Читать книгу Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 10

At ten the next rainy morning, Lindsey Benish appeared at the station with her mother in tow. The girl wore hip-hugger jeans exposing a flat belly with a red jewel in the navel. Her skin was clear and luminous, but her eyes were heavy with mascara and glittery eyeshadow. The liner-defined lipstick was charcoal. She wore blue plastic clogs, an island touch. Ann had provided them with coffee and a soda, and they perched like two hawks, their noses a genetic road map. Mrs. B had seventy pounds on her daughter and wore a bright, floral-print dress. Holly was sure she’d seen her at the Village Market, loaded up like a pack mule with chips, popcorn, soda and a bale of frozen chimichangas.

“You’re early. Thanks for coming,” Holly said, offering a stand for their umbrellas, ushering them into her office and hustling another chair from the lunchroom. She felt like a stage manager operating under an absent but demanding director. Whitehouse was overdue, perhaps due to the rain. He’d burned her ears over the phone when he’d called her back to discuss the new meth development. Obviously he preferred the case dead and buried, flawed or not.

“Are you going to interview my daughter?” Mrs. B asked. Lindsey took a lurid graphic novel from her backpack and began flipping pages as she popped dark brown gum. The air filled with chocolate. Her eyes fat slits, Mrs. B gave her daughter an elbow.

Holly managed an official smile. Had the crystal meth issue not arisen, she might have handled the girl alone. Whitehouse had been furious about having to reschedule his appointments. “Inspector Whitehouse should be here any minute. He’s coming from the city.” That in itself sounded impressive.

While she was checking a list of questions, she heard a car roar up and a door slam. A few mutters from the main office, and Whitehouse came into the room. He wore a drenched beige raincoat spattered with mud. Puddles seeped from his shoes, and his pants were soaked to his knees. When he took off his hat, droplets fell from his dishevelled hair to his nose and down his jutting chin. “Flooding at Gillespie. I had to push a stalled cab. How does anybody commute from this no-man’s land?”

“We all just got here anyway,” Holly said. Maybe Chipper had some spare pants in his locker. Then again...she rather enjoyed Whitehouse’s predicament.

With a shake of his head, he left, presumably for the bathroom. Five minutes later, he took his seat at the head of the interview table. Clearly he was unused to looking the least bit unkempt.

Holly composed herself and practiced a neutral look. Whitehouse was her leader, like it or not, and she needed to fall in behind him. There were no I’s in TEAM, a platitude flourishing for good reason. So far she felt merely TAME, but she needed to toe the same line everyone did. Even her father had jumped through many hoops getting tenure. Suck it back or set up your own private-eye business like Boone had.

Introductions made, Whitehouse sifted a few papers and levelled his icy grey eyes at Lindsey. She presumed he’d read the statements, including Chipper’s short interview. He wasted no time. “Where were you the night that Angie went missing?”

Lindsey turned another comic page. Whitehouse repeated himself. “Lindsey. Are you hard of hearing, girl?”

Her swollen feet crossed in cruel sandals, Mrs. B shifted in her chair, waves of a cloying vanilla perfume wafting across the room. She nudged her daughter. “Put that down.”

“Where was I?” She sipped from the soda and wrinkled her nose at the bubbles.

”The whole night. Don’t play coy. You’re wasting our time.”

Whitehouse raised his voice another notch. Holly could read the anger in his eyes as a gauge neared the red zone.

“I don’t see why I have to talk to anyone again. Been there, done that.”

“We’re not designing T-shirts here. Something new has come up. You’ll find out on a need-to-know basis.”

Holly approved the joke but not the jargon. This vacuous girl seemed a perfect match for Jeff. Babe and the Ox.

His face purpling and his breathing speeding up, Whitehouse added an ominous touch to his timbre, nailing each word. “So get to the point. A girl is dead. We’re no longer sure it was an accident.”

Lindsey sat up straight, the cogs of her brain finally turning. “So like you think she was...murdered? Get out.”

A black storm cloud crossed his features. Whitehouse remained rigid, but Mrs. B flapped a placating hand and assumed an apologetic tone. “She says that all the time. It’s just silly slang. No offense. Sometimes she says ‘shut up’, if you can imagine. Same thing. Kids. Go figure.”

Whitehouse gave the mother a withering stare. She folded her chubby arms defensively and watched her daughter. Was Whitehouse married? He wore no ring, and he did not seem able to handle women except to bully them.

Cornered, Lindsey explained that she had sat around the campfire with the gang. Then she’d gone to bed around eleven. Jeff came to her tent...at this point she had the wisdom to look a bit flustered in front of her mother...and spent the night.

Her mother tried to cross a leg and failed, so she sat up, mustering her dignity. “Lindsey’s old enough to know the facts of life. She’s on the pill and always insists on con...oh I hate that word...I mean protection. What can a mother do these days? Mine always said, ‘Forewarned is forearmed’.”

“Did Jeff tell you about us?” Lindsey’s beady eyes narrowed, and she stuck out her pointed chin.

“You’re a bright girl. What do you think?”

“Well, he was there. I’m not saying he was himself, though.” She tugged on an earlobe. A tell, Holly thought. But what was the message?

“Explain that,” Whitehouse asked.

She gave an annoying, tittering kind of laugh. “He was wasted. He passed out before...anything happened.”

Her mother placed one hand on her ample chest and took a deep breath. “Lindsey, you told me he was a nice young man. When he came to dinner, he even volunteered to wash—”

“Mother, please. They don’t care about that.” Lindsey swung her flat face back to Whitehouse. “Jeff didn’t go anywhere. Had a super headache the next morning, too.”

Her mother assumed a hurt tone. “Were you drinking, too, Lindsey? You promised after the last—”

Lindsey lifted one finger. Like its fellows, it was long and pointed, a gel job in fluorescent green. Holly had had her nails done once. The next day, three broke off when she had to change a tire in the bush. “One beer. I swear. It’s no big deal. How many margaritas do you pack away before Dad gets home?”

The mother swallowed with difficulty and looked out the streaky window, twisting a large diamond wedding ring ensemble. Within the short sleeves of her dress, bat-winged arms threatened to flap free.

The dynamics weren’t working. Holly caught Whitehouse’s attention, seeking an opportunity to ask a question. He gave a curt nod. “What did you think of Angie? We need all the information that we can get from her friends,” she said.

“Huh. I wasn’t her friend. Used to be before she got snobby. Big friggin’ swim star and all.”

Mrs. B frowned. “Lindsey, watch your language.”

“Were the other girls jealous of her success?” Holly asked.

“No way. Unless they were jocks. Who cares about that stupid stuff? No girl wants to look like a weightlifter.”

“Was she dating anyone?”

“Jeff. Last year. He got sick of her, too. Stuck-up bitch.

Somebody should have...” She blinked at their expressions and looked at her hands. “I didn’t mean nothing. He just stopped dating her.”

“Whose idea was that?”

“His, for sure. He tells me everything. We’re close.”

“Was Angie close with anyone else?”

A mischievous smile creased her face as if she had found a secret jewel. She batted her furry lashes. “There were rumours.”

“Rumours?” Whitehouse came to attention.

She lowered her voice and looked around. “Ms Bass. The English teacher.”

“Go on.”

Lindsey crossed her legs theatrically and gave her gum a workout. “The L word’s no big deal now. Ms Bass is okay. Angie never really said anything. But she was always in there after class with her English themes. Brown noser.”

“Your cooperation is appreciated. One last question.” Whitehouse shifted in his seat, tensing his muscles like a cougar preparing to spring. “Where would Angie get crystal meth?”

The girl’s hand moved to her face, then she brushed back her long brown hair in a classic avoidance technique. Whitehouse twitched. “We don’t mess with that sh—” she said.

“Lindsey, really. Your father will hear about this.” Mrs. B settled into a pout.

Whitehouse stood, cracking his knuckles. He seemed to look down on them like a colossus. “Come on, Lindsey. Blade. Black beauty. Crypto. Pink. Tick tick. Do I have to run down the alphabet?”

Holly stifled a grin as she remembered those bizarre names from a Victoria meth website. Whitehouse had been fishing in the same pond.

Lindsey’s eyes glittered, but the idea seemed more humorous than threatening. She began giggling, putting her hand over her bee-stung mouth. “Excuse me? Is that New York language from TV? Shard’s more common out here. Maybe jib.” She dropped her eyes. “I mean the kids that hang out in Victoria down around Cormorant and Blanshard call it that. Older people call it meth, same as the other stuff.”

Whitehouse tapped a pencil and broke the point, startling Mrs. B. Picking up a small cube sharpener, he began grinding, testing the point until he was satisfied. “How do you know so much about the terminology?”

Lindsey folded her arms. “TV, movies. Plus we learned about it in Contemporary Problems class.”

“So as far as you’re concerned, there’s no meth out here in sweet, innocent Sooke.” Whitehouse tried a smirk. It didn’t look good on him.

Lindsey threw back her skinny shoulders, revealing two fading hickeys. A present from Jeff? “I...can’t say for every kid in town. I don’t hang with anyone from Edward Milne. The Port Renfrew gang go there. Everyone knows they’re a rough bunch. Some of them have been in jail.” She spoke with a wide-eyed amazement that bordered on admiration. Bad boys were always an attraction. Even good girls paid the price.

When the Benishes had left, Whitehouse snapped shut his file and made a sour face. “We have two problems to track down. If anyone saw Angie on that bike that night, and where she got the meth.”

Something had twigged in Holly’s memory. “What about the Port Renfrew boys camping in the park?”

He shot her a caustic look. “I thought you took care of that. What did they say?”

Her stomach flip-flopped. “Well, I haven’t—”

“Jesus. Get on it, then. You’re a government worker, not some local yokel on island time.” He stood and wiped at his damp pants, the knife crease a memory. “I’m going to Angie’s house to check her room. Her father said he’d meet me there in an hour. And follow up on this English teacher, too, now that we have another confirmation. If you’d done your job right in the first place, I wouldn’t be doing it for you.”

“But at the time, we only—”

He stood and brushed at his wrinkled pants, scowling.

“Need I mention that you called me in?”

Holly seethed for at least ten minutes after Whitehouse left, then found Kim Bass’s number. Her home phone had no answering machine, so Holly made a note to call the school and find out her free period. In their interview at the beach, Bass had looked entirely normal except for dark circles under her eyes. Insomnia, she claimed. She had admitted taking an over-the-counter sleeping pill. Holly traced a few contemplative patterns on her note pad and wondered whether the teacher had been dealing. The morning’s troll of the online Globe and Mail had reported a principal in Detroit selling drugs, not to students at least, but distributing from the school itself. Unheard of in Canada, but for how long?

“I’m going to Rainbow Elementary with Sean Carter to start this year’s DARE instruction. Andrea should be here in five minutes to take over the desk,” Ann said. Larger posts had many civilian positions, but Andrea operated on an on-call basis. DARE stood for Drug Abuse Resistance Education, a ten-week program.

Ann’s face was pale, another line etched into the broad forehead as she leaned against the doorway out of necessity, not languor. Holly asked, “Are you feeling all right? Are you okay with the duty?” She regretted her quick words, though prompted by concern. Officers didn’t consult their staff as to whether they were equal to ordinary assignments. They assumed it. For insight, Holly had searched the Mayo Clinic website to learn about the symptoms of DDD. Standing for long periods was as painful for Ann as sitting. Walking was easiest, though fast movements weren’t advised. No wonder she couldn’t assume active duties.

“Of course. Why do you ask?” Ann’s tone was defensive, and her spine stiffened, though Holly saw her wince.

Flashing a smile that she hoped looked reassuring, Holly added a casual gesture. “No reason. That’s fine then. Tell me how it goes.”

Fossil Bay was too small to justify the many programs of a larger division, such as Restorative Justice, Drug and Alcohol Counselling, or Family Counselling, but friskier retirees liked to combine their daily exercise with bike-patrol duty. Those who could drive to French Beach or China Beach worked the Park Watch, writing down license plates for reference in case thefts occurred. Young Sean Carter kept an eye out for “suspicious” activity, including abandoned cars and trash dumping. Garbage collection was privatized in the area and cost about twelve dollars a month per household.

Ann lined up a pack of bright, kid-style brochures fresh from headquarters. “I like going to the school. At that age they’re still open to ideas.”

Holly remembered Ann’s boy and saw an opportunity to reach out. “I guess you learned that raising...your son.”

In a rare gesture, Ann searched her eyes, as if to ascertain Holly’s sincerity. Apparently she found positive signs, because she continued. “The greatest school on earth. But Nick was a handful for awhile.”

Holly’s pulse jumped a few kilometres. How far should she go towards establishing friendship? Keep her radar open and pull back at the least sign of discomfort, banana-slug style? “That’s hard to believe. He’s a teacher now, isn’t he? You must be proud.”

Ann nodded, apparently warming to the conversation. “He could have become a serious problem at one point. Got in with a bad crowd. I was posted to Wawa when he was fifteen. Home of the giant goose, and I speak in a social sense, too. Absolutely nothing to do if you had no money for a snowmobile, boat, or motorcycle. We couldn’t even afford cable. Our rabbit ears pulled in one patchy U.S. station.”

Holly perched on the side of the desk in a casual but interested pose. “So what happened?”

Ann did an impromptu stretch. “Booze. He was picked up drunk after a house party gone bad. Three thousand dollars in damages. Two young girls nearly died from drinking punch from contaminated windshield fluid jugs. When he sobered up, I told him I’d sign him over to Children’s Aid if he pulled a stunt like that again. I arranged with a colleague to take him to the agency for an interview. Showed him some legal papers already filled out.”

Holly’s mouth opened at the imagination and the desperation. “Shock therapy. Would you really have...”

A thin smile crossed Ann’s mouth, the first so far. “I was very tempted. You have to know when your resources aren’t equal to your responsibilities. But he smartened up. First he got a part-time job at a motel, then a scholarship to Acadia University.”

“So your bluff worked. I wouldn’t have had the nerve. And where is he now?”

“He teaches high school up around Prince George. Third year already. English. Can you believe? He wants to be a novelist but knows he needs a day job.”

“Sounds sensible.” Holly had enjoyed their surprisingly productive conversation. Then as the wall clock ticked, she said, “Guess I’d better get moving. I thought we’d seen the last of Whitehouse, but now—”

Ann gave a dismissive snort. “I knew Phil Whitehouse when we were on the force together in Richmond. He’s a bully, but he usually gets the job done, methods aside. Don’t think he’d remember me, though.”

Holly had seen a graduation picture of Ann in the files, fit and determined, a world away from those extra twenty pounds. “He’s over fifty, old enough to be a Superintendent or even Chief Super. What’s holding him back?”

Ann assumed an owlish look increased by the two small puffs of hair over each temple. “Hot temper. He socked another inspector shortly after making the grade. Seems the other guy blew a case he’d worked on. They’ve had their eyes on him ever since. He never backs down. Gets his teeth in like a bulldog on a bear. Problem is, if he’s wrong, then there’s no steering him off the road to hell.”

Gravel crunched outside from a braking bike. Ten-year-old Sean came in and walked up to Ann, admiration clear in his shining butterscotch eyes. His round cheeks were pinked with exertion, and he could barely catch his breath. “The school sent me over. Are you ready? Can I carry anything?” He gave her a winning smile. Like many south coast youngsters, he wore long, baggy shorts well into the fall. Holly had seen him walking in a downpour with no umbrella, just a hoodie over his head. Immune to rain, with the high metabolism of youth. His sweatshirt bore the picture of a familiar detrivore: Nanner Slugs Rule!

Ann handed him a bundle of flyers and bookmarks. Clearly she had bent the principles by making Sean an honourary member of the Bicycle Patrol even though the official age was nineteen. He couldn’t have a uniform, but she’d found him an old badge for his jacket. It read: RCMP GRC: Gendarmerie Royale Canadien POLICE, with the crown at the top adapted from St. Edward’s for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

“I hear you’ve been doing a great job as our...auxiliary member in training.” Holly shook Sean’s small hand, then gave him a salute.

He saluted back in smart style. “I’m going to be a horseman when I grow up. Are you called a horsewoman?”

“Close enough. Though we drive our ponies now.”

“Cool. I have my own horse. Daisy’s fifteen.”

Many households with acreage kept horses, the benefits of a rural zone. Holly felt his enthusiasm blow through the detachment like a healthy breeze. Working with the community made a strong alliance. “Then you might like to try out for the Musical Ride.”

Ann’s face relaxed. With the distraction of the boy, Holly was enjoying the interaction. Had the tension been broken?

With talents like Ann’s, Holly could imagine the humiliation of a desk job. Was there another way she could contribute? The small team could start to build on its individual gifts.

“Pardon us for one more second, Sean. Official business.” While he put a finger on each of the Wanted posters on the bulletin board as he read the information, Holly pulled Ann aside. “This crystal meth connection. See what you can learn from your students.”

Ann reached for her jacket. Her large hand had strong, blunt nails. “Oh, come on. They’re too young.”

“So I hope, but they have brothers and sisters. And younger kids are always underfoot. They may have heard something.”

“That’s true.” Ann opened the door for Sean. “And for the best picture of drug use out here, call Sooke. Ask for Corporal Hoicks.”

Andrea Bonhomme passed her and settled into the front desk with a large thermos. She was tall and willowy, a retired loans officer. Her strawberry blonde hair was gathered in one gorgeous braid down her back. Like them, she wore traditional shirt and pants with a volunteer patch. Without people like Andrea to fill in the gaps, life would be much more difficult for the detachment.

As Holly learned when she called, Corporal Hoicks had worked with the Drug Unit in Victoria and had his finger on the pulse of the Capital Region. The man’s voice was ragged with concern. “Christ, yes, it’s a regular epidemic. And we haven’t even seen the tip of the iceberg yet. Sorry for the lame joke. Meth is as bad as crack any day.” He explained that most people thought that the drug was limited to scabrous nether regions of urban areas. But even suburban housewives could become addicted. The unparalleled rush, hours of euphoria, the cheapness at ten dollars a “point,” or tenth of a gram, and the availability made a toxic and fatal combination.

“So it’s here after all. My case isn’t just an anomaly.” She felt an undercurrent shoot through her core, like turning over a mossy rock and finding a den of poisonous newts.

His laughter was grim and ironic. “It’s in Sooke, guaranteed. Didn’t take long to snake its way over from the street scene in Victoria. Their Specialized Youth Detox Centre has seen meth victims increase nearly six times in the last few years. Over seventy per cent of admissions are for meth. Average age, sixteen.”

“Average,” she said with a sigh. “That means...” Her voice trailed off as another thought entered her mind. “Could they be making it here? We’ve had our share of pot farms, private and otherwise.” B.C. bud, the legendary provincial product, made up a sizable percentage of the British Columbia economy. Taxing it might pay for health care.

“Brush up on your terminology. They ‘cook’ it. A whole new ball game for investigators. Get the guidelines report after that explosion in Vancouver? You gotta be careful as hell taking down a meth lab. Blew the house halfway to Whistler. Buddy of mine got second-degree burns busting down the door.”

“I was just posted here from way up north, Corporal. Pardon me for being naïve.”

He laughed in a friendly way. “We had a forum in Sooke last summer at the school. Showed that ‘Death by Jib’ video. Over fifty people came, parents mainly. Were their eyes ever opened. Should be a yearly experience, but if you overdo it, kids turn off.”

“I can understand that. Any other initiatives I should know about? Or is the ferry sailing away without me?”

“Our Staff Sergeant, Roger Plamondon, was instrumental in getting the Sooke Council to pass a bylaw to help authorities detect not only grow-ops but meth labs. Municipalities on the lower mainland anticipated us by a few years on that.”

“Good thing I asked. I assumed we’d be operating under the Controlled Drugs and Substances Act.” A sheen of sweat gathered on her brow. How close could she have come to looking like a fool?

“Getting search warrants under that relic could take weeks. The perps could be gone overnight.”

“Sounds like a great idea. Very proactive. I left here long before this drug scene. What’s your take on the area and its possibilities for ‘cooking’, as you put it?”

“I live in Saseenos, and I do volunteer work for the salmon hatcheries. It’s pretty wild country, despite the acreage in clear cuts. Five miles from town, all the better for an isolated lab. Abandoned farms, forests, ravines and twelve-foot brambles make a better deterrent than chainlink. All natural and very easy to camouflage from occasional helicopter flybys like the one that helped us find a cannabis patch on Farmer Road.”

“True. And out this way? Past Otter Point to Shirley and Jordan River?”

“In the interior, away from the coast road and tourist stuff, you might as well be in the northern bush. That’s the way they like it. Nothing can be seen from the road. Junkyard dogs. Keep a few chickens, goats or llamas to justify the fences. Maybe even call it an organic farm, the new rage. For a small place, high electrical use is a tip-off. But often they’re cheating and getting juice for free. That’s my next point. Fire’s one of the worst hazards with grow-ops. Bare wires going to the breaker box.”

His comprehensive e-mail attachment an hour later illustrated signs of a potential meth lab. She read it with interest, instantly suspicious. As opposed to the stereotypical, more staid citizens of Victoria, with their legendary Empress tea room and haggis on Robbie Burns’ day, people from the Western Communities were mavericks. Irate over creeping suburban bylaws regulating open burning, the average man would stand up in council and say, “It’s my damn land, and I’ll do what I want with it.” Her father had quipped that “Anything Goes” was the local anthem. Laid back, super casual in dress, a large proportion were hippies in their early sixties. They ate “slow food”, organic if possible, and knew their homeless by name. Many had artistic sidelines like woodworking, pottery, weaving and painting, which they advertised by the roadside along with jars of flowers for sale on the honour system. Holly didn’t see any of these gentle folk as possible lab rats, but that didn’t mean that someone evil couldn’t move in. The population doubled in the summer from tourists and had added a permanent two thousand in the last three years.

She thought of the trash angle of meth production. Recycling was free, and most property owners took advantage of the Blue Box program instead of trucking cans and bottles to the depot for nickels and dimes. Were the Capital Regional District trucks keeping an eye out for large quantities of discarded packaging, stained coffee filters, blister packs from cold remedy packages, lantern fuel containers, evidence of manufacturing? But what meth lab operator would locate on a well-travelled road? As for the other signs, strong odours similar to cat urine, ether and ammonia could be masked by burning wood as fall came on and fire warnings dropped to “green”. Windows blacked out with plastic or foil? If the place were unseen from the road, who would know?

Ann returned around three as school let out and the lone bus began ferrying home the children. “I hate to think any of those babies are doing drugs.” She sat down heavily, rubbing at her back. “Still, I guess twelve is the new twenty. Why do they want to grow up so fast? You’re only a kid once, then it’s game over. Pop stars are the exception to the rule.”

“I made copies of these for you and Chipper.” Holly handed Ann the meth info sheets. “Didn’t you say that Sean rides all over the area?”

“He has a paper route before school. Delivers by six, poor kid. But on weekends he loves to tour the back country on his mountain bike.”

“I know it sounds like we’re training young Gestapo members to spy on their parents, but tell him to watch for this kind of thing.” She pointed out a few paragraphs she had flagged with red ink.

Ann frowned, leafing through the warnings. “Isolated. Rural. Sounds like most of our district.”

Holly had another, more alarming thought. “Tell Sean to be very cool about it. Under no circumstances is he to approach these places. Strictly ride-by at normal speed. Do you think he can handle that, because if not—”

Ann pursed her lips. “I know Sean, and I trust him. If the younger generation were more like he is...”

“Say no more. Your opinion is good enough for me.”

An hour later, Paul Gable called. “I thought you’d like to know that the school is having a memorial service for Angie. It’s tomorrow at eleven. In the gym. Sorry about the short notice. I’m glad I caught you in the office.”

“And the funeral?” People usually wanted closure. That was another frustration in her mother’s disappearance. Her father had refused even a memorial service, another reason why Bonnie’s family had severed contact with him.

He cleared his throat. “Nate thinks it’s a waste of time and money, making businesses rich. He’s opting for cremation. But the kids have really gone all out for this service. A celebration of her life. Videos of Angie swimming at tournaments. Our choir will perform, too. Some of the kids will speak. And a few staff, too.”

“Thanks for thinking of me. Of course I’ll be there.”

She should have checked about the service herself, if only as a courtesy. Tomorrow would be a good time to catch Kim Bass and Coach Grove.

When she got home, she saw her father sitting at the kitchen table in the bay window staring out at the waves etching white on the waters. Butterflies frolicked around the late dahlias on the deck. The rich and savoury smell of her father’s premier dish filled the room. Shogun was lying on a plush cushion by the counter, looking like a baby rajah. His paws held a large rawhide chewie. Down the stairs to the solarium, the sound of Patty Page singing “Old Cape Cod” drifted up like a balm.

From his posture, she could see that he was looking at a picture on the wall. Then she remembered. September 30th. The anniversary of her mother’s disappearance. How could she have forgotten? Slowly she came forward, trying not to disturb him. The picture had been taken at Bonnie’s graduation from UBC. This was as formal as Holly’d ever seen her, black gown, hair rolled under just touching her collar. What did they call that style? A shag? Hadn’t her mother once joked that she had worn rollers to bed like a thorny crown? Soon after, Bonnie had adopted a no-nonsense short hair cut which required a quick brush kiss. “Ready to wear,” she had called it.

Bonnie Rice had gone on to law school at Osgoode Hall and met her father while he was doing his doctoral work at the University of Toronto. They’d married and followed his job to Victoria, not far from her family in Cowichan. Holly ran through her memories like a bittersweet movie. Bonnie had never been the pie-baking, stay-at-home kind of mother. They’d laughed over her effort to make rice pudding like her grandmother’s. But she’d never parked Holly in a day care. Despite the awkwardness, she had taken Holly to work whenever possible. Content in a small law firm arranging simple wills and real-estate transactions, she made little money. Then when her own mother died from tuberculosis just after Holly was born, the special needs of native women and children began to claim Bonnie’s attention. Remote areas had unique challenges due to the isolation. First a safe place, then healing, education and goals for the woman and her children. Finally a job to maintain independence. Bonnie had fought long and hard for funding, appeared before the legislature, spoken until hoarse on television and radio. “Pro bono” must have been tattooed on her heart.

Her gift was an ability to assess needs, then locate and funnel resources where they would do best, interfacing with literacy people, doctors without borders, prenatal care, shelters for the homeless and especially for battered women. She had worked for Victimlink, Cherie’s House and the Sexual Assault Centre, stirring many well-guarded pots on the way. There wasn’t a millionaire she hadn’t approached to sponsor a room, or buy furniture or business machines. As her profile grew, so did the number of people who wanted women kept in their place. Countless times, she’d fielded threatening phone calls from abusive husbands.

Often she was gone for weeks, but she never forgot her daughter’s birthday, April 1st, a family jest. A brown paper package would arrive in the mail, a beaded jacket, an eagle feather carefully wrapped, a polished agate. “I’m sorry not to be with you, darling,” she’d say on the phone, when she could find one. “A word of birthday advice. Modern wisdom has it that a woman should never learn to type. It will enslave you. But I’ve found it handy. And your father’s such a good cook that you should get his recipes before you go off to school. Those two talents should sustain you. If you need guidance or are in trouble, call on your spirit animal, the deer. And don’t tell me how helpless they are. An antler in the heart can kill a man.”

Holly could still recall how Bonnie had arranged for a huge divorce settlement for a woman whose arm had been broken and her vision compromised due to beatings in front of her young children. Her husband, owner of a large car dealership in Nanaimo, had avoided jail by agreeing to the terms.

“I should have shot him when I had the chance,” Delores Ash had said behind dark glasses as she’d sat in their living room. Ten-year-old Holly had just brought her a cup of coffee and made sure it was safe in her shaking hand. She wasn’t sure if the sad lady was joking, but her mother’s face seemed serious. “I know you would have gotten me off, Bonnie. Probably with a gold medal.”

And her mother added with a wry smile, “You have my number if you change your mind. But the bastard’s better off alive, where he can continue to pay for his crimes. Being dead is far too good for him.”

Holly shook off the memory. Sometimes she imagined her mother by her side, offering advice, but she knew it was her own conscience, however shaped by the lost woman. Her career had taken a one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn when she might have been out saving stands of Garry oak. Much though her mother loved nature, she put people first, and she would have applauded the change.

Her father’s shoulders gave a slight heave, and she heard him whisper, “Holly’s home. You’d like the woman she’s become. But where, oh where...” He wore a gift from his wife, a thick and warm Cowichan sweater in muted browns and greys.

Holly backed up and closed the French doors behind her as she passed through the TV room to the kitchen. Disturbing his thoughts without warning would be like interrupting a prayer. “Hey. What’s for dinner?”

Norman seemed to slip something into a folded newspaper. When it came to emotions, he was a very private man. Some thought he was oblivious to matters of the heart. She knew otherwise. Even though her parents had drifted apart, something golden and good had brought them together to usher her into the world.

“If I’ve made it right, your nose should tell you.” He grinned and tucked the paper under his arm.

She lifted her chin to the ceiling and moved it back and forth like a flavour-seeking sensor. “Mac and cheese. Am I ever glad I found you in the Fifties. Hardly low-cal, but simple and comforting.”

She saw Shogun roll over for a belly rub and obliged. His slanted eyes fluttered shut as if drugged. All men led with their groins, in honest fashion but often against their own interests. Perhaps even her father when he was young. “Did you get out with the dog?” she asked.

“Soon as you left for work. Took him up Randy’s Place to the old gravel pit. Short and sweet.” He looked at her as he stirred a pot of Harvard beets. “But he wouldn’t mind another go, so to speak. If you’re not too tired.”

She recognized the gentle blackmail. The old man was trying to get her to bond, not to forget her shepherds, but to move on, something he still couldn’t do with her mother. She gave him an arch glance to indicate that she was wise. “Let me get out of this combat gear, and we’re in business.”

“No hurry. You’ve got half an hour.”

A short time later she came down the stairs in capri pants and a CourtTV T-shirt, grabbed a leash, and whistled to the dog. They left the house and headed for the turnaround. A covey of quail, tiny, coroneted busybodies, were flushed from the blackberry bramble hedgerow. Holly made a note to collect some late berries for their dessert. Her Salmon Kings ball cap would serve for the collection.

The turnaround at Otter Point Place led to an old path downhill through bushes, across from a small public access for Gordon’s Beach. This historic strip often attracted wind surfers and ocean admirers bearing the island signature cup of coffee. Her father’s home and others dotting the uplands had once been part of the Tugwell, then the Gordon farm. The family’s salmon trap had sat offshore at this point for many years. In December of 1912, the Gordon family awoke to a roaring sound. The barque County Linlithgow from London had mistaken the new Sheringham Point light for Race Rocks fifty kilometres east. Instead of turning into snug Victoria harbour, the captain found his four-masted vessel gone aground. Accorded the best of hospitality from the surprised Gordons, the sailors refloated their boat at the next tide. Now an award-winning meadery occupied part of the property, with tastings and tours during peak season. The hives were often relocated into the clear-cuts in summer when fireweed was in bloom.

But slenderly trusting the obedience of the young dog, Holly latched him on to cross busy West Coast Road, scramble over the high-tide flotsam and jetsam, then let him loose on the beach. The waves thrust fingers up the sloping cobble, then retreated in a curtain of noisy white effervescence. Shogun spied a woman edging the surf like a tightrope walker and instantly ran forward, deaf to Holly’s cries. Everyone he met was a friend, a charming but annoying trait indicating a lack of control by the owner. “Sorry,” she said to the lady who was carrying a colourful golf umbrella. “Everything that looks like a stick must be one.”

“Border collies. Gotta love ’em. Smartest dogs in the world,” the woman replied, ruffling the dog’s fur, then setting off up the bank to a tiny driftwood cottage no bigger than Norman’s woodshed.

Open to debate, Holly thought, a matter of wiring, not problem solving. GSDs were the Einsteins of the dog world. Border collies were clever card-counters at a poker table, peeking out from under their green plastic eyeshades.

Shogun waded in and began herding waves, snapping and barking. The comic sight gave her the first laugh of the day. Along the shore, great mounds of seaweed had drifted in, kelp tangled like huge mounds of fat green spaghetti with bulbs at one end. A small tug miles out pulled a vast mat of chained logs. The captain chose his times with care. Serious wind and wave action could break the bonds and cause a shipping nightmare, not to mention the loss of tens of thousands of dollars of potential board feet.

She sat on a sun-bleached log and collected smooth white stones, placing them artfully as beachcombers often did, watching for the true prize, a piece of time-polished glass. The rote motions helped her think. Police work wasn’t all action. What if often helped, but that’s funny was an even better phrase. Who had given Angie the drugs? Would anything turn up at her house? If they found a meth lab in the bush, would that bring any answers? She shuddered, knowing that arrests often spread like a poisonous tide, revealing the rot underneath the pleasant surface. But progress beat stasis.

Shogun trip-tropped toward her, something odd in his mouth. His jaws were working like a baby’s with a soother. “What’s that?” Suddenly she froze. It was a splintery rib bone, probably from someone’s picnic. “Leave it!” She might be driving to the vet instead of forking down mac and cheese.

He caught her excitement and gamboled down the beach, glancing back in an insolent dare. She followed, tripping on the cobble, angrier by the moment, mostly at herself for a lack of vigilance. Finally, a wave caught his small body, and he dropped his morsel, eyes slitted and his prick ears floppy with water. She waded in, soaking her feet, and grabbed his collar. “You’re under arrest for possession of a controlled substance.” “Biting” him with her hand as his mother would have, she gave him a gentle shake to let him know who was in charge. “And you’d better not have swallowed anything. Ve haf vays.”