Читать книгу Stonechild and Rouleau Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Brenda Chapman - Страница 19

Sunday, December 25, 11:15 a.m.

Rouleau sat across from his dad and watched him open the gifts he’d picked up the night before. The Brian McKillop biography of Pierre Burton was a stroke of genius and the book on North American birds received a fair bit of attention. His father opened the down comforter last.

“Tiens, tiens,” he said. “Now isn’t this something?”

“Do you like it, Dad?”

“It’ll keep me good and warm I should think. The apartment’s been a bit drafty this winter.”

Rouleau was pleased. It had taken him a long time to pick out the perfect duvet cover. His father never asked for anything but deserved everything. He always said the same thing before and after opening his gifts. “Je suis un homme content.” Rouleau automatically translated in his head, “I am a happy man.”

The tradition was the same. After his father opened the gifts, they’d walk the block to his dad’s favourite pub and have lunch. His dad would insist on buying both the turkey special and a bottle of burgundy. After the meal, they’d walk back to the apartment and a bottle of single malt would ceremoniously appear for a short tipple before Jacques drove back to Ottawa in the late afternoon. The remainder of the bottle was his parting gift. Rouleau always locked it in the trunk of his car in case he got pulled over.

Today, as every Christmas Day, their lunch was served by Lottie McBride, owner and barkeep of the Bide a Wee Pub.

“Ye enjoyed the turkey, I see,” she said before whisking away their empty plates. She returned with two bowls of trifle, coffee, and a plate of homemade shortbread cookies she baked for his father. Rouleau knew there’d be a full tin waiting for his dad on their way out the door.

Rouleau sat back and patted his stomach. He smiled at his dad. “You made a good choice of restaurant for once.” The same joke every year. His father never considered going anywhere else. He looked down. “Your foot’s more swollen, Dad. Are you in much pain?”

“Not really. They’ll be operating in the spring.”

“I’m glad. I’ll get some time off and come stay with you.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“No arguments, Dad.”

“How are you doing, son? Last time you were down, you said you might have made a mistake taking that job. Do you still feel that way?”

“Most days. We have a murder case that’s giving us some profile, but it’ll likely be taken away after the holidays.”

“You should find somewhere that makes you happy. Life’s too short to have regrets.”

“I wish it were that easy. How’s your book coming? Do you still have your office at the university?”

His dad nodded. “They’ve even loaned me a research assistant. I’ve nearly completed the opening chapter. It’s a fascinating subject, the making of the canal system. We’ve dug up some new material, if you excuse my pun. Even unearthed a murder to spice up the narrative.”

“Solved?”

“No, unsolved. I hope you have better luck with yours.”

“Solving this case could be the unit’s only chance.”

Lottie refilled their coffee cups, humming “Jingle Bells” under her breath while she swung the pot from Rouleau’s cup to his father’s. She patted his dad on the shoulder before slipping away.

His dad watched her go with a smile on his face. He sipped from his cup and set it down. “Frances came to see me.” He paused and studied Rouleau from under his shaggy white eyebrows.

Rouleau was surprised at first but then not. Frances loved his dad and would have wanted to see him before she got too sick to make the trip. “Did she tell you…?”

His dad nodded. “How are you doing with this?”

“Not well. It’ll be hard to imagine the time when she’s not in this world.”

“I know, but dying is part of life. I told her she should tell you that she was ill. I hope that was the right thing to say.”

“Yes. We met a few days ago. I told her to marry Gordon.”

“I’m sorry, son. That must have been difficult.”

“The finality of her death is difficult. I already lost her to Gordon a long time ago.”

He hugged his dad longer than usual before leaving to retrieve his car. His father stood in the doorway as he drove by, a tall man, stooped at the shoulders, with a shock of white hair and blue eyes that were brilliant still. Rouleau waved and his father raised a hand before turning away.

The snow finally had stopped early morning and the roads were clear. Rouleau pushed in a Bonnie Raitt CD and set the cruise control. He settled back in the seat and let his mind wander. Traffic was light and he made good time, stopping once at a truck stop in Smiths Falls for coffee.

At close to four thirty he pulled into his driveway. The sun was already a silvery line on the horizon and his house a dark outline beyond the cedar hedge that cut across his property. Snow covered the bushes like a thick coating of frosting. It was good to be home.

He stepped out of his car and heard a door slam across the street. He turned his head and squinted through the darkness. A woman stopped to let a car pass by before running the distance to his driveway.

“Sir,” she called, and he recognized Kala Stonechild. “I was going to wait ten more minutes and then leave. Good timing!”

He felt an unexpected lightness at the sight of her. “Kala,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

She made it to where he stood and stopped in front of him. Her black hair was loose on her shoulders, making her look young and softening the angles of her face. “Merry Christmas, Sir. I want to run something by you about the murder if you’ve got a moment. I think it’s important.”

“Only if you come in for a drink and some supper. That’s the deal.”

She bowed her head. “Thank you, Sir.”

“The other part of the deal is you call me Jacques, or Rouleau if you prefer. No more ‘Sir.’”

He unlocked the side door and they stepped into the kitchen. He flicked on the light and was relieved to remember that he’d done up the dishes and taken out the garbage before leaving for Kingston. He took her coat and invited her to look around while he started cooking. “Maybe pick out some music. The record player is in the living room.”

“You still play records?” she asked.

“I like the sound quality. I guess I’m a dinosaur.”

“Not nearly as extinct though.”

He could hear her walking around in the other room as he turned on the oven and started preparing the prime rib, rubbing a mixture of spices on the outside and spreading onions, potato wedges, and garlic in the pan. He was sliding the pan into the oven when Willie Nelson’s voice poured through the speakers above the cupboards.

A few seconds later, Kala walked into the kitchen, a wide smile on her face. “Sorry I took so long. You must have five hundred albums. What a treasure trove! I think you have every Rolling Stone and Beatles album every made.”

“I have five hundred and sixty-four albums to be exact, and those albums you mentioned are all first release.” He gave the corkscrew and final push and the cork popped free. He held the bottle toward her. “Glass of wine?”

“I don’t drink alcohol but please go ahead. Do you play any instruments?”

“Guitar. I used to be lead singer in a local band, but that is absolutely not to be repeated.” He smiled. “The lads at the station would have a field day. How about some soda and orange juice?”

“Perfect. Thanks. So what was the name of your band?”

“You probably will wonder what we were thinking.”

“Try me.”

“The Gars.”

“The Gars?”

“Short for Garçons. Two of us were French and we liked the fact that gars rhymed with cars, a band we modelled ourselves after.” He finished mixing her drink and handed it to her. “Cheers.”

“Did you sing as well?”

“I was lead singer more by default than anything, but that was all a very long time ago. Let’s sit in the living room and talk about the case. I’ll just pour myself a glass of wine and we’re set.”

They took seats across from each other, Kala on the couch and he in his favourite chair next to the fireplace. He set a match to the logs in the fireplace it before sitting down. The wood was soon crackling and the smell of wood smoke filled the room.

Kala lifted her eyes from the fire to his. “I wasn’t looking forward to Christmas at all this year, but it’s turned into a nice day after all. This is a comfortable room. It suits you.”

“Thank you. I know the whole house needs a facelift, but maybe you’re right. This old place does suit me.” He smiled. “It’s not a great time of year to move jobs. Do you know anybody in the city?”

“I’m tracking down an old friend.”

“Well, it’s nice to have you spend Christmas dinner with me. I had lunch with my father but he’s a man of habit and can’t be convinced to leave his home overnight.”

“And your mother?”

“Ah, it’s a long tale of love and sadness. Would you like to hear?”

“Only if you’d like to share it.”

He didn’t know if it was his recent visit with his father or the Christmas spirit, or Frances’s heartbreaking news, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like talking. Kala was an intent listener and her eyes offered encouragement as he began his tale. He took a drink of wine and settled back against the cushions.

“My mother, whose last name I share, grew up in a little town on the Gaspé Peninsula. She spoke only French and was the apple of her parents’ eyes, being the first born and a having gentle spirit. They had dreams of her becoming a nun, that is, until fate sent my father there for the summer to do some research. At the time, he was studying for his doctorate and specialized in Canadian history. Long story short, he met my mother walking on the bluffs near the sea and they fell in love. She was only sixteen.

“Her family didn’t approve?”

“They didn’t know. Marguerite, my mother, kept their relationship a secret. It was only after he returned to McGill in the fall that it became a secret she couldn’t keep. She found out she was pregnant after he was gone. Her mother was devastated and her father … well, let’s say that it was just as well my father had returned to school.”

“Your mother kept you?”

“She did, against the wishes of her family. In those days, it was a sin to have a child out of wedlock. The Catholic Church was the heart of the village and she’d broken the social order. My mother was very young, but she had a courageous heart.”

“And your father?”

“He didn’t forget my mother. The following summer he made the trip from Montreal to see her again. When he found out he had a son, he insisted on meeting her family. He wanted to marry her, but by then, she was just seventeen and her mother begged her to wait. My mother agreed because my father was on his way to France to carry out more research, and she was reluctant to leave her family and the village she’d known all her life. The plan was for him to return in the spring when they would wed.”

“That must have been difficult. So much in love and so far apart.”

“They wrote each other weekly and a few times he called. Over time, her mother softened to the idea of him and wedding plans began after Christmas. Tragically, my mother was struck by a car while out walking near dusk. It was a tourist passing through and unfamiliar with the roads. She died a few hours later.”

“That is so sad.”

“The entire village went into mourning. My father flew home and they waited for him before burying her. I was ten months old. He made an arrangement with my grandparents to let me stay with them while he finished school. He took me to Kingston when I was five and he was settled in the history department at Queen’s University.”

“And he’s never left.”

“No, he hasn’t. He dedicated himself to raising me and to a life as an academic.”

“Did he ever marry?”

“No. He never did. Now, what about you? Are you in the mood to tell your history?”

“My story isn’t nearly as romantic.”

“That’s okay.”

She stared into the fire. “Both of my parents spent time in residential schools from age six to fourteen. If you know anything about that period, the federal government in its great wisdom travelled far and wide to scoop up Aboriginal children as young as six and placed them in boarding schools far from their homes. Many of the children died of tuberculosis in the schools or were abused in one fashion or another. They could go years without seeing their parents or families. The idea was to take the Indian out of the child, and the nuns and priests took their jobs seriously. The children weren’t allowed to speak their native language or practise their culture. When my parents returned home, it wasn’t long before both were alcoholics with no parenting skills to speak of. I was taken from them when I was three because of neglect. From there, I spent time in a succession of foster homes until I graduated from high school. I got a scholarship and went into policing.” She looked at him and shrugged. “End of story.”

“Do you know what happened to your parents?” he asked.

“Both died. I went in search of them one summer, and that’s how I found out. I was fifteen years old.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” Her black eyes focused on his. Whatever she’d been thinking about had been put away, like shutters sliding into place. “Perhaps we can talk about the case now, before supper.”

He nodded. “Tell me what you’ve got,” he said.

She leaned forward. “A neighbour saw Tom Underwood in his driveway around six thirty the morning he went missing. I dropped in on Susan Halliday and met her military husband, Clinton. Susan told me the reason Hunter and his father hadn’t been on speaking terms for so many years, and it’s a bit mind-blowing. It seems Hunter brought his fiancée Laurel home to meet the family, and his father decided to have her instead.”

“You mean, Hunter’s stepmother was supposed to marry him?”

“Exactly. If that’s not a reason to murder, I don’t know what is.” Her voice rose slightly, the only way he knew she believed this was the key. She’d been so sure she had something, she hadn’t waited until the next day to tell him. He tried to fit it in with what he knew. It didn’t add up. Not yet anyway.

“That happened several years ago. Why would Hunter resort to violence now?”

“He and his father had just started speaking. It was a change in pattern.”

“Agreed, but one might say a positive change. I know this family is neck deep in dysfunction, but we also have to consider Underwood’s business dealings. Malik tells me there may have been some iffy transactions. He and Grayson are tracking down the man Underwood was making a deal with this week.”

Her eyes lost some of their brilliance. “Are you saying his murder was a business deal gone bad?”

“All paths are still open. You’ve got a good lead here and I think you need to keep digging around his family. I’ll have Malik and Grayson work the business angle. I think we’re going to find it was somebody he knew and maybe trusted. Perhaps it was somebody who gains from his death financially.”

“Laurel?”

“She’s one to consider. Belliveau, his business partner, is another.”

Rouleau’s cellphone rang in his pocket. He took it out and held it to his ear. “Rouleau,” he said. He listened and asked a few questions as Kala turned away from him to stare into the fire.

“Some good news,” he said, putting the phone on the table. “That was Whelan. His son is out of intensive care and responding well to the antibiotics.”

“Thank God,” said Kala.

“Yeah, thank God. The other good news is that he checked his voicemail and found two messages he’d missed from Laurel Underwood from a few days ago. She was leaving town with her daughter to get away from the empty house and we were to call her if we found out anything. She phoned in to the switchboard and they sent her calls right to Whelan’s voicemail.”

“What were the odds of that happening?” asked Kala.

“At this time of year? Pretty good. Staff takes a lot of holidays and there isn’t a lot of consistency on the front desk.”

“Did she say when she’d be back in town?”

“Christmas afternoon, if we didn’t contact her beforehand. She left a phone number in Quebec. Are you up for a visit before dinner? We have another hour and a bit before the roast is cooked.”

Kala was already on her feet. “I’ll bet she doesn’t know that he’s dead yet.”

“This will be a horrible day to find out,” said Rouleau.