Читать книгу The Defilers - Deborah Gyapong - Страница 9

Chapter 7: The Blame

When I awoke the next morning the clock radio read 5:55 a.m. I fumbled with the dial to find the local news. While I listened to a female announcer give a brief report about Rex’s murder investigation my body lay rigid. I unclenched my fists.

“The RCMP are tight-lipped today about whether a man found shot dead in the woods near South Dare is Sterling County’s first murder victim of the year. Reginald ‘Rex’ Dare was found early yesterday morning about a kilometre from his home. Police refuse to say whether Dare was murdered or died as a result of a hunting accident. Three years ago Reginald Dare faced trial on charges related to satanic ritual abuse. A judge threw the case out of court before a jury could render a verdict.”

I kicked off the covers and put on some black spandex shorts, a black sports bra, and a bright green T-shirt. Downstairs I eyed the files sitting on the daybed while I poured myself a glass of water and downed a fistful of vitamins. I gulped one glass down and refilled it, then went into the living room to stretch and do my exercise routine. Today was to be spent with Catherine and Grace. I was off work and would set it aside.

Back in British Columbia police work consumed me and I had no time for a personal life. That led to trouble sleeping, nervous stomach cramps, and other signs of burnout. And now, despite all my resolutions to maintain balance, similar signs of strain were back. But the stress in Surrey had been much worse, especially after one of my male colleagues started circulating a picture of me taken while working undercover as a prostitute. The snickers and jokes turned out to be nothing compared to the cold hostility and lack of co-operation when I told the jerk I wouldn’t tolerate his behaviour. Maybe he feared a harassment complaint from me, but I didn’t need a human rights tribunal to fight my battles.

Shortly after that the staff sergeant hauled me into his office for a performance review, saying I wasn’t a team player. A coincidence? Maybe, but doubtful. I kept my mouth shut and soon asked for the posting to Nova Scotia, hoping to leave my stalled career, sleepless nights, and rotten attitudes of my colleagues behind me.

While doing lunges I mentally rehearsed the day I would spend with Catherine and Grace. I visualized our time together, hoping positive thinking could allay the gnawing feeling in my gut about work, and the way my thoughts drifted to the crime scene and Rex’s frozen corpse. I yearned to be with the team investigating today, but I was ordered to take the day off. I would take it off and enjoy myself.

After stretching and some rope skipping I showered and dressed in jeans and an aqua sweatshirt. I blow-dried my hair and twisted it into a single braid. I needed a trim. Veronica was always nagging me to get my hair cut and highlighted. Her letter, still unopened, sat on the kitchen table. Just before leaving for Catherine’s I ripped it open.

Dear Linda,

Welcome back to Nova Scotia. I hope you’re settled in by now. I’m so glad you’re close by and I’d love to have you come and visit. You’re welcome anytime. What are your plans for Christmas? Please come and celebrate with me. I think your father would have liked it if we could be together.

Love, Veronica.

I tore up the letter, threw it into the plastic wastebasket under the sink, and slammed the cabinet door. How dare she write about Dad to me! Saddened by the memories I grabbed a paper towel and wiped my eyes. For crying out loud, Linda! Stop that! I glanced at the Rex Dare files sitting in the kitchen, and the image of his corpse competed with a memory of Dad packing the Buick for his move to Nova Scotia with Veronica.

I forced myself to focus on my present surroundings. In the mud room I laced up my boots, then felt along the upper shelf for some gloves. My fingers touched a stack of framed photos I intended to hang. I took the top one down.

There we were – Dad, Veronica, and me at my graduation from the RCMP Academy, Depot Division, in Regina, Saskatchewan. I wore my red tunic and my hair pinned up under my Stetson. Dad, his hair trimmed close like a Marine, wore a beige raw silk sports jacket that looked great on him, but I didn’t like because Veronica had chosen it. I stood in the middle, towering eight inches over her, but only an inch shorter than Dad’s five foot nine.

His square face beamed in the photo. He seemed proud of me that day, but I didn’t feel much of anything. After Depot I took a posting with the gigantic Surrey detachment in the urban sprawl between Vancouver and Seattle, putting a continent between me and my memories. I hadn’t seen much of Dad and Veronica over the next ten years. If I hadn’t seen much of Dad while he was alive, there was no reason to start seeing Veronica now.

Outside, the brisk wind made it feel cold, even though the sun was melting the snow, leaving bare patches of brownish-yellow grass. I sprinted across the semi-frozen meadow to Catherine’s and slipped into the toasty warmth of her kitchen. The smell of brewed coffee and fresh baking filled the air. Grace, dressed in bibbed ski pants, sat at the table nibbling on a muffin. Her face lit up when she saw me.

“Where’s your mom?”

“Upstairs. She said help yourself.”

I poured myself a mug of coffee and took a muffin from the tin on the edge of the wood stove. Then I tried to concentrate on the little girl at the table with me, the aroma of the coffee, the texture of the cranberry and walnut muffin, resisting thoughts of work or Veronica.

Catherine came down wearing bright orangey-red lipstick and smudged dark-green eyeliner around her eyes. She wore a dressy camel-coloured parka with a fur-trimmed hood. She looked especially pretty, her naturally wavy hair in a chin-length bob swept back from her oval face. She had a long neck and delicate features, but she thought she was plump and hated her figure. I imagined men found her voluptuous. She wore a long black skirt and reddish-brown leather boots.

Catherine’s blue Toyota station wagon was nearly out of gas, so we piled into my Jeep and headed for the craft fair in the next county, the last outdoor fair of the season. Catherine and Grace kept up a steady conversation during the half-hour drive, helping me stay focused. We drove into Annapolis Royal, a tourist destination boasting an old fort, museum, and streets lined with historical buildings, many brightly painted in pastel shades of blue, yellow and beige.

The craft market occupied a square across the street from a gravel beach where a green and white scallop dragger rested on a wooden haul-up. The sun shone through a thin layer of high white cloud. Wind whipped the grey water of the bay into whitecaps and buffeted the outdoor tables. Some men unloaded baled Christmas trees from a truck.

Not many craftspeople were braving the winds and cold temperatures. A man stood next to stacks of kindling and firewood in stove lengths. A woman in a big padded coat displayed winter squash partially wrapped in newspaper for insulation. A man next to her sold wooden bird feeders and bags of seed. Catherine seemed to know almost everyone and she flitted from conversation to conversation.

Grace held my hand as we walked among the tables. “See the squash, Auntie Linda? I don’t like squash that much.” She wore a woollen hat with her parka hood over it. The wind had turned her cheeks bright pink and brought tears to her eyes. She wiped her nose with the tissue I gave her. She leaned over to smell a balsam fir.

“Smells like Christmas.” Grace beamed up at me. “You know, Santa Claus isn’t real but some little kids think he is.”

I leaned over and inhaled the wonderful scent.

“I want a Britney Spears doll for Christmas but Mommy doesn’t like them,” Grace said.

While Grace prattled on I enjoyed experiencing life through her senses, seeing everything as fresh and new. Someone had set up a small petting zoo and offered pony rides. She rode around the little circle on the pony, looking so solemn and proud of herself while Catherine took photos. Time slipped away. Soon it was almost noon.

A man in a red woollen work shirt ladled steaming cider into paper cups. Grace and I each took a sample. As I blew on the cider to cool it Catherine gestured to me, indicating the restaurant across the street. Then she crossed over and disappeared inside. As soon as we finished our cider Grace and I followed.

Bells jingled as I pushed open the door. The sound of trumpets playing Hark the Herald Angels Sing competed with the din of conversation and clattering dishware in the darkened room. People who had been outside checking out the wares had ducked inside to escape the wind. A bright orange fire crackled in a huge stone fireplace along the far wall, scenting the air with woodsmoke.

Catherine waved at us from a table by the fireplace where she sat with two men. I didn’t want to sit with other people. I gestured toward an empty table, but Catherine smiled and beckoned me over. The burly bald man with her wore a charcoal business suit and sported a well-trimmed grey beard. The smaller man was about twenty years younger. Darkly tanned, he had a soft sensual mouth, shining dark eyes, and a perfectly chiselled bone structure. Catherine and the older man leaned their heads close together as they talked, while the younger man watched Grace and me walk over. Catherine wants us to eat with these guys? This isn’t what we planned. I tried to hide my dismay.

I helped Grace remove her parka and hung it over her chair. As I lifted off her hat static made some stray hairs rise. She extended her hands toward the fire’s warmth and grinned at me. “Auntie Linda, do you like the fire?”

Nodding, I patted her shoulder and then pulled her chair out for her. This was a great table near the fire, so how could I insist on that empty table by the door?

“Linda, this is my good friend George Hall,” Catherine said.

Both men leapt to their feet.

“And this is Rafe. I’m sorry, I don’t remember your last name.”

“Lupien.” He extended his tanned hand. His smile, shining eyes, and the charge of energy from his warm handshake nearly bowled me over.

Catherine introduced me as her next-door neighbour.

“Constable Linda Donner,” said George Hall as he held my chair for me to sit down.

“That’s right.”

We all sat and George handed me a menu.

Rafe offered his hand across the table to Grace who hesitated before taking it. He started going over the menu with her. She kept looking to me for cues. Catherine, though, was quite pleased Rafe was showering attention on her daughter. She wanted to switch chairs so she could share her lunch with Grace. I ended up sitting across from George who watched me with merriment dancing in his grey eyes. In his dressy suit he looked out of place in rural Nova Scotia.

“So, you’re the latest addition to the Sterling detachment.” His teeth appeared to be expensively veneered. They glistened almost blue-white when he smiled.

“That’s right.”

“Among my civic duties I chair the Police Services Committee for Sterling County.”

“So, you’re my boss’ boss.” I glanced at him and smiled. That wasn’t technically true, but I knew Karen was doing her best to keep a cordial relationship with county and town officials. Cutbacks in Ottawa forced the RCMP to rely on contract policing in places like Sterling to compensate for shortfalls in federal funding.

George laughed and raised his water glass to me in a mock toast. Then to Catherine he said, “To community policing and Staff Sergeant Karen Ramsay!”

“George has been one of my most valuable contacts,” Catherine gushed, clasping my forearm.

George eyed me. “You’re the one who found Rex Dare’s body yesterday.”

I pretended to pore over the menu. “Sorry, can’t talk about that.” It creeped me out that he seemed to know so much about me. Catherine and I had talked about Rex’s death briefly that morning. I was so wound up I couldn’t remember if I had told her I’d found his body. That wasn’t like me.

To change the subject I turned to Rafe. “You’re obviously not from here.”

“No, Florida. I’m talking with George about a job.”

“What job?” Catherine asked.

“Rafe produces videos and does Web design,” George said. “He’s even won awards for some of his travel documentaries. I need some promotional stuff done for some of my businesses here in Nova Scotia and New Brunswick.”

“Florida’s pretty far away,” I said.

“Not with the Internet,” George said.

“Is that how you found out about each other?” Catherine asked.

George laughed. “No. We’re old friends. We met ten years ago in Thailand. He and I share an interest in exotic travel.”

“Thailand?” Do they smuggle drugs? I handed the menu to the waiter who stood by the table, ready to take our order.

“It’s a beautiful country,” George said. “You go away from the big cities and Thai society is pretty much like it’s been for centuries. None of the decay you find in places like Bangkok. Lovely people. Fascinating culture.”

“I love Thai food,” Catherine said. “George is a great cook. Thai, Italian, Indian, you name it.”

We ordered lunch. Catherine buttered a piece of warm bread for Grace who cradled her chin in her hands and looked as glum as I felt.

“George said you won an award?” Catherine said to Rafe. He smiled at her and pushed a large brown envelope toward her.

“I won an award for a documentary on the Aztecs in Mexico. There are some clippings if you want to take a look.”

Catherine slid a copy of a magazine article out of the envelope and scanned it. “Wow, I’m impressed.”

“I have done travel documentaries for some of the cable shows down in the States, but this was for PBS. I specialize in religious monuments off the beaten track. It’s a hobby of mine.”

“Oh, you’re interested in spiritual things? Like Stonehenge?”

“That’s right.” Rafe smiled. “I did a piece there too.”

“I’m interested in spirituality,” Catherine said. “At university we studied the parallel themes in mythology. I visited the Mayan ruins near Cancún last winter. I could feel the spiritual energy. It was awesome.”

Rafe had shifted his interest from Grace to Catherine. He focused on her, his dark eyes sparkling, white teeth gleaming. Her face flushed – she smiled back at him. Catherine sounded like a flake when she talked about spiritual things, and her response to Rafe’s magnetism embarrassed me. Her cheeks were growing rosier by the minute. By the time the waitress brought our food my appetite was gone. This was not the day I had mentally rehearsed. I couldn’t care less about spiritual things, so that left me listening to George who droned on and on about Sterling County politics.

“Every year we have to fight to keep the contract with the RCMP,” George said.

I picked at a salad of baby greens. “Is that right?” The sound system was playing Carol of the Bells.

“We have some dinosaurs on the town and county councils who want to set up a regional police force. They think it’ll be cheaper and they’ll get better police coverage.”

“Hmm.” I forced some linguini and scallops into my mouth. I should have stayed home and finished reading the Rex Dare files.

“Either you keep the costs of the RCMP contracts down or municipal police forces start looking really attractive, but I think the RCMP are more professional and worth any extra cost,” George continued.

I nodded politely. Catherine and Rafe were engaged in a conversation so intense George, Grace, and I might as well have not been at the table. That made me bristle with annoyance. The lunch hour crowd thinned out leaving the restaurant almost empty.

“I want to go home!” Grace rested her chin on her hands, then pushed away her half-eaten ravioli, nearly toppling her glass of water. She swung her legs back and forth under the chair.

“Don’t whine, honey.” Catherine smiled apologetically at Rafe and George.

I offered to take Grace with me to the bathroom. I felt sorry for both of us. When we returned to the table I mentioned to Catherine I had to get back home. While I helped Grace get her coat on, Catherine said goodbye to her friends – reluctantly.

As soon as we were on the road back to Cornwallis Cove, I asked Catherine if she’d told George about my finding Rex’s body. My cranky tone probably gave away my suspicions that she had betrayed my confidence.

“It’s not exactly a trade secret,” Catherine huffed. “I have sources in the detachment other than you, you know. You’re my friend, not a source, okay?”

The sun, though low in the sky, sent shafts of golden light through the trees along the highway. I glanced in my rear-view mirror at Grace. She had fallen asleep using my parka as a pillow.

“Isn’t Rafe gorgeous?” Catherine mused.

“A little short for my taste.” Is this woman man crazy? First it was Will she was raving about. Now she’s gaga over this guy after one meeting. Give me a break.

“We have so much in common. And he was so sweet to Grace. Oh, Linda, that smile. I could have slid under the table every time he flashed those beautiful teeth at me.”

Doesn’t she know they’re probably caps?

Catherine invited me for supper and a movie later. I declined. Day off or not, the Rex Dare files were waiting for me.

When I pulled into Catherine’s laneway Grace was still asleep, so I offered to carry her inside. The wind had died down and a huge red sun hovered above the horizon. Our houses were among six old farms built on narrow strips of cultivated land on the hillsides over Cornwallis Cove. Below the road the tree-covered hill fell steeply to the water. I paused to take in the beauty of my neighbourhood. Am I trying to punish Catherine by refusing to eat with her? I pushed the thought aside.

Through the bare maple trees the cove was in shadow, its water dark but sparkling with reflected light. The tide was high. At low tide the wide expanse of water would turn into vast tracts of mudflats. The big bare maples along the road cast their shadows on the muted pastel colours of the homes and the brown fields dotted with patches of wet snow. The reflected sun glared in the second-storey window of the house just beyond Catherine’s. I squinted in the blazing light.

As soon as I scooped up Grace from the back seat she woke up and flung her arms around my neck. Her cheek felt warm against my chin.

Inside Catherine’s chilly kitchen I set Grace on her feet so we could remove our boots. Catherine moved to the stove and sighed as she poked the cold ashes. She began crumpling newspaper into balls and stuffing them into the firebox. I saw she had no kindling and her woodbox was empty, so I hauled my boots back on and brought an armload of wood in. I made a second trip and found some pieces of bark and smaller dry pieces of wood that would help get the fire going. I lay the kindling on top of Catherine’s crumpled newspapers and watched as she lit the papers and the flames licked them. A papery ash floated up. Catherine seemed so disorganized and unable to take care of herself.

But was she?