Читать книгу Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 5

You can’t go home again. As a tautology, it was both as true and false as the nostalgic snows of yesteryear. Here in body, here in spirit, but many grains of sand had fallen through the hourglass.

Corporal Holly Martin opened the creaky door of the white clapboard house and saw a head turn at the reception desk and nod in pointed silence. No warm welcome on her first day in charge. Once the ice was broken with Ann Troy, she had confidence that the business of policing the small community would proceed. So far she felt like an interloper. They’d only been introduced a week ago, but how could you offend with a “hello”? Easy enough if that person had expected to have your job.

The RCMP Fossil Bay Detachment, an hour west of Victoria, British Columbia, had seen its leader, Reg Wilkinson, take early retirement. A product of sausage-and-egg breakfasts, the tall, barrel-chested man had earned a triple bypass at fifty-two and was resigned to oatmeal, cholesterol medication, and half-an-hour a day on the treadmill at his cottage in Chemainus. In a cautionary tone during their interview in his office a month ago, he’d told Holly to expect a cool reception from Ann. “She’s a good officer. She’ll come around.” Had they been closer than colleagues? Reg was personable, a courtly charmer. Ann, a decade younger, was a single mother. At Holly’s raised eyebrow, Reg sat large and silent as the Sphinx. “None of my beeswax. You’ll find all you need to know in the staff bios.”

“Morning, Ann,” Holly said, making a point of using the woman’s name. She poured a fresh cup from the coffee maker. Half empty already. How early had the woman come in? It was only seven twenty. Holly had imagined herself opening up on her first day, asserting command if only in a minor way. “Next pot’s on me. Do you like it strong?” Nothing but a shrug in response. “I brought banana bread. My dad baked it.”

She placed the plate on the table and folded back the foil in unspoken invitation. Contrary to the romantic Rose Marie notions of red coats, a full-dress mode for special occasions, Holly wore a grey shirt, long-sleeved now in fall, with a dark blue tie, dark blue pants with gold strapping along with ankle boots spit-shined this morning, and a policeman’s style cap. Leaving on her protective vest, she hung her Gore-Tex jacket in the narrow closet, tucking her hat onto the shelf and relishing the new freedom of the mild climate. In The Pas, her first post, she had worn a parka eight months of the year. Southern Vancouver Island was Canada’s Caribbean. Little if any snow, but deluges of hail, sleet and rain all winter. Three sturdy umbrellas nestled in the corner.

Corporal Ann Troy wore her uniform with pride, but at 5' 4", she carried one hundred and thirty-five pounds on two fewer inches than Holly. A latecomer to the force after raising her son into his teens, Ann had been posted to Fossil Bay, on track to take over. But her intervention at an armed robbery at a convenience store had saved a young clerk’s life and changed hers forever. A crazed Victoria man had gone on a one-man crime wave, stealing car after car and crashing them as he sped west on the narrow coastal road. Ann had happened on the scene as he exited the store, waving a shotgun, people screaming behind him. A volleyball player in her youth, she had courted unaware the gradual onset of degenerative disk disease. The skeletal shock of tackling the large man had been the trigger that wore away the final lumbar cushion.

The exams she’d passed with honours the week before the accident gave her the nominal rank of corporal, but after an unsuccessful rehabilitation failed to improve her chronic condition, under the “duty to accommodate” regulations, she was given a desk job consisting of paperwork, phone answering and supervision of the small volunteer staff. Disability offers had been snapped back in the face of the administration. She didn’t intend to sit at home and measure her life with coffee spoons. Ann lived for the law, her son Nick and her cat Bump. A framed picture of the apricot devil with its rhinestone collar sat on her desk in reception. Nick’s college graduation picture had equal pride of place. He was model material, but his mouth had a kind and innocent smile. Perhaps in her happier pain-free days, Ann had once shared that attractive quality. Minutes ticked by on the wall clock as Holly sipped coffee.

“Seems quiet,” Holly said in an implied question, then realized how foolish she sounded. The overture had been made. Why grovel so much that she was annoying even herself? She moved to the front window, looking out on an empty gravel lot. “Where’s Chipper?”

“He took the car for servicing at Tri-City,” Ann said as Holly startled at the resonant alto voice. She felt so tense from the atmosphere that blood was surfing in her ears.

“We don’t have any stoplights, so nothing ever changes but the weather. Even the geese don’t leave,” Ann said with bitter punctuation, fixated by figures on her computer screen. She wore her lustrous dark brown hair in a short, no-nonsense style, trimmed tight around the ears.

Tiny Fossil Bay, named for the hosts of Oligocene creatures, snails, mussels and clams, which over twenty-five million years ago had become trapped in the sandstone and conglomerate of rocky beaches, consisted of barely five hundred people in a dozen streets. The fateful store where Ann had seen her life change. A Petro-Canada station. To cater to tourists, a number of seasonal B and Bs and a fishing charter. Nan’s, a small restaurant, flirted with bankruptcy. The lone grade school was on the brink of closing when new housing developments at nearby Jordan River had made the board in Victoria reconsider. With unusual foresight, the RCMP detachment had been opened at the same time as the fabled Juan de Fuca and West Coast Trails had raised the number of visitors. The trio’s job was to take the heat off the larger Sooke post to the east.

Holly watched the unappreciated pile of luscious banana bread. A sore back could make anyone crabby. Maybe the woman was trying to keep her weight down, too. Females could be cruelest to each other. She cursed herself for the unpolitic move. Unable to summon an appetite for a slice, she went into her office, one of four rooms in the former cottage.

On the wall were framed university diplomas and her certificate from police college. At twenty-two, she had been finishing her degree in Botany at UBC when her mother had disappeared. Desperate to help but powerless as the futile search wound down with a whimper, she’d switched to Criminal Justice courses, then joined the RCMP. Initial training took place in Regina. She had passed the exams with nearly perfect scores, been mentored for six months and served at The Pas, Manitoba. When an opening on the north island at Port McNeill arose, she was happy to return west. RCMP members were expected to move to different posts after no more than four or five years, preventing the establishment of close ties to the locals. That made marriage difficult enough for men, but an impossible dream for women.

Her final transfer, along with a bit of luck, brought her home to paradise, where roses sprouted in February. She liked the freedom of the rural and semi-wilderness setting with the amenities of nearby Victoria. Border living was another advantage. Seattle was a quick ferry ride.

British Columbia, known as E Division, encompassing policing at most provincial, federal, and municipal levels, was the largest in Canada, with 126 detachments and over 6,000 employees, about one-third of the total RCMP enlistment. Only twelve municipalities in B.C. had their own forces, and on the island, only Victoria, the capital city. The island itself had only 850 officers spread across its wilderness, many hours away from back-up.

At thirty-two, in a few more years, she could take the exam for sergeant, then staff-sergeant. At that level, she’d command a post with fourteen members, not including civilians, a comfortable number. Holly wanted to stay on the island, but moving any higher up the ranks would mean a transfer to a larger city with noise, crowding and major crimes. Call her unambitious, lover of Lalaland, but Holly had no desire to walk mean streets, even in Nanaimo, though she might entertain the idea if she could join a Canine Unit.

With a proprietorial eye, she considered her new preserve and nosed stale cigarette smoke from the decades before the new laws. A coat of paint wouldn’t hurt. That she could do herself. And maybe an area rug. Then a few hardy plants and a picture of her German shepherds, now playing at Rainbow Bridge.

She resigned herself to paperwork, reading the latest crime figures for the province. The Capital Region of Victoria had one of the lowest stats in the country for gun-related incidents, fewer than one per cent. Knives were more popular. Among the bulletins on emerging technologies for law enforcement, one report claimed that soon pistols would be personalized; only the owner could fire it. An officer shot with his or her own gun would be an ugly irony of the past. Another focused on robotic delivery of pepper spray in cases where the suspect couldn’t be approached. Every black-leather duty belt held OC, aka pepper spray, along with metal handcuffs, a 9 mm Military and Police Smith and Wesson, a collapsible asp baton, keys, and a radio. Only those who chose to take an orientation carried the controversial Taser. Recent deaths across the country and in the U.S. had raised serious questions about the excessive use of that defensive weapon. The Taser should be used as a last resort before the gun, not merely to subdue without breaking into a sweat.

From the monthly statistics Ann had compiled, Holly pinpointed the petty efforts at crime that dogged the community. Reg had told her what to expect, and she’d had a taste in Port McNeill. Thefts, stolen vehicles, noise complaints, unruly dogs and unrulier drunks. Now and then a police car visited the many beach parks down the coast on open-container violations or to take a report on an auto break-in. French Beach, China, Mystic, Bear, all the way to Botanical, a necklace of rain-forest emeralds beckoned tourists from California to Calcutta.

“Don’t discount penny-ante crime,” Ben Rogers, her mentor in The Pas, had told her. “Sometimes they’re part of a bigger picture, and it usually involves drugs. Why steal a CD player you can sell for only a twenty unless you need another fix?” But Ben had made his own fatal error. Their last month together, checking out a stolen car seen at a trailer park, he hadn’t expected the twelve-year-old deaf boy to be holding a rifle instead of an air gun. The frightened child fired, and Reg went down with a hole in his chest where his heart had been. Holly had secured the rifle, turned the boy over to a motherly bystander, then cradled Ben’s head in her lap until the ambulance came. When she’d cleaned his office to give personal items to his wife, the Classic Car calendar’s date read “Ninety-nine days to go!”

Around eight fifteen, a bump of unidentifiable music sounded outside, a cheerful whistle came up the walk, and into the office came Constable Chirakumar “Chipper” Knox Singh. Though both his parents were Sikhs, his father had been raised in a Scottish Presbyterian orphanage in the Punjab and baptized with the name of Knox. Like many immigrants, Gopal Singh had worked menial jobs, living like a pauper, finally able to open a convenience store with an ethnic foods sideline in nearby Colwood. Transferred last year from his first post in the Prairies, twenty-eight-year-old Chipper wore a handsome light-blue turban, designed for the force, with a yellow patch to match the stripe down his pants. A trim light-brown beard set off his café-au-lait face. Earnest black eyebrows capped a handsome brow and fine features. At six-three, he towered over the women.

He saw Holly and saluted. “Welcome, Corporal, or should I call you ‘Guv’?” he asked with a grin.

“You’ve been watching the BBC too much.” Her cheeks pinked, and she wondered if Ann had heard the informal exchange.

“Blame my mother. She never misses Coronation Street. Anyway, the car’s all set. That squeal was the fan belt. No big deal.

Hoping to make an ally, she pointed to the banana bread. “Dig in.”

The phone rang, and Ann answered. As she listened, a frown creased her freckled brow, and she wrote rapidly on a pad. “Calm down and tell me what happened. There’s no rush now, is there?” Her manner reminded Holly of her own mother, who could still troubled waters with a quiet assertiveness. Clearly here was one of Ann’s strengths.

Holly and Chipper exchanged glances. His hand paused over a slice, then plunged in as if he might lose the opportunity. Holly felt her heart battery switch to recharge. Another impatient speeder trying to pass on deadly West Coast Road? The logging trucks were making the most of the dry weather. The last few summers had brought increasing drought. She hardly recalled the most recent rain, more the promise of a kiss. Relentless dust made washing her car a never-ending chore.

“We’ll be right out. Half an hour, barring traffic.” Ann listened, taking a few notes and pausing for confirmation.

“That long? Can’t be Bill Purdy beating up on his wife again.” An “old hand” after his first year at Fossil Bay, Chipper had memorized the names of the local troublemakers.

Finishing the snack, he gave an appreciative “mmmmm” and wiped his handsome mouth with a serviette. His shirt and pants were ironed razor sharp. Mother’s work. Chipper still lived at home in the apartment over the store, though his parents had been trying to arrange a marriage for him with a nurse in Sidney. Holly hoped he wouldn’t be transferred too soon. He was bright, ethical and personable, a winning combination in any profession. Though she’d only met him when Reg had given her an orientation, she’d studied the personnel files as part of her homework. Yet records often weren’t the measure of a person. No one looking at the three of them would realize that the thickset older woman was the hero.

“There’s been a drowning at Botanical. A girl...just a teenager.” Ann stood and stretched. A casual gesture in some interpretation, but Reg said that she did simple exercises every few hours to ease her back muscles. “She tries to stay off painkillers on the job,” he had added. “But don’t call her after dinner when she’s been into the sauce. That’s why she’s better at a desk with regular hours in a small detachment with eight-hour shifts instead of ten. Policing’s a 24-7-365 job, especially with a skeleton staff.”

Holly massaged the bridge of her nose, sad but not surprised at the news. The tides were renowned for their dangerous and quixotic nature. In bad winds, a rogue wave could snatch a storm watcher from the beach, sending the body down the Strait of Juan de Fuca. A boy who’d been lost this year at Tofino had never been found. At least it wasn’t a brutal and bloody car wreck. Holly had noticed the new vogue for commemorative descansos along the coastal road: flower tributes, stuffed animals, even a scooter. The concept seemed better adapted to hot, dry climates instead of rain-forest country. “A drowning?”

Ann sighed, the corners of her mouth sad commas. Pale from lack of sun, she wore no make-up, and small wrinkles sucked at the top of her thin upper lip. Old laugh-lines creased the edges of her hazel eyes, but the face was humourless. Was she on medication now? As her commanding officer, Holly should know, but asking would be tricky. And certainly not on Day One.

Ann’s fingers flipped a page in her notes. “Apparently. There seemed to be some head injury at first glance. Kids should know better than to dive, but they do. I told them to leave everything in place. You know the likelihood of that, though. Someone already pulled the body from the water.”

Chipper shook his head as he looked at a wall map. “I’ve been there a couple of times. That beach is very rough. How will we secure the scene? Sand, rock, a nightmare for evidence.”

“Evidence.” Holly tossed him a skeptical look and tapped his arm. “Come on, Chipper. Let’s not jump to conclusions. And we don’t know where the victim went in. She could have floated on the currents down the coast for miles.”

“No missing person reports,” he said, scanning the bulletin board. “But it could be recent, maybe a boating acci—”

“What are you two going on about?” Ann broke in. “We have an ID.”

Deciding to ignore the woman’s abruptness, Holly shivered. The idea of looking at a floater didn’t appeal to her. “How long had she been gone?”

Ann touched a finger to her long sharp nose. “Lucky you. The girl was in camp only last night. Annual high-school senior bonding exercise. Not enough chaperones. Never are. Not all the armies in the world can stop hormones when their time has come.”

Holly saw Ann’s eyes glance at the graduation picture of her son. Was that what had happened? As Holly’s plain-spoken mother reminded her, nothing could screw up a woman’s life faster than an early, unplanned pregnancy. Life was an uphill battle after that, not impossible, but tough on everyone. “No-fail protection,” Bonnie Martin had said in a wry tone to her bored young daughter in their birds-and-bees talk, crossing her fingers in a telling gesture. “Keep your legs closed.”

“Paramedics have the location, but they’re tied up for an hour. No need for resuscitation in this case, sadly.” As the two headed out, Ann added, “I’ll call Boone.”

Boone? Hadn’t Reg mentioned a coroner? “Oh, right. Thanks.” Her mind racing, Holly grimaced. Her first serious situation as a leader, and she wasn’t even rolling on four wheels. What did anyone expect from a tiny outpost, one staff member chained to a desk? Suppose something didn’t look right? Should a murder investigation ever be necessary, protocol dictated that larger resources would come to her service. Sooke was headed by a staff-sergeant, so an inspector would come from Langford, the West Shore detachment. She gave herself a mental scold as calming logistics kicked in. Why be so dramatic? This is going to be simple but monumentally tearful, as are all senseless young deaths.

After grabbing her pristine notebook, Holly headed for her jacket. “So we’re off, and—”

Ann looked up with a slow, deliberate question. “Don’t you want to know the girl’s name?”

Holly turned away to bite her lip. “Of course. Guess I’m just...never mind.” Confessing her weaknesses to this woman was not an option.

Ann said. “Angie Didrickson.” Then she spelled it.

Outside, as they approached the five-year-old white Impala, Chipper patted the trunk, frowning. “We should have our own FB decal, not SK.” The huge black initials helped helicopters identify each detachment and coordinate efforts.

“We’re lucky to get Sooke’s castoffs. I was guessing a quad and a couple of bikes,” Holly said, belting up. Parked behind their building was a 1985 Suburban with 250,000 Ks, another donation from the big dogs. Still, it would come in handy in winter if they had to go off-road or up the tortuous steep hills north into the San Juan Ridge.

As they headed down West Coast Road with Chipper at the wheel, ugly clear-cuts began skirting the road. “Not even a margin any more,” Chipper said. “Is this going to be the next Sun River, with thousands of houses?”

“It’s oceanfront or oceanview. Pure gold. Only the zoning gods will hold the balance.”

Checking the time, Chipper reached for the siren, but she said, “Leave it off. No need to pass on this road. It’s too late for her, and it’ll only frighten the tourists and attract gawkers. We don’t want a parade.”

They slowed at Jordan River, no longer a landing site for logs, as in its historic past. Electrical generation from the river had first reached Victoria in 1911, and the massive structure of the old powerhouse upstream had once attracted visitors. More people came to surf now than to ogle ancient buildings, and the storms of fall and winter brought peak conditions. Though there was only a brisk wind today, six or seven hopeful people on boards paddled out to catch the waves. The Chula Coffee and Juice Bar sold exotic fruit drinks and custom coffee, the closest Canada came to Malibu. At the beach, campers and vans lined the shore, some VWs with flower-power paint jobs. Every so often, a free camping spot could be found, but for how long?

Holly owed her job to what loomed ahead, a billboard advertising the first major housing development west of Fossil Bay. To her left and right, great roads were being dozed into the woods or carved across former clear-cut hills. Million-dollar properties, especially on the oceanfront. Recent rulings by the Minister of Forests, with no consultation or conditions, had threatened to allow the timber companies to turn tens of thousands of hectares of lease land into lucrative real estate. Hit hard by a downturn in demand for timber products, the companies claimed that their debts could be settled better from immediate revenue, not wood scheduled to be cut in 2050. Mills were closing everywhere, from Nanaimo to Campbell River. Citizens and environmentalists fought back in public meetings, and surprisingly draconian zoning laws had temporarily halted the deals. Everyone knew that the battle had merely paused for breath. The boomers were on the move, especially from Ontario, and those not able to afford houses in costly Victoria wanted property. Moving vans went west and returned empty. Meanwhile, laid-off timber employees wondered if they should join the building trades.

The farther they drove, the paler Chipper looked. He took a hand off the wheel to rub his cheek. She noticed that he had left the music off. “Anything wrong?” Holly asked.

He shook his head like a wet dog. “Uh, I’ve never seen a body before.” He swallowed back his words as if to master a gag reflex. “Wish I hadn’t eaten such a big breakfast. Spicy food and stress don’t mix, but I couldn’t hurt Mom’s feelings.”

She smiled to herself. Even a few more years gave her the edge. It was the way of the force to pass on wisdom and experience. Not everyone made a good candidate. Ben Rogers, her old mentor, had been chosen for his intuition, coolness, talent for details and tact. He’d never use tasteless slang or refer to a victim as a “crispy critter” to draw a cheap laugh.

“There’s a first time for everyone,” Holly said. “Mine was pretty bad. The victim had been lying in a remote bush camp for a week in thirty degree Celsius temperatures. His wife sent us looking when he was days late returning from hunting. A pro told me to put Mentholatum in my nostrils.”

He reached into a storage compartment and pulled out a tube. “Cherry Lipsol. Do you think this will work?”

“It made me sneeze, and anyway, this girl...Angie just died.” She gave him a quick glance and sent a challenge she knew he couldn’t ignore. “You can stand to the side, Constable. No problem.” In public, Holly automatically reverted to rank instead of a first name, a tenet of professionalism. And calling civilians “you guys” was equally prohibited. “You’re not a waitress in a truck stop,” Ben had told her.

“No, Guv, I mean ma’am,” he said as his nostrils flared like a young stallion’s. “Count on me. I’ll be your right-hand man.”

A red hawk drifted on the thermals over the cliffs. She closed her eyes for a moment as the car streaked along at eighty kilometres per hour. A campfire last night, headed for a coffin in the morning. How large was the group, and how many other people were in the popular area, enjoying the scenery? Then she sent relaxation messages to her flexed stomach. It was an accident, nothing more. Over and out. Nervous this morning, she had breakfasted on only an apple. Now she felt slightly nauseous from the coffee.

“Careful: Winding Road,” the sign read. The island’s terrain was like an overlapping series of green, ribbed reptiles. Water flowed off the glaciated hills as quickly as it arrived. With only thirty more kilometres to Port Renfrew, the speed limit slowed to fifty on hairpin turns. Little opportunity to pass unless courting suicide. “Jeez,” Chipper said. “These bicycles.” They watched as five racers, their heads bent low, legs pumping like young locomotives, sped along in line. Technically they owned the lane, but sometimes they would shift over like a flock of birds if the berm was smooth. Holly wouldn’t have risked it. A small pebble under the skinny wheel might skew a rider under a tractor-trailer tire.

“Hit the siren and lights,” she said. “Polite isn’t cutting it.” He flicked switches with a grin. The teardrop-helmeted crew shot glances over their shoulders and moved aside smartly. Once past, the car moved in silence, Chipper with his strong hands at ten and two on the wheel.

Twenty minutes later, they reached the small town at the end of the line. There were only bush roads north to Fairy Lake, Lizard Lake, and massive Lake Cowichan from that point on. Fewer than two hundred white people lived here, with half as many First Nations members in the immediate area. Originally the Pacheedaht tribe had made their homes on the coast and throughout the San Juan Valley. Earliest contacts had been prickly between the locals and newcomers, starting in 1798, when the crew from HMS Iphigenia engaged the residents in a dispute. Though logging had waned and the railroad tracks had been replaced by a road, the old beach camp area was soon converted to houses. By lucky coincidence, Port Renfrew sat at the L-shaped confluence of the northerly West Coast Trail and the easterly Juan de Fuca Marine Trail, which ended at Botanical Beach. The beach had been recognized at the turn of the twentieth century as such a gold mine of tidal life that the University of Minnesota had set up a research station. Though that unit was long defunct, strict regulations applied to the pristine shoreline. PICO meant “pack in and carry out.”

Nor was the beach the only attraction. From her younger days camping and exploring, Holly knew that nearby a forest legend spread its roots, sucking up the twelve feet of rain. The largest Douglas fir tree in the world, the Red Creek fir, with a circumference of over forty-one feet, grew on the outskirts of town. Passing the tourist centre, modest restaurants, a motel and a quaint old inn, they took the turn for the beach. Minutes later, they reached the parking lot and pulled through the gate, guided by a man waving his arms. In his early sixties, in a tan park uniform with shorts and knee socks English style, he was probably retired and happy for the extra money in a part-time job. On a boom box in his battered camo-coloured Jeep, an oldies station was playing “Love Me Tender”. He sipped from a water bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as they got out of the car. Splotched cheeks testified to a long life of malt appreciation.

“I didn’t hear you guys coming. What happened to the siren?”

Holly shook her head. Expectations already. Around the lot were parked a dozen cars and an assortment of trucks, vans and campers, with visitors from Alberta, Saskatchewan and Washington. The pay-for-parking machine sold daily windshield tickets for three dollars. Sporadic attempts to break into the little coin banks were another reason for regular RCMP patrol, though it was nearly impossible to catch someone in the act.

She made the introductions. “Are the students camping here? It wasn’t allowed in my day.”

Tim Jones waved a gnarly hand. “No way. Botanical’s too fragile and rare for that kind of disturbance. There’s an RV park in town. ’Course, you can’t always stop it. Shut the gate, they find a way around. Nature of the beast to keep trying. I live nearby and take a final look-see with the wife at nine, then I’m outta here. Come nightfall, some hitchhike, get dropped off, slip into the bush. Kind of a dare. Can’t blame them. Harmless enough, romantic even.” He gave Chipper a “between us men” look.

Holly opened her notebook, freshly inked and dated. Day One of My New In-Charge Career. Ben had collected what looked like thousands, neatly lined up in cabinets at home, to consult as backup to his court appearances. “Where will we find Angie?” She hoped she’d never become so hardened that bodies lost their identities. It was too late to help the girl, but the least she could do was serve her in the formalities of death.

“Follow that path. Come out on the beach, then go right a couple hundred feet till you come to a big mother chunk of fir with roots halfway to the sky. I call it Butt.” As he read their faces, he gave a self-deprecating cough. “No offense. That’s a logging term for the bottom of the tree. Kids are always building driftwood shelters off old Butt. Just lay on boards or straight branches. They float out with each high tide. Butt’s dug in like a two-ton tick. It would take the mother of all storms to carry him away.”

After grabbing a roll of yellow tape from the trunk, Chipper assumed a straight and serious posture which made him even taller. “Should we secure the scene, Corporal?”

“Good idea. Last thing we want is to wade through a bunch of thrill seekers. A girl is dead here.” She told Tim to keep an eye out for Mason Boone, the coroner, though from Reg’s description, he would be hard to miss. Meanwhile, Tim folded his arms in vigilance as if he were participating in a crime show.

The bright sun and warm temperatures made the beach an ideal destination, especially on a less-crowded weekday. Knotty shore pines bent from the ocean blasts, and swooping cypress shaded the area beneath the massive trunks of Douglas firs spared from the axe. They marched down the path with a “beach” sign, the gravel from the lot quickly turning into sand and duff. Halfway, a nearly new mountain bike lay on its side, unlocked and ready for the taking.

“That’s a beauty, but the owner is an idiot,” Chipper said. “A camera was stolen from a car here last week.”

“We’d better tell Tim. Maybe he can keep the bike safe at the gate until the owner returns. A cheap lesson.”

In a cool, wet section heavy with deer fern and shiny, rampaging salal, Holly spotted a banana slug in the middle of the path. Seven inches long, it was a leopard, haute-couture cousin to the traditional army khaki model. She bent down and gently lifted the creature to safety. “I brake for detrivores,” she said.

Chipper watched with a nostalgic smile. “In my survival course, we had to eat one of those. The wusses cooked it first. Once the...guts are out, a pinch of curry makes the difference. Everyone laughed. Then they all wanted some.”

“You must carry an unusual kit.” With a disgusted moue, she inspected the slime on her hands. “I don’t know why I do this. Maybe I’m thinking I might be reincarnated as one, not that I’m a Buddhist, or is it Hindu?”

“Whatever, I think the idea is to move up the ladder.”

“Hey, except for being slow and gummy, they vacuum the earth with only one lung. What more heavenly duties can you ask of a creature?”

They traversed a grove of sumac with wild roses blooming and forming rose hips, faint perfume for a funeral, not a wedding. The deepening sand, holding hardy beach plants such as silverleaf and yellow verbena, was littered with footprints, rough going for their leather boots.

Some island beaches were Hollywood stretches of fine silica, but Botanical had no pleasures for the foot, only tidal pools carved from sandstone and interspersed with ridges of shale, quartz and black basalt. As they hit the rock-shelved shore and turned, she saw why Tim had christened the huge stump “Butt”. What great wind had toppled the tree, and what greater tide had ferried it here, she couldn’t imagine. A photographer’s dream, except for crude initials carved into its bulk, it lay on its side, and from a branched bare root, pieces of driftwood artfully arranged like planks made a whimsical but secure shelter. Sand underneath had been scooped out so that two people could crawl out of the wind. Closer to the water, they picked their way between glistening tidal pools etched by time, wind and creatures like sea anemones, which hollowed out round homes for their delicate filaments.

A small group had gathered behind the berm of logs and twig trash at the high-tide line. American sea rocket and gumweed, hardy survivors, brushed at Holly’s pants as she walked. By itself, away down the grey basalt shore, was a small bundle. Blinking in the bright light, Holly tipped back her cap and swore softly.

“Covered with a blanket. And twenty feet from the edge. These rocks could have given her fresh abrasions.”

Chipper shielded his face from the sun. “But the medical examiner can tell. No bleeding post mortem, right?”

“Perhaps if a bone is broken with no bruising, that would be the case.” The winds had been high last night, she recalled. Unable to sleep, she had heard waves crashing onto the shore at midnight.

The tide was still going out, but the turn would come. The wind had risen, and a small chop rode the waves. Plumes of spray crashed over the rocks and soaked her boots. She turned to the crowd and managed a friendly but serious smile. “I’m Corporal Martin, investigating the accident. In a few minutes, after we’ve looked around, I’d like to speak to some of you about what you might have seen, starting with the person who found Angie. If you have any information, please wait at the picnic table over there. And could the rest of you clear the beach until we’re finished? It would make our job easier.” She saw three or four children carrying foam snakes and plastic beach pails. “We’d appreciate your taking the young ones a long distance away.”

She heard a few mutterings, but her politeness seemed to work. Except for five or six people, the crowd dispersed. A man of about thirty in swim trunks checked his watch pointedly, then came forward. Lean, with knotty muscles, he sported a colourful tattoo of a dragon, its fiery tongue licking around one shoulder. His hairy legs were slightly bowed. A few knee scrapes testified to the unforgiving rocky shelves. A trickle of blood still flowed. “I saw her in the water. Bob Johnson. It’s getting late for me, so could we—”

Taking a deep breath, Holly met his eyes until he lowered them. “Did you move this girl, Mr. Johnson?”

His voice wavered, and he swiped a hand through his thinning blond hair. “Jesus. It...she was floating in the bay, trapped in the kelp bed. You know these riptides. Another minute, and she could have been dragged out to sea. Thought I was helping out, lady...officer.”

Holly glanced around. Chipper had roped off his fourth tree, hand on his slim hips, and was admiring his work. “I understand. As I said, we need to check the scene first. You’ll be first in line when we’re ready. That’s a promise, sir.”

He grunted and moved off, moving his arms in a “what can you do” expression.

After slipping on latex gloves, Chipper and Holly walked forward. Wind, waves, people running about. Already the scene was a circus. Whatever happened to death in a quiet room? Then she chastised herself, reaffirming the sobriety of the moment. She knelt by the form and gently withdrew the blanket, an old army-surplus model. Probably gathering every sort of material in a car trunk since Mulroney left office. The girl’s eyes stared up at her, revealing the milky sheen of death. The effect wasn’t as shocking as she’d thought, poignant instead. It reminded her of the bright red starfish she’d once brought home from French Beach and left outside to dry on the steps. Slowly it had faded to white, the elusive spark of life gone. Over weeks it disintegrated into calcifications, then blew away as if it had never existed.

Holly blinked, pulling herself back. No major damage was evident on Angie’s face, but scrapes and cuts from the rocks and the marine life would make the coroner’s job trickier. Crows passed raucous approval from the trees. Ever vigilant for food, a host of motley juvenile seagulls floated on the waves, scavenging sea creatures. One on shore pecked at a blue-black mussel shell. One creature’s bier was another’s smorgasbord.

“God, look at that.”