by Lorena May
“Were you sleeping?”
“Yeah.” Long pause. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry. I just called because something horrible has happened here and I can’t make it to Edmonton to see you today.” Chloe’s voice cracks.
“Chloe, are you okay? What happened?”
Chloe speaks through gasps and breaks. “Our friend died this morning. Steve is upset. The police were here and they practically accused him of killing his partner. I have to stay here today, but I’ll come see you Wednesday morning, okay?”
Grace remains in a sleepy fog. “Okay.”
Chapter 25
~ Darby
Tom shuffles uncomfortably. The legs of the cheap plastic chair he sits in scrape the hard tiled floor. He has an open, boyish face, guileless eyes and a kind of bashful expression, enough to melt the wariness of even the most cynical detective. Darby can almost picture him, hat in hand, nodding, ‘Aw shucks’ or ‘Yes ’m’. He’s busy twisting the peak of his cap in broad, rough hands. He smells of earth and fresh air, his face slightly sun-burned. He’s pure country; clean-cut, his blonde hair thick and short, wearing jeans, trendy runners (that probably cost a whole pay cheque) and a t-shirt that says, ‘Farmers Feed the World’.
Brandon has adopted his ‘I don’t believe a word you say’ stance. Sprawled back on his chair, arms folded, he stares Tom down. Thankfully, he’s let Darby do the talking so far. Why alienate the witness? She moves her chair to face him, and leans in, keeping her voice gentle; soothing. “I know this has been a shock for all of you.” She shrugs. “We’re just trying to understand and get to the bottom of what could have occurred Saturday night.”
“I . . .” Tom’s voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I know that.”
“You wait tables at the Ritz, right? How long have you worked there?”
“Two and a half years now,” he says, licking his lips.
“And Gabe Harrington was your boss.”
He nods, looking wary.
“We understand you and he had a disagreement last week.” Darby’s dark eyes flicker with compassion.
Tom lowers his gaze, stares at his hat which is being furiously mauled by his fingers. “He came on to Ana, and I lost my temper.”
She nods. “Understandable. What happened?”
He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, looks at the floor, his hands clenched around his cap. When he speaks it’s in little spurts. “It was after work. We were cleaning tables, getting ready to set them for morning. All of a sudden he came up behind her and grabbed her around the waist, and . . .” Tears spring to his eyes. “And he pushed himself into her.”
“Pushed himself?” Darby’s eye-brows furrow as she gazes at the young man before her.
“His . . . He pushed his groin under her butt.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “And his hands . . .” Tom’s lips tremble. Tears stream down his face now. “He had his hands on her breasts.”
“That must’ve pissed you off,” Brandon cuts in.
With a jerk Tom turns to face the young police officer who is doing his best to look sincere.
“I – It did,” Tom stammers.
“So what did you do then?” Brandon’s voice is almost a jeer.
“I lost my temper. Hit him.” Tom stares straight ahead, his mouth clenched. Every muscle in his body tense.
Darby reaches to touch his arm lightly. “And then what happened?”
Tom wipes his face with the back of his forearm. “Steve pulled me off. I’d have killed him.”
They let that sink in for what feels like a very long time.
Finally, Darby asks, “Did he keep bothering Ana?”
Tom shrugs. “That’s the last time I saw him.”
“Until Saturday night, that is,” Brandon pipes up.
Tom’s mouth falls open as he gapes, uncomprehendingly, at the police officer, who is now sitting up straight, practically jabbing him in the chest with an extended finger. “When you finally got a chance to get back at him.”
Tom blanches, jerking slightly, as if hit in the gut. “No!” he shouts.
“Tom, if you did we could hardly blame you,” Darby says.
“I didn’t!” He trembles and stands, shoving his chair. It clatters to the floor.
Darby tries to rescue the situation, swiftly moving to stand between Tom and the door. She remains calm and unthreatening. “I’m sorry, Tom.” “Let’s just talk. Would you like something to drink?”
Tom stands, glaring a moment, teeth clenched. “No,” he says, picking the chair up and falling awkwardly back into it.
Darby sits across from him. “Did you work at the restaurant this weekend?”
He answers in a monotone. “I had Saturday and Sunday off.”
“So the last day you were at the restaurant was Friday?”
He nods.
Darby is treading lightly. They screwed up. Now she needs to build rapport. God, I hope Brandon will keep his fucking mouth shut. “And the confrontation between you and Gabe happened Wednesday, is that right?”
Nod. Face sullen, eyes expressionless.
“Anyone say anything to you about it? Indicate how they felt?”
He thinks a moment. “Mona told me to ignore Gabe – that she’d fix things with him. Steve said he didn’t blame me, but warned me to watch my temper. Chloe wasn’t in Friday. I don’t think anyone else knew about it.”
“Ana say anything? It must’ve been awful for her.”
Tom’s eyes flare, and he puts his face in his hands. Looks up. “Yeah.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. She was too upset.”
“Did she work Friday?”
“No. She called in sick.”
“Have you seen her since then?”
“No. She hasn’t been answering her phone. I don’t know what to do.” He gives Darby a pained stare.
She reaches to touch his arm, and speaks soothingly. “We will make sure she’s okay.”
Beside her, she can see Brandon’s leg jerking. Getting restless. She shoots him a warning look, then turns back to the distraught man before her. “Tom, just for the record, where were you Saturday night?”
He shrugs. “Just at home, watching TV.” His mouth sets in a hard line.
“Anyone else with you?” Brandon keeps his voice expressionless.
“My parents were visiting the neighbors, but they got home around 11:00. By then I was in bed.”
“So you didn’t see or talk to them?”
Tom looks at both detectives through narrowed eyes. “No.”
Darby stands. “Thanks for coming in, Tom. We’ll talk to Ana and make sure she’s okay. And if you think of anyone who might have had a reason to want Gabe dead, let us know, okay?”
He scoffs. Says nothing. Rises, and leaves without saying good-bye.
He is hardly out the door before Brandon slams his fist on the table. “What the fuck was that? You just let him go?”
Darby glares at her partner. “Before you had a chance to totally destroy anything we can ever get from him you mean?”
He cocks his head. “What? We’re going to pussy-foot around a guy who admittedly tried to kill the vic three days before he was murdered?”
“He came in here all cooperative and then you go and accuse him of murder! Fuck! Where did you learn to interrogate?” Flushed and furious, Darby paces the floor.
“We could’ve broken him. You know he’s lying . . .”
She stops to glare at her partner. “As a matter of fact I don’t know that! Broken him? What? Brow-beat him until he confesses to something he didn’t’ do? Is that what you had in mind?”
“Brow-beat him. Like hell. I barely talked to the guy.”
“He’s not the spineless wimp you seem to think he is. If he’s guilty we’ll find out. But I can tell you he won’t be folding anytime soon. And we don’t know shit yet.”
Brandon sits up, purses his lips and nods. “Okay boss. Do you think it was him
?”
She runs her hands through her hair, eyes closed. “I’m sure he wanted Gabe Harrington dead, but . . .”
“He could easily have a key to get in there.”
Darby shakes her head, staring at the floor. “But Gabe must have arranged to meet the murderer there. Would he meet Tom late Saturday night? He didn’t work Saturday.”
“He could have texted Gabe using Ana’s phone – said she wanted to meet him. I like him for it.”
“He could’ve, but how would he get Ana’s phone?” Darby muses. She gathers the papers she has piled on the table. “We’re keeping an open mind. Right?”
Brandon gives her a mock salute. “Yes, boss.” And he stalks out the door.
Chapter 26
~ Grace
“And I feel nice, like sugar and spice
I feel nice like sugar and spice
So nice, so nice
Dum dum dum dum de dum »
Grace sings as she slips on jeans, sandals and a billowy shirt; gratis Chloe. She takes a final look in the mirror. Her hair is clean, bouncy and stylishly cut. She’s wearing no garish, over-done make-up or short, tight, low-cut apparel. I’m a new girl! Flipping her hair one last time, she grabs her purse and flounces through the door, down steps stained with God knows what, out of the old walk-up apartment, onto the pavement where her uber-driver is waiting.
She texted Sue this afternoon, saying that she was in town and could they get together? Sue answered immediately. ‘Sure! Come for dinner’. Grace swallows a little pang of anxiety as she watches the city go by through the car window. She’s plummeted her right back into her old life. Grace, the junkie-whore. Pressing her lips together, shoulders back, she stares ahead. Channel Chloe. I can do this.
When they pull up outside Sue’s house, she pays the driver and hesitates a moment, taking it in. It’s a neat little white-sided bungalow with a red roof and door, vibrant tulips, lush bushes and a neatly trimmed lawn. A perfect doll-house. The front door opens and Sue steps out onto the porch. “Hey, girl! It’s good to see you! Come on up here and give me a hug.”
Giggling, giddy, Grace scurries up the front sidewalk, almost tripping as she dashes up the steps to feel those soft, warm arms embracing her. “So good to see you again!”
Sue’s house is like her. Snug and homey. Grace shucks off her sandals, and is pulled into a small living room brimming with slightly worn furniture and knick-knacks scattered about on book-cases, shelves and tables. The smell of freshly-baked bread and something else – beef stew? – greets her.
“Come in and meet my son, Mike,” Sue says, leading Grace into the kitchen.
Grace falters a moment. Panic stirs her stomach. She pushes it down, taking a deep breath. Pasting a smile on her face, she follows Sue into a bright, shiny kitchen.
Mike sits at the table, staring into an iPad. As they enter he jumps up, shoving his chair back, bumping the table. He laughs a nervous little guffaw and steps awkwardly toward Grace, extending his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he says, a flush creeping up his face. There’s a gentle kindness to him; from his big, bare feet, long, lanky body, to his bashful smile, all the way up to his warm brown eyes. He smells like soap and fresh laundry.
Mike’s hands are big and calloused, his handshake firm and warm. He hesitates a moment, looking at Grace with undisguised admiration. “Mom’s talked about you a lot since Banff!”
It’s Grace’s turn to blush and shrug. “We had a great time together.”
“Come, dish yourselves. The ipad has to go!” Sue raises her brow at her son, who closes it up, setting it on the counter without taking his eyes off Grace.
They eat fresh bread smothered in butter, spicy stew, tossed salad, and sip red wine around the small kitchen table. Grace’s evasive, clipped responses to their questions appear to go unnoticed, and they stop asking. They talk about Banff and the people they met there; funny stories such as the time the woman Sue dubbed ‘Ms. Shit-Don’t-Stink’ came out of the bathroom trailing toilet paper. “I cringed for her, but it couldn’t have happened to a better person!” Sue’s face is wreathed in laughter.
“Have you ever skied in Banff?” Mike asks Grace.
“No, I’ve never skied.” She lowers her eyes.
Laughing, he says, “I remember the first time I went. The cool kids skied – the rich kids – and I wanted to belong. I’d never skied before and rented a pair of skis that were way too long for my ability. We got up to the top of the mountain and I realized there was no pretending! I slid on my ass the whole way. Terrified. White as a sheet. I remember looking longingly at the lifts, wondering how I could hitch a ride down.”
“Very cool!” Grace squeaks through the laughter.
Mike guffaws. “Mr. Popular from then on!”
Sue’s eyes shine. “But now you’re a good skier!”
Sitting there with Sue and Mike is like being snuggled up in a downy blanket; their down-to-earth hospitality warms her, and she wants this. To live like this.
They clean up the dishes and sit down to coffee and carrot cake that Sue has pulled from her freezer, chatting like old friends. Mike’s voice is deep and rich and his stories are full of self-deprecating humor. Yet he has a confident, comfortable-in-his-own skin air about him. And suddenly she feels it too. She managed at the conference by pretending to be Chloe. Here, she is herself. And that self is okay.
Grace learns that Sue and Mike both work at the soup kitchen near her place on alternate days so that one or the other can run the restaurant. They are full of stories of the wit and wisdom they’ve discovered amongst the clients. Grace wants to tell them. I’m one of those people. But the words stick in her throat.
Sue’s eyes shine. “Why don’t you join us? If you’re in town and your husband doesn’t mind. They can always use new volunteers.”
Grace’s heart races; thrums in her chest. “I don’t really have a husband,” she blurts. “Or a restaurant. Or even a job.” I can’t lie to these people any more!
Surprise flashes across Sue’s face. She recovers instantly, and hugs Grace. “Come work with us at the restaurant. We’re looking for someone like you. You can be manager-slash-waiter-slash-prep cook . . . I want to work less, and Mike is off fixing God knows what a lot of the time.” She gives her son an affectionate wink.
“My name isn’t Chloe. It’s Grace.” It just blurts out. Grace feels her insides bubble and churn.
Chapter 27
~ Darby
“Sorry to bring you in here on your day off.” Darby sits at the table as Brandon pulls a chair out for Ana, who is white-faced and trembling. “Would you like a coffee or anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.” Ana sinks into the chair, and looks up to give Brandon a weak smile of gratitude.
Darby’s dark chocolate eyes are warm as she leans toward the anxious young woman. “Ana, we only want to ask you a few questions about your boss so that we can get a better understanding of who he was and who might have killed him.”
Ana nods, her eyes locked on Darby’s.
Brandon moves to sit beside his partner, giving Ana a sympathetic look.
Gradually, Ana’s voice becomes stronger as she answers their questions. She’s worked at the Ritz for a month now. Gabe is her boss, Tom a co-worker. She and Tom wait tables together, and have gone to a movie, bowling and out for dinner. He picks her up to drive her to the restaurant when they’re working the same shift. Ana considers Tom a good friend, though she blushes, eyes downcast, at Brandon’s suggestion that he might have more in mind. Mona, Steve and Chloe are all very kind to her, she says.
“And how about Gabe? How does he treat you?” Brandon asks.
Darby watches Ana’s fists clench, her body stiffen. She takes a sharp breath. “He flirts with me sometimes.”
“Does he come on to you?” Darby asks, softly.
“Sometimes.” Ana speaks in a whisper.
“How does that make you feel?”
The young woman shrugs into
herself, wrapping her arms around her torso. “I don’t know.”
IT’S BEEN A LONG DAY, interviewing the staff at the Ritz, one by one.
“Well, I’ll say one thing for them. They keep their staff happy.” Darby grabs her helmet from the shelf and throws a jacket on, gawping at Brandon who is focusing on doing squats by her desk.
“What? We’ve been sitting all day. Not good for my burly quads!”
She snorts. “Squat away, man. I’m going home. So, what do you think? Anyone stand out?”
Brandon’s face reddens and he grits his teeth for one last hold. “Aaaah.” He stands, narrowing his eyes. “Tom, of course. Ana just seemed scared and vulnerable. The rest of the staff have pretty much nothing to do with the vic . . . My money’s on Tom or Nate or Steve. You?”
Before Darby has a chance to answer Sergeant Jill Becker pokes her head in the door.
“Ah,” Darby says. “Our number one investigative lady. What have you got?”
Jill smiles. “You might want to sit down for this.”
Darby raises her eye-brows.
Brandon laughs, “Evidence we just can’t believe? Let me guess. Mona’s running a brothel with illegal Mexicans and Ana is her number one? Our lovely Chloe is a transvestite? No. Wait. Steve is a mass murderer.” He looks at the two officers. “Okay, roll your eyes. What is it?”
Jill waves the paper she holds in her hands. “The checks on all the staff are done. Only one has a record. Can you guess who?”
Darby and Brandon eye her expectantly.
She sets the paper on Darby’s desk. “It’s Ana. That frightened little mouse who sat in the waiting room quivering and shaking. Can you believe it? She stabbed an ex-lover with a knife.”
Chapter 28
~Grace
It’s a whole different world downtown at 11:00 am. Grace sips her coffee and watches smartly dressed men and women waiting in line to order, sitting at tables, standing in small groups . . . computers in hand, chatting, reading newspapers. Alert and ready to go. Energetic. Clean-cut. Businesslike. She’s fascinated.