by Lorena May
But if she wants to start a new life she needs to get out of here.
Chapter 42
~ Darby
Dim lights, soft jazz, the tinkle of glasses and muted conversation, a faint aroma of basil and garlic . . . Sam knows how to pick a good restaurant. He always did.
He’s taken a room in town, and plans to stay a while, he’s said. No pressure, he told Darby on the phone earlier. He has nowhere else to go. Will she have dinner with him?
Now Darby watches him across the table as he orders; friendly and charming toward the waitress. It’s genuine. She knows that. No wonder she fell in love with him. Perfect features, olive skin with just a hint of stubble, beautiful dark eyes, lashes to die for . . . He’s been working out, obviously, and his shoulders and chest muscles bulge in the cotton shirt he wears, unbuttoned just a little above the mole she knows is there. He wears his sleeves rolled up, and she gazes at the familiar tattoos on his brawny arms. Sexiest man ever!
But it’s the sadness in his eyes that tears at her heart. This big, strong guy sits across from her so exposed and defenseless. There’s a vulnerability that pulls her to him.
“You have a child, you said?” Darby asks, breaking the uneasy silence.
His eyes light up. “Amanda. A little girl. Well, a baby. She’s so beautiful.” He looks down at the checkered table cloth, fiddles with his knife. “But I hardly get to see her. And never alone.”
“Oh, Sam. I’m sorry. Why is that?” Sympathy stabs her in the chest.
“The PTSD. It makes me unpredictable, Lisa says.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
Eagerly he searches through his phone and hands it to Darby. The child must take after the mother. Blonde curls, rosy cheeks, brown eyes. She is adorable.
They make small talk, but it comes more easily as the evening wears on aided by the bottle of wine they share. She tells Sam how her family in Ottawa is doing, talks about her job generally, and her horse, Bojangles. He tells her about his road trip to Alberta from Wisconsin, his family, the jobs he held since leaving Afghanistan.
“I fucked up everything I did,” he says, his eyes glossy.
She reaches to touch his arm. “It’s tough,” she says. “So many horrible memories that just won’t leave our brains. I know . . .”
When he drives her home and they reach her place he turns to face her. His familiar scent, luminous eyes, gazing at her. . . Darby feels the panic rising. Is he going to kiss her?
“Thank you for a great evening,” she mutters and swiftly opens the truck door, fleeing up the sidewalk. When she reaches the front steps, grabbing the keys from her pocket, she looks back. He’s just sitting there in the darkness.
LATER, STARING AT HER computer screen, she scans Facebook. Maybe I can get a handle on who these people are.
She clicks on Mona’s home page: born in Rockydale, Manager of the Ritz. In her profile picture she sits in a chair , beautiful legs crossed, arms wrapped around a little boy. A grandchild! She’s captioned it, “Family is everything! Lukie, my pride and joy.” Wow! Darby is impressed. Hot grandma! She scrolls through pictures of Mona and two other flashy-looking women in Las Vegas posing outside a marquis, on cable cars, in a café drinking coffee, and one of Mona holding up a handful of cash in a casino. “My lucky day!” There are no pictures of Gabe or anything that might link her to his murder. No posts May 11th, the day he died. Her page is devoid of any action since.
Steve has a Facebook page with no profile picture, and a small string of birthday wishes. Obviously, he doesn’t post on Facebook.
Tom’s profile picture shows him with a bunch of friends at a hockey game. As Darby scrolls down she skims over pictures of sporting events, rodeos, comments like, “Go Oilers! Two games in a row! Whoo-hoo!” There are no recent posts.
Cindy is a prolific Facebooker. Her profile picture is a lovely family photo of Gabe, Veronica and herself in a park. She posts pictures of Veronica happily engaged in activities such as eating ice cream and playing in a sand-box with other kids. There’s a picture of Gabe down on the floor with his little girl, reading a book. Photo after photo tells the story of a perfect little family. Finally, Gabe’s obituary with the caption, “My heart is broken”, garners seventy-seven sad-faces, and fifty-three comments offering sympathy. Darby scrolls through them. Comments like, “Our thoughts and prayers are with you, Cindy,” and “Hugs” fill the page. Nothing that arouses suspicion.
Darby wipes away a tear and clicks on Gabe’s page. It is filled with pictures of food, wine and groups happily dining at the Ritz. Ana, smiling, coquettish, is featured in every one. Interesting! Is it just because she makes for a great picture? Or more? Scrolling down, Darby notes Gabe’s interest in hockey and the Calgary Flames. In one glowing photo he stands by his new Dodge Viper SGR, with the caption, “How’d ya like my new ride?” It looks like a space vehicle to Darby, but twenty-two comments and thirty-six ‘likes’ speak to how little she knows! There is not one single photo of Cindy or Veronica on Gabe’s profile.
Darby can’t find any sign of Ana on Facebook. A mystery girl.
Nate’s profile picture shows a picture of a big, juicy steak. “I am a second-hand vegetarian. Cows eat grass. I eat cows.” A few photos of rifles and hand-guns catch Darby’s eye. She scrolls down to find hunting and fishing photos, but they’re sporadic dating back to 2017. Nothing to indicate how much he hated his brother-in-law.
Hannah is community minded, it appears. Her posts are all about kids and events: story-time at the library, play-day at the water park and photo upon photo of smiling, happy children.
Chloe’s profile picture is a professionally done photograph of her and Steve in front of The Ritz, smiling broadly. Most recently she’s posted pictures of a conference in Banff. Schmoozing in the lounge with other restaurateurs, holding up a bottle of wine with the caption, “We’ll be experts by the time the weekend is over!”. There’s a photo of her sitting on the ground with mountains in the background. Darby smiles. She should be a model. Such poise. Such grace. She scrolls down. Chloe is a prolific poster with apparently no privacy settings. There are pictures of happy groups at the Ritz, photos of her and Steve at their cabin, their garden, with guests in their home. . . A charmed life. Nothing suggests any association with Gabe. Darby scrolls further, going back to November, 2017, through 2018 with photos of Steve and his children, their dog cuddled in Chloe’s arms, her smiling face looking lovingly at the little animal. Looking back through 2019, New Year’s Eve, skiing in the Rockies, cross-country skiing at what must be their cabin, spring planting and back to the conference at the Banff Centre, May 10th – 12th, 2019. Hey! That’s the weekend Gabe was shot. Darby sits, staring. What the fuck?
Chapter 43
~Darby
Chloe answers the door, looking puzzled by the grim expressions on Darby’s and Brandon’s faces. Her tone is uncertain. “Hello?” The door remains closed but for the few inches that she peers through.
Brandon steps forward. “Is your husband home?”
“Yes. Why?”
“We have a warrant for his arrest.”
“What?” Chloe shrieks. “What for?”
“For the murder of Gabe Harrington.” Brandon’s voice remains calm, but Darby detects a little triumphant note; a feeling that she doesn’t share.
“No way!” Chloe throws open the door and springs toward the officers as if to attack. “He was with me at the cabin. There is no fucking way Steve killed Gabe.” Her face is a mask of fury.
Darby pulls out her phone, intent on it, then holds it up for Chloe to see. “This is your Facebook page, right?”
Chloe stares. “Yes.”
“On the weekend that you say you spent with your husband at your cabin – the weekend that his partner was shot – you were at a restaurateur conference in Banff.”
Chloe gapes, her eyes bugged. “It must be the wrong date.”
“It isn’t. We called the Banff Centre, and we called the head
of the conference. They confirmed you were there.”
Chloe clamps her lips tightly shut. She steps back, breathing heavily, and the officers enter. Steve is arrested for the murder of Gabe. His protests are for naught. Brandon clamps hand-cuffs on him and leads him down the hall, past his hysterical wife where he stops to hold her face in his hands.
“Chloe, it’s okay. It’s a mistake and we’ll get things cleared. Stay strong, my love.” He presses a lingering kiss on her forehead.
Chloe blinks and stops blubbering. As he walks sedately, head held high, toward the police cruiser she yells after him, “Steve! I’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t worry! I’ll get you out.”
They ride to the precinct in silence. Darby can see Steve’s face in the mirror. It is impassive; impossible to read. Does he wear the look of a guilty man? Why would he place a gun he’d used to shoot someone in the same room? Why the fake alibi? Clearly, he’s not stupid. None of this makes sense.
“I DON’T LIKE HIM FOR it,” Darby rakes her hands through her hair, hunkered down by Jill’s desk. “It doesn’t make sense, Jill. Yes, I know he keeps insisting they were at the cabin. And he insists he hasn’t seen the gun for months . . .”
Jill is thoughtful. “He had motive. There’s the weapon with his prints, and a fake alibi. They lied, obviously.” She looks at Darby with furrowed brow. Do you think we jumped the gun? Arrested him without enough evidence?”
“Ben doesn’t seem to think so. He ordered the arrest.” Darby huffs.
“And he’s the staff-sergeant,” Jill says, shrugging her shoulders.
Darby’s phone buzzes. It’s Jim.
“Hey!” she says, surprising herself at the delight she feels over hearing his voice.
“Hello, Sergeant! How’s it going?”
“Ugh. Still frustrating. How and where are you?”
“I just got into town, and thought I’d take a shot at dinner with my favorite lady.”
Darby feels herself blush. “Sounds good,” she says. “I can be finished here in no time.”
His voice is warm and pleasing. “How about Grillers in half an hour?”
“Perfect,” she says, hanging up. A feeling of dread comes over her. She hasn’t told him that Sam is back.
Chapter 44
~Grace
Grace stands gawking. Gleaming hardwood floors, sleek, modern furniture all white and posh and clean. The apartment is light and airy, luxurious, with a kind of glow. Two walls of glass look out onto a large deck overlooking a park that leads downhill to the river. “Oh my God, Chloe! I’ll actually live here?” She flounces around the living room, briefly landing on plush chairs and couches, twirling, lifting a candle here, a vase there, a throw . . . holding them up like sacrificial gifts to the god who is showering down these extravagances upon her. Her face glows. She tosses a cushion at her sister. “You’re spoiling me. I’ll be completely rotten soon!”
“Positively putrid! Rotten as hell.” Chloe stands in the doorway smiling. “It’s good for both of us, sistah!”
That night, when she realized her home was dangerous, that she’d never escape her life there, Grace had phoned Chloe.
“I need to get away,” Chloe had responded. “I’m coming to Edmonton. Let’s get a place.” Steve was in jail, she told her sister, and she was devastated. She no longer wanted to live in Rockydale. For the time being, she needed to stay, visit Steve, try to clear his name. There were business arrangements and obligations to meet in Rockydale, but Edmonton appealed; a big, exciting city. She’d buy a condo, and Grace could come live with her. Money was no object. With Steve in jail she had complete control of all the finances.
That very same day she drove to Edmonton, picked Grace up and off they’d gone condo shopping. The result was a tastefully furnished, up-scale condo in downtown Edmonton, available immediately.
Now Chloe sidles into the living room, taking her sister’s hands and waltzing her around from the living room through the bright, modern kitchen, across the hall by two deluxe bedrooms, each with their own bath. “I’m an uptown girl, and I’m livin’ in my white bread world!” she sings to Billy Joel’s tune. Stopping to look into Grace’s beaming face she says, “ Seriously Gracie. Did you think I wouldn’t make it all up to you? Besides, I was never meant to live in a dreary little town. We’re gonna have so much fun!”
MONDAY MORNING CHLOE drives back to Rockydale. Grace visits the methadone clinic, attends her weekly group therapy session and is off to Mama’s Kitchen just before noon. It’s all good, but she still struggles to take one vigilant step after another. Shedding an addiction is brutally hard.
Sue hugs her as she arrives at the café, excited and happy to hear of Grace’s new place. “It’s really my sister’s, but I’ll pay her some rent and do the cleaning,” Grace tells her. “I can’t believe my life. In no small part due to you.” She raises moist green eyes to look into Sue’s twinkling blue ones.
They wait on the breakfast crowd, happily chatting with regulars. Grace has become good at this, she knows. Another feather in a meagre little cap that is slowly burgeoning.
Sue grabs a bite in the kitchen while Grace covers the tables. Only a few stragglers remain, drinking coffee and visiting. The front door opens. Lunch customers will fill the place soon. She’ll eat quickly when Sue comes back.
Grace glances up. Her legs wobble. She’s light-headed; needs to sit down. She sets the tray she’s holding on an empty table, clinging to it. Mike stands at the door awkwardly staring at her, his mouth fluttering like a fish floundering.
He turns, head bowed,and walks out the door.
Chapter 45
~Darby
They catch up over a beer and a hamburger, a relaxed and easy date. Not even a date. More like deep, comfortable friendship. Darby won’t let the lingering feeling that she should be mentioning Sam ruin this evening. She’s needed this.
“Rose called just after I talked to you,” Jim tells her as he swirls a French fry in ketchup and pops it in his mouth. He chews. “She seemed a little lonely.”
Darby flinches. “I haven’t been to see her for a couple of weeks now,” she says. “I feel guilty.”
“Not guilty,” Jim grins pounding his fist lightly, gavel-like, on the table, “due to extenuating circumstances such as a tough murder inquiry.” He smiles across the table at her. “You’re off the hook.”
Darby sighs. “It’s no excuse. We’ve charged Steve.”
“So it’s solved?”
Darby fiddles with her fork. “I don’t know. Some things aren’t making sense. Hey, let’s go see Rose. I’m tired of trying to figure it out. I need her to give me shit for staying away so long.”
“And she will,” Jim chuckles. “I’m afraid she will.”
THE DINNER HOUR IS ending as they enter the Rockydale Retirement Home. They walk down a long, brightly lit hallway to the cafeteria where Rose sits with a refined-looking lady, beautifully dressed, rings and bracelets flashing as she gestures wildly. Rose is bent toward her, completely immersed in the conversation, probably wishing she could have a cigarette.
She turns to point toward Darby and Jim as they approach. “It’s about time!” Rose cackles, and rises slowly to hug Darby, then Jim. She turns to her friend. “This is my wanna-be boyfriend. Brings me my favorite cookies all the time. Hasn’t he just got the cutest dimples?”
The woman folds her hands to regain her composure and gazes up at Jim, whose dimples are accentuated by his smile. “He does! I’m pleased to meet you.” She speaks with a sweet, dulcet voice. Such a lady! A troubled lady . . . Darby leans in to shake her hand.
Rose indicates the two empty chairs near two walkers at the table. “Sit,” she says. Turning to Darby, she breathes in a deep breath and lets it out harshly. “You’re the woman we need to see,” she says.
“What is it?” There is tension in the air, suddenly. Adrenalin surges in Darby’s chest.
“Eva, this is Darby Greer, an RCMP officer,” Rose says.<
br />
Darby watches the other woman’s face blanch.
Rose continues. “Darby, this is my friend, Eva. Her son has just been arrested for a murder he did not commit.”
A sudden coldness hits Darby’s core. She feels her muscles tightening. If I could just run away! Instead, she looks across the room a moment, then faces Eva head-on. “Eva, I’m so sorry.” She bites her lip. A mother’s worst nightmare!
The twitching in Eva’s face and body breaks Darby’s heart as she watches the older woman fighting to compose herself. Then, as Eva senses the policewoman’s empathy, she warms to her and, grasping Darby’s forearm, she peers into Darby’s eyes. “Please,” she says, “I know my son didn’t kill anyone.”
“Tell me about your son, Eva,” Darby speaks softly. “Has he said anything to you about this whole thing?”
“He was at the cabin that weekend,” Eva says. “He popped in to see me Friday afternoon, and told me he and his wife were going up. I know he was there. He’s a kind, gentle man. He would never kill anyone.”
“He’s your only son?” Darby asks. She glances over at Jim. What do I do here? But Jim is looking at the wretched older woman with compassionate eyes. No answer there.
“He is.” Tears stream down her rouged cheeks. “I can’t get out to see him now. Will he be in jail long?”
“I don’t know, Eva. We are still investigating.”
Jim leans in. “Do you have grandchildren in Rockydale, Eva?”
She brightens a little. “I do. Three beautiful children.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know why he and Marie had to get a divorce. That wife he has now . . .”