along with where the cheapest trick rooms can be found, what shifts the most obliging desk-clerks work and where to go to trick a john in a car. “Take what you can get,” has become her mantra.

  Now, here she is in her Lulu Lemon leggings and blousy jacket, clean and shining, riding in the front seat of her new friend’s car, chatting and laughing about the weekend they’ve just spent at the prestigious Banff Centre. “I insist!” Sue said as the weekend wound down. “Ride home with me. The time will go so much faster. I may even stay awake!”

  Talk comes easily, and the kilometers fly by. Sue has a wry, devilish sense of humor that hits just the right chord with Grace. Everyone they met during the weekend has been given a nick-name: Miss Pencil-Skirt, Mr. Guffaw, Mrs. Loud and Proud . . . to name a few.

  Sue is keenly political and interested in the world around her, and Grace is captivated by the conversation. Right-wing, left-wing, foreign investment, refugees, immigration, the environment . . . With Sue she’s not afraid of sounding stupid or asking questions. A whole new world is opened up to her. Grace has always had a quick mind, but it’s been pre-occupied with scoring and staying aliv
e. For so long. Like a withered leaf, she’s floated aimlessly through turbulent winds. One of these days she’ll crumble to nothingness.

  Sue lives a busy, happy life. She and her son work at a soup kitchen in the skids once a week. (Have they seen me there? Grace grimaces.) Sue volunteers at an inner city drop-in and knits scarves and mitts for street people. She adores her old cat, Cleo and loves to putter in her yard, relishing the feel of soil beneath her gloved fingers, always on the look-out for what will grow beneath the shadow of her many trees. She runs a small restaurant not far from her home, gradually handing over the management of it to her son, Mike.

  Sue is divorced and, except for Mike, she has little interest in men. “They’re handy for fixing things,” she says with a twinkle in her eye

  Mike, who is now thirty, lives in a modest bungalow near his mother’s house. Lured by the big money in oil, he quit school after grade eleven and went to work in Fort McMurray. He made over $200,000 a year, Sue tells Grace. It seemed like a fortune to a young, naïve kid. He bought a brand new Ford Platinum truck, a snowmobile, a jet-ski and a camper. For his mom he insisted upon a Honda Civic that she reluctantly picked out herself. Then the price of oil crashed. He lost his job, his truck, snowmobile, jet-ski and his camper; all sold in order to buy a small house while he tried to pick himself up and “get his head on straight,” she says. He’s not a bad handy-man so he does some carpentry, fixes things, paints and works in people’s yards while he finishes school by correspondence.

  “I can’t say I’m sorry.” Sue’s brow furrows a little. “I hated to see him so down, but it couldn’t last. Alberta will never be the big oil-rich province it once was. These kids with no skills and no education were making more money than most professionals. It was crazy.”

  “And this way, he’s going back to school,” Grace agrees. A career change! What a novel idea!

  So many times – again and again, she tries to say it, but the words get stuck between her throat and the tip of her tongue. “I’m not who you think I am.”

  Sue doesn’t prod. She knows that Grace – or Chloe, as she knows her to be– oversees restaurants.

  When, as they approach the city, she asks Grace, “And where do I take you?”

  Grace answers, “Edmonton Plaza.”

  “Are you in town for a bit?” Sue asks, as she swerves toward the curb outside the high-end hotel.

  “I am.” Grace feels her throat constrict. How she hates deceiving this woman.

  “Let’s get together. I’ll give you a call.”

  “I’d love that!” Grace extracts her suitcase from the trunk. “Call my cell. Any time!”

  She watches as Sue pulls away, waving cheerily. Merging into traffic, she is gone. Sighing, Grace pulls out the extendable handle on her suitcase – another gift from Chloe - and trundles off toward home. Back to reality.

  Chapter 20

  ~Darby

  The house is massive, mostly windows, angles and sleek, modern lines. The yard has recently been professionally landscaped with tiny saplings and bushes, tastefully planted around a sloping green lawn.

  Darby and Brandon park their motor bikes on the street and peruse the place.

  “Backs onto the river. Prime property. Looks like they tore down the original house and put up this monstrosity.” Brandon sounds awed.

  “Restaurants must be doing okay,” Darby remarks.

  Solemnly, they walk up the flagstone path to the front door. Darby’s insides flutter, but she sets her chin and resolutely takes one step, then another. She glances at her partner who is uncharacteristically quiet. He’s new at this. No matter how many times she’s had to do it, she faces informing the next of kin with immense dread.

  She rings the bell. Brandon stands off to the side, glancing nervously around the well-kept yard. Sounds of adult voices calling out can be heard from inside the house. Shuffling their feet on the step, they wait. Finally, foot-falls approach. Slowly the door opens a crack, and a small, pinched face appears.

  “Are you Cindy Harrington?” Darby asks.

  The head nods and the door opens slowly to reveal a little white whisper of a woman, very pregnant. There is a defeated air to her before she even hears the bad news. Fine delicate features, fair skin, dark circles under her eyes, long stringy hair . . . She has a vulnerable, little-girl look. Cindy wears baggy jeans and a too-big t-shirt, stretched around her stomach. Her eyes are lifeless; dull blue, and she opens her thin lips to speak but no sound comes out. On her hip she carries a child. A little girl with bright blue eyes – her father’s eyes - and a cherubic face framed with fine blonde hair. Dimpled legs wrap around her mother, one small foot, below the baby bump. She can’t be more than two!

  “May we come in a moment?” Darby asks, overcome by a strong sense of pity for this woman. How will she manage?

  Cindy stands back to let them in, and they step into a large foyer, filled with toys, a fancy stroller, and outdoor clothing slung on a bench.

  The woman and child stand staring soundlessly at the two police officers as they introduce themselves.

  Darby looks at Gabe’s wife through sympathetic eyes. “Mrs. Harrington, I’m afraid we have bad news. Would you like to go somewhere comfortable?”

  Cindy speaks softly, only her eyes registering alarm. “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes. Come sit.” She leads them into a living room with large windows, low-slung furniture, lush, beige carpeting and colorful toys scattered all about. A sippy-cup and half-drank tea sit on a finger-smudged coffee table along with a dog-eared romance. Cindy sets her child on the floor, and immediately the little girl grabs a blanket from a doll crib, and sucks, sitting spread-legged on the carpet, staring at the intruders.

  Darby and Brandon stand awkwardly a moment. “May I call you Cindy?”

  “Yes,” the woman nods.

  “Cindy, I’m so sorry. We’re here about your husband, Gabe.”

  The young woman’s eyes flash alarm. “What’s he done?”

  “He’s been killed.”

  Cindy’s eyes roll back in her head a moment. She sways. Brandon steps forward and gently eases her onto a sofa.

  Suddenly, the doorway is filled with a large, dark shape and a booming voice. “What’s going on here?”

  Darby’s breath catches in her throat as a big brutish-looking man charges toward the young woman who leans backward, white-faced, with Brandon crouched beside her. The child begins to whimper. “Mommy! Mommy!” and flies into her mother’s arms. It all happens at once. A flurry of despair.

  “What are you doing here?” asks the newcomer, glaring at Brandon. He lowers his massive body to kneel before the broken woman. “Cindy, Cindy look at me. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”

  Brandon blinks as he rises, clumsily, to his feet. In other circumstances Darby would enjoy his atypical unease. “Sir, we’ve come to notify Mrs. Harrington of her husband’s death,” he says. His voice is thin and reedy.

  Cindy’s arms enfold her child as she rocks back and forth, tears streaming from her eyes.

  “She’s my sister,” the big man mutters, his voice deep and husky. He rises and moves behind the sofa to stand behind Cindy, his hands on her shoulders. “What happened?” His thick-featured face is impassive.

  “Gabe Harrington has been killed.” Darby speaks softly.

  Cindy is audibly sobbing now. “How?” her brother asks.

  “He was shot.”

  “Shot? An accident?

  “We don’t know yet,” Darby says.

  Brandon clears his throat. “Did he have a gun?”

  Her brother looks at Cindy questioningly, but her head is buried in the child’s hair, and she is beyond speaking.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know him well. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. Here to look after my little sister.”

  Darby asks, “And you are . . .?”

  “Nate,” he nods. “Nate Chambers. I work on the rigs, live in Fort McMurray. Don’t’ get out too often, but things are slow rig
ht now.”

  Brandon gets his brash back. “Your sister needed looking after?”

  Nate gives him a sour look. “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  Nate’s jaw clenches. “She’s pregnant, small kid, sick and alone. That good enough for you?”

  “Alone? What about her husband?”

  Nate snorts dismissively. “You’ve done what you came to do. We’ll handle things now.” He walks toward the front door, opening it and gesturing for them to leave, his mouth twisted in an exaggerated grimace. Darby goes to Cindy, still rocking and crying on the couch, and sets her card on the coffee table. “Cindy, I’m so sorry. If you want to talk or need anything call me, okay?” She reaches to touch the woman’s shoulder a small, comforting tap, and follows her partner to the front entrance.

  Brandon tries one last lick. “How did you get along with Gabe Harrington?”

  “Good-bye,” Nate says as he pushes them out the door, slamming it behind them.

  Chapter 21

  ~ Darby

  Darby stands, wide-legged, staring at the mind-map she’s created on her white-board when Brandon slips into her office, sprawling in her chair, grinning. “No pittlefarting for you,” he says. “Got it all figured out?”

  Still scanning, deep in thought, she keeps her back to him and raises her middle finger, purposefully ignoring him.

  “We’ve got some word from the CSI’s,” he says. “Wanna hear what they have to say?”

  She turns, raising her eye-brows. “Shoot.”

  “The camera picked up Gabe entering the restaurant alone at precisely midnight Saturday. Looked like he was on a mission. No one else was seen. But the camera doesn’t show all the entrances. Someone could have gone in the side door. There was no forced entry. Several examples of unidentified DNA on his clothes. Obviously not suicide as there was no weapon anywhere to be found.” He grins a crooked grin. “He didn’t shoot himself, get rid of the gun and then perch in his arrogant ass-hole pose.”