Читать книгу Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 6

Chipper pointed to an area half an inch long on one of the girl’s forearms, where tiny predators had been chewing in furtherance of future generations. He put his hand over his mouth and stumbled away, one foot tripping in the cracks that fractured the basalt.

“Who’s in charge here? I passed a few villages missing their idiots, or isn’t that phrase acceptable these days?” a jovial voice called, panting for breath around the stem of a corncob pipe. Mason Boone ambled forward, lugging a large black satchel that might have done duty at 22 Baker Street. His rice-sack gut pooched under suspendered grey work pants. Hush Puppies slurping on the wet rock, he urged his bulk toward them with surprising grace.

The B.C. Coroners Service was a unique animal, setting fast and tangled roots in one of Canada’s younger provinces, much of which was still wilderness outside of the sushi bars of Vancouver and the tea rooms of Victoria. The province employed twenty-one full-time coroners, but the approximately one hundred and twenty community coroners dispersed throughout the territory worked on an as-needed basis. Some thought that anyone of good character could qualify as a community coroner, but the preferred background was in the legal, investigative and medical fields. Retired nurses and lawyers made good choices. They did not perform autopsies, but should circumstances warrant, they authorized pathologists to take charge. They were responsible for assembling the facts in a death: identifying the deceased and how, when, where and by what means the person died. Complicated forensics were left to the medical examiner, if one were needed. Fault or blame was not the coroner’s bailiwick, though no one should be incurious.

Boone Mason had been a private investigator in Vancouver before a knee had blown on him during a handball game and compromised his mobility. At sixty-five, he lived quietly off a disability pension supplemented by his occasional coroner assignment and Texas hold’em poker winnings at the legion. His relationship with the RCMP in the Western Communities wasn’t smooth. A stubborn nature often made him a gadfly. “He’s a good man with a beak for the truth,” Reg had told her. “Pain in the ass or not, don’t underestimate him.”

“Poets are goddamn liars. Death is never pretty,” he said after introductions as he put down his satchel and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He tucked the pipe, apparently empty, into his shirt pocket. “I can see why that poor slob pulled her on shore. Natural reaction. But if anything’s hinky, Christ on a cupcake.”

Holly felt her chest tighten. She looked for Chipper, but he was still parked on the other side of a Sitka spruce. A white handkerchief had come from his pocket, as if he had given up the battle. “But how could you—”

Boone turned his grizzled face to hers. He had assumed the retired male’s habit of shaving only when necessary, but stopped short of wearing a beard like a hundred local Santas. She could also see why Reg had mentioned his nose for the truth. Large and craggy, it gave him the look of a friendly vulture. “Ninety-nine per cent of drownings are accidents. It’s up to me to make recommendations to prevent future harm. Relax. Just making small talk. Reg told me you were taking over. Figured you needed some fatherly guidance.”

He pulled away the rest of the blanket. Holly’s throat felt like she was trying to devour a four-headed balloon animal. Boone gave her a sidelong glance. “First body?”

“No, but first day in charge. Some timing.”

“Shoulda stood in bed.” He chuckled to himself and narrowed his eyes in assessment. “Craziest saying. Don’t know what the hell it signifies.”

With straightened shoulders, Chipper had returned to the periphery and was studiously avoiding any connection with the body, his dark glance following a bald eagle high overhead, its feeble peeping cry belying its reputation as king of birds. From far away, Holly could see inquiring heads in the underbrush and hear fragmented comments. Walking over, she directed Chipper to keep away the onlookers, who, now that the coroner had arrived, sensed a melodramatic story to take home to Anacortes or Kamloops. “This looks straightforward enough. Maybe we’ll get lucky and avoid complications,” she said, back at Boone’s side.

“We’re already luckier than she was. And besides, complications make life interesting. Doncha like no challenges?” Boone rotated the neck and head, then parted the hair, frowning. “Serious blow to the side of the head. From a dive or a fall. At the edges of the cove where the rocks meet the water.” Then taking out a thermometer, he positioned himself to shield the body and turned Angie onto her side with a gentle “Up we go, darlin’.” Holly followed an instinct to flinch and turned away as if to keep an eye on the crowd. Squeezing her fists until the nails bit the palm, she knelt next to him. The girl wore a bikini, and wore it well. Not an ounce of fat, and a neat six-pack revealed long-term toning, if not avid body building. An athlete? The shoulders were broad, the hips slim. Her legs and arms had been shaved. A swimmer? Odd that she hadn’t worn her hair short, but she’d probably used a cap. On her shoulder was a tasteful blue rose. How many teens didn’t have a tattoo?

Boone then placed the thermometer in the water for a short while, retrieving it with a nod. “Nearly water temperature. Not surprising. Plays hell with rigor and time of death. Not as bad as being in an air-conditioned or heated room, though.” He looked up, breaking into Holly’s thoughts. “You and the rajah could give a gander to the area. We’re not going to be able to hold this scene for long. Wind and waves wait for no man.” Holly bristled at the unexpected racial jibe, nor did she appreciate the directives. They were more or less equals, each with a job. “How about watching your language, Mr. Boone?”

He grinned and poked her leg. “Just kidding. Lighten up. My late wife of forty years was born in Bombay or Mumbai, whatever. One hell of a cook when it came to pilafs and curries. And it’s plain Boone to my friends.”

Holly looked down and toed away a string of kelp affixed to her boot. Now she’d alienated the coroner. Things had been so different when Ben Rogers called the shots. “So, does there have to be an autopsy? Is it at the discretion of the parents?”

“Not always, but no to your second question. It’s my call. Vic Daso at the Jubilee will probably take this one. He’s a crackerjack. Help if we could find some witnesses so we could figure this out,” Boone added, rocking back on his bulging haunches. In the distance, a siren was wailing.

Holly had seen a couple of drownings in The Pas, when snowmobilers had gone down crossing the narrows on fickle Cedar Lake. March was the worst month. People got cocky about conditions, especially when alcohol was involved. Men in their twenties were the prime offenders, thought they were invincible and rejected flotation suits and hand picks as sissy gear. She searched her mind for the few training classes on autopsies.

“He’ll check for water in the lungs, though there is such a thing as a dry drowning.”

“That seems like a conflict in terms.”

“Not really. Ever jumped into icy water? Shock makes the throat constrict. So the victim dies from lack of air. Suffocation, to be exact. He’ll run a toxicology report. It’s fair to believe that there’s been drinking at this party, if not drugs. Pot. Cocaine. Meth, I doubt.”

In the recesses of the tidal pool flats, a round, pinkish shape shimmered in a half inch of water. Anemone. She touched it with her finger, and it shrank into itself. Odd that it knew exactly where to move and where to stay. Up nearer the tide line, it would find itself dry, if only for a few hours, and die. But then, perhaps some of the fairy-like creatures had done just that and exited the gene pool.

“Penny for ’em. Make that a loonie. Flying higher than the eagle these days.” Boone stared at her in some amusement.

“Wool gathering, as my grandmother used to say. What was that about meth?” A rare frown cut the space between her eyebrows.

He stuck out his lower lip in cogitation. There was a slight scar on one end. “In more urban areas, we’re starting to assemble a nice mix of stats on meth overdoses, but Notre Dame Catholic Academy? Probably not.”

Notre Dame. Ann hadn’t passed on such specific information, and why would she? Holly felt the beginnings of an ugly trip down memory lane. Fourteen years ago, she’d said a joyous goodbye to that private school in Sooke and its snobs and cliques. She’d been a maverick and proud of it. The only faculty member she’d respected was the crusty librarian, Sister Dympna. How often she’d hidden out there and buried herself in books on trees, flowers, birds and animals of the island. At that time, the school had been all-girl, a deadly species, gatekeepers to a private hell. Her one friend Valerie, a natural comic and troublemaker, had joined the army and hadn’t been in contact since.

“How did you know which school it was?”

He rubbed his chin, making a rasping sound. “Ann said when she called me.”

Two paramedics made their way down with a stretcher. “Sorry to take so long. Hydro was taking a leaning tree at the Shirley curve. About time, but traffic was backed up for miles.”

“That’s all right, boys. She’s in no hurry.” Boone packed away his kit and motioned for the stretcher. “Good to go. Time of death’s not going to be easy. First in the water, then in the sun. Sure hope someone saw her somewhere sometime. Stomach content will be a helpful factor.”

Holly stripped off her gloves. “That’s what bothers me. Was she here alone? That seems strange.” Not for herself, though. She’d spent many quiet evenings on a beach, beside a small driftwood fire, thinking her own young thoughts as she grilled hot dogs.

Chipper had assembled a collection of paper evidence bags as they joined him. “Lots of trash. An open condom foil. Probably means nothing. It’s a beach, a place for partying.”

“Cleaner than most,” Holly said. Volunteers patrolled on a regular basis to polish their world-class jewel.

As Boone walked off and the paramedics knelt to attend to the body, Holly checked the boundaries. Chipper had done well, but if something had been overlooked, now was the time to find it. She passed a clump of Saskatoon berry bushes, generously dangling their luscious, supersweet fruits. A tall bunch of innocuous-looking plants threatened to brush her sleeve, and she pulled away. Stinging nettle. Fine in soup but painful to even the slightest brush. Then under a bush she saw a loose braid of greenery. To anyone else it might have appeared natural, but Holly’s trained eye spotted the anomaly. She inhaled its pleasant herbal aroma. Common sweetgrass, used in purification ceremonies among aboriginal North Americans.

At the parking lot, she took a fresh bag from Chipper, then watched Boone drive off in his rusty Land Rover, the tailpipe held in place by wire, nodding fractious acquaintance with the gravel. “What’s that?” Chipper asked, searching her eyes in a gesture of uncertainty.

“Sweetgrass.”

He considered the bundle, wrinkling his nose. “Like weed?”

She tried not to laugh. “No, First Nations people don’t smoke sweetgrass. They burn it like incense.”

His face brightened. “My mother loves sandalwood. She has a shrine to Ganesh. So what’s your take on this?” he asked.

“A blank slate. Safest that way. Let’s go talk to everyone.

They’ve been patient...curious more than rude. If longer statements are warranted, if there’s been negligence on the part of the school, we can call them back. There could be conditions for a lawsuit here, and we might need to testify. ”

Holly introduced herself to a group at the picnic table. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Johnson here, then Constable Singh and I will get your names and addresses.”

One tall and muscular girl with a tongue ring spoke up.

“How come? Wasn’t it an accident?”

Holly kept her voice low and reasonable, a combination of seriousness and approachability. “Just routine.”

When she heard a young man whisper “raghead” to his buddy, she shot him a stern look. A study in neutral, Chipper revealed neither by face or demeanor that he had heard anything.

She and Bob Johnson took seats on a huge log twenty feet from the group. Holly was determined to take her time and do things right from the start. “Mr. Johnson, you’re probably not familiar with our procedure for statements, but this is how it works. Tell me what happened in a chronological order. I ask questions and listen. Then you tell me again, and I write it down. I read it back to you to check the accuracy. Nothing too formal at this point.” She was trying to cover all the bases but realized how difficult that was with only a staff of two to handle a crowd. Suppose she missed something important? And worse yet, someone might be lying. The basic training scenarios, domestic violence, auto accidents, didn’t match. She thought of the tricky bar-fight scenario. How to winnow out those with helpful evidence and ignore the time-wasters, not to mention the confused drunks. With the events leading up to Angie’s death possibly taking place after dark, the circumstances called for a thorough investigation, leaving no one out. As Boone had said, certain information might help prevent future tragedies.

Bob told her what he had witnessed and when. He’d arrived at eight and snorkeled for an hour. Natural underwater treasures were one of the island’s greatest attractions. Because of its stable temperatures, the Northern Pacific had the greatest number of species compared to the more frigid oceans. Ninety species of starfish against only twenty in the North Atlantic. “One of the year’s lowest tides today. One metre. You can get out to the good stuff. Plumrose anemones, red urchins, maybe even a coonstriped shrimp or a sea cucumber if you dive deep enough.” He’d come back to the beach to snack on the coffee and muffin he’d brought, then gone back in for another half hour. That’s when he’d found Angie.

“And you’re by yourself here?” Holly asked. “Where do you live, for the record?”

“Oak Bay. We have a condo.”

With that tony address, Holly pegged him as an up-and-coming executive, especially when he added that he worked in Vancouver for Dell Computers. He also said that his pictures had appeared in B.C. Magazine.

Then she turned to a man who stepped forward with a mild air of authority. Well-groomed, his dark red hair with half-sideburns, he had a winning smile and soft grey eyes, crinkled at the edges. By his side on a leash was a tiny Yorkie, whimpering petulantly at the commotion. He picked it up and rubbed its silken head. A Harley Davidson bandana circled its neck. “Chucky,” he said. “More like the movie. He’s a real devil.”

An animal lover, Holly reached forward in reflex to pet the dog, but it gave a wicked growl, then a snap, and she pulled back her hand with an involuntary gasp.

“Sorry,” he said and gave the dog a mock shake, fastening its leash. “I’m Paul Gable. Vice principal.” He gave a gentle smile, then firmed up his lips as he watched her turn a fresh page. “It’s hard to believe this is happening. I don’t know where to start.”

He explained that Notre Dame sponsored a senior trip at the start of the year. The class had raised money through candy sales and car washes. Botanical Beach had been chosen for the hiking, kayaking, swimming and marine life, as well as its convenient distance from Sooke. That the area was rural and isolated was a bonus, since administrators hoped to keep the inevitable substance abuse to a minimum. They couldn’t prevent the occasional mickey of rye, but at least driving was already arranged. This year, two teachers had come down with early flu, so they were short on supervision. “I had to fill in myself at the last minute. Camping with teenagers isn’t my choice of weekend activities.”

Holly looked around. The crowd at the fringes had vanished. A slight headache from the sun began to explore her temples. Her hat felt tight. “So where are your students now?”

He looked wary, then embarrassed. “Um. Hope I didn’t make a bad decision, but I loaded up the kayaks and sent them back in the vans.”

“Back to?” If the students had already left for home, this was going to be much more difficult.

“To the campsite in Port Renfrew. It was awkward. We got to the beach around ten this morning. Didn’t even know Angie was missing. Some thought she had slept in, stayed behind.” He stuttered over the next words. “Then the diver found her. They say he moved...the body. Poor guy. I would have done it myself. You can’t let...” With a crack, his voice trailed off, and he looked at the sand.

“It was a natural reaction, Mr. Gable.” Holly’s reassurance seemed to relax his shoulders, and she smiled. “How long will you all be staying?”

“Scheduled for another day, but the trip is over. Preparations will have to be made. The family contacted.”

“I see. We’ll need to talk to some of the students. While they’re together, it’s more convenient for everyone.”

“Tell me how to help. The girls are all crying, and the guys aren’t far from it. They’ll probably need some counselling. Father Drew is a great guy in a crisis. A prayer assembly, then individual conferences as necessary. Teenagers don’t expect death to come calling. I remember when a boy in my fourth grade fell from a cliff. Harold Bach was his name. Just a quiet little guy, but he crawled out on a dare, and the ledge gave way.” He turned to her with naïve wonderment. “Why do I still recall his name? So weird. He wasn’t a close friend, and I didn’t go to the funeral. None of us did. Wasn’t expected in those days.”

The way he was rattling on seemed morbid. She needed to learn how to direct an interview, but sympathized. “Do you think about Harold very often?”

He scratched his head. “Once a year on Hallowe’en. That’s when it happened.”

“Then you’re reinforcing the memory, bumping the curve back up each time.” She checked her watch. “We’d better get to the camp so that you can start home now. Sooner is better than later for collecting information.”

Along the path, she pointed to the bike. “Yes, it’s one of ours,” he said, inspecting a metal tag welded to the frame. “We brought six trail bikes. They’re not allowed on the beach, but they’re fine for the park roads.”

“Could Angie have ridden it here?”

He shrugged. “I suppose so. Someone is supposed to be in charge of inventory at the end of the day, but maybe they slipped up, and it’s been here since we came over yesterday.”

“We’ll toss it in the car,” she said, motioning to Chipper to collect it.

As they returned to the lot, Gable stood awkwardly with Chucky, spreading his arms in a question. “My ride’s gone. Can you...”

She opened the rear door. “He’s welcome. We’ve had worse passengers. At least he’s sober.”

The trunk contained emergency equipment. A shovel, plastic cones, a blanket, rain gear, bottled water, even a stuffed bear in a plastic bag for when a child needed comforting. Chipper secured the bike, then tied the lid with polypropylene rope. He got into the front and started the engine. In the back seat, Gable shuffled around with Chucky in his arms, perhaps uncomfortable in the confines of a vehicle with reinforcements to prevent glass breakage. On one of her favourite shows, Cops, a suspect had braced himself and kicked out the rear window of a cruiser.

Holly rolled down the windows to catch the breeze. With its computer equipment, radio and brackets for a shotgun, the vehicle was crowded. Opening the clear slider so that they could talk, she half turned towards Gable. Phrases from psychology and interpersonal communications courses came to mind. “This must be a terrible shock for you, sir.”

“Please, Paul is fine.” He wiped his freckled forehead. His arms were strong, and knobby, hairy legs protruded from his tan shorts. She recalled that he also wore sandals with white socks. “You can’t imagine, or maybe you can in your line of work. It’s just impossible that this could have happened to Angie.”

In minutes, they turned into Les’s RV and Camping, following Gable’s directions to the group area at the forested rear section beside the showers and washrooms. Chipper turned off the vehicle and excused himself. Holly led Gable to a picnic table, where Chucky began to nibble on grass.

He told her about the activities the day and night before, leading to the discovery of the body and the steps to contact the authorities. In the second stage of the interview, she began writing.

“And her full name is...please spell it, too.” She poised with her pen, listening as he proceeded.

“Angie Didrickson. Our star swimmer. Butterfly champion of the province.”

Now the physique made sense. Holly jotted more notes. “A reliable girl then. She’d have to be to undergo that kind of discipline and training.” She paused, her memories searching back. “But Notre Dame doesn’t have a pool, does it?”

“No,” he said, “but we have an arrangement with Seaparc. Angie and a few other diehards would be there at seven every morning to practice.” He wiped at his eye. “She was headed for a full scholarship to the University of London. Her dad was so proud, and so was the school.”

“And her mother?” Holly felt herself wanting to understand that this victim was a human being with a life behind her. Was it worse to die at eighteen or to disappear in your forties? Unholy balances.

“Grace Didrickson died in an auto accident a few years ago.

Nate did a damn fine job raising her and her little brother.”

“And the last time you saw her...”

He gave a sniff, pulled out a handkerchief, and honked his small, beaked nose. “You mean...”

“Of course. Alive.” She cautioned herself to show more patience, even though the questions were obvious. This wasn’t a race. Slow and sure, Ben would say.

“That would be last night at the campfires. A sing-along. Marshmallows, the traditional thing. Started near dark, around nine. The chaperones and I had our own blaze, but I made the rounds from time to time to keep everybody honest, not that I was counting heads. You have to give kids some degree of trust. And you can’t expect them to be tucked in by ten.” He smoothed his thick hair, a cowlick raising a stubborn shock. “I’m sure on the perimeters the usual vices were present. Cigarettes, a can of beer, maybe even a joint or two. But not in sight.”

“So you saw her as late as...” She kept her pen poised. Reports with initialed changes were frowned on.

On the road, the guttural roar of a motorcycle caught their attention. Whimpering, the dog started running circles, entangling the lead, and Gable kept trying to undo it. “Chucky, stop.” He looked at Holly with a plea. “Can I tie him to a tree over there? This is distracting.”

“Sure.” String him up was more like it. Holly hated illbehaved, aka ill-trained animals. If any dogs were neglected in obedience matters, the small varieties were. Much easier to scoop up the thing and tuck it under your arm than teach it manners. German shepherds had to be under control, at one with their master, their partner. She missed that bond.

On his return from attending to Chucky, Gable said, “Now where were we? Oh, right. The time. Somewhere near eleven. It was pitch dark. I don’t have one of those glow model watches. Anyway, the kids seemed to be heading off to bed without problems.” He gave an ironic laugh. “That’s how much I knew. Jesus, she was out there and—”

“It must have been difficult in the dark. And you can’t put a teacher in every tent. How many students are on this trip?”

“About forty-five. Our graduating class, minus a few who had other things to do. Not all the kids like camping. On the weekends, some head for Victoria for the music scene, whatever that is now. I’m still listening to the Beatles. Sort of retro at my age. At least I’m not into Elvis like my wife’s family.” A flash of embarrassment crossed his face. “Listen to me going on. Guess I’m nervous.”

“Everyone reacts differently to this kind of stress. Take your time. Tell me about your chaperones.”

He shook his head as if to clear it. “Me, Kim Bass, who teaches English, and Terry Grove, our coach. I blame myself for the short staff. We should have done more to find someone to help or postpone the trip. Father Drew would have come, but he had to take mass to a shut-in.”

She thought of the difficulty of juggling all those teens and their hormones. “Just three, then.”

“I know what you’re thinking. That’s fifteen each to keep track of. But the school has had a fall trip since it was founded in 1950. That’s a long tradition. There was a bit of pressure. Established dates for future weekend activities. The kids would have been disappointed.”

Holly’s idea of camping was to grab a backpack and head into the wilderness with her dog. “So who was in Angie’s tent?”

Gable took a list out of his jacket pocket. “Just Janice Mercer. She’s very shy. These trips build self-esteem. Students like that I didn’t want to disappoint. Having a successful senior year can make all the difference. Rites of passage. Ninety-five per cent of our students go on to university. Edward Milne can’t compete with that.” He referred to the public secondary school in Sooke.

Holly glanced at her watch. This was taking too much time. Though in charge, she couldn’t and she shouldn’t do all of the interviews herself. The students might appreciate a younger officer....provided that they held no racial prejudices. And even if they did, Chipper had to face his demons like she’d dealt with Playboy centrefolds on her locker during training.

Calling Chipper over, she directed him to sort out those with helpful information. She’d take the two teachers, and if his numbers were high, share the students. “I’ll need you to explain the layout,” she said to Gable.

At the campsite, a few dozen students sat on logs and stumps, on the ground, at picnic tables or milled in the area with pop cans or bags of chips. Gable pointed out a village of tents in various sizes. He, Coach Grove and Kim Bass each had a small pup tent. The students slept in the other eight, two, three, four, depending on tent size. Gable introduced the teachers to Holly. Chipper, in his usual organized fashion, had lined up the students and was talking to each one privately. She was impressed at the way he’d sorted everyone out without a ruffle. Even in the sombre moment, some of the girls seemed entranced with him, heads together in chatter as they watched him.

Grove, a fit man in his late thirties, hadn’t seen Angie after dinner. Muscles corded on his weightlifter’s body as he fastened an expensive mountain bike with front and rear shocks onto a carrier. Smelling faintly of herbal soap, he wore denim cutoffs, a polo shirt with Notre Dame Saints and a halo logo, and hi-tech sandals on his large feet. He repeated Gable’s praise of the school’s star swimmer and ran a hand over his curly black hair, prematurely thinning at the temples.

“With her training, I find it strange that she drowned,” Holly said, leaving an implied question.

He bit his lip and looked at the ground, where a line of ants was reaping the crumbs of campers. “A cramp. Alcohol. Kids make bad decisions. Maybe this was her first and last drink. Nate is going to take this hard. She’s his princess.”

“Paul Gable mentioned his suspicions that someone brought liquor. Do you know she was drinking? Did you see or smell anything?”

He bristled at the implied accusation. “If I had, I would have confiscated it. No one on our teams drinks during training, or they’re out. But Angie’s the last—”

“How about her friends?” At Notre Dame, everyone knew everyone’s business.

“She was dating Jeff Pasquin. Went to the junior formal with him last year. As for friends, Lindsey Benish.” He paused to think, rubbed his finger pads together. “But they must have had a falling out. These kids and their head games. It’s even worse in a small school. Feelings get hurt.”

“Point them out to me.” Not much had changed at the home of the Saints. A tapestry with knots behind it. How dense and how deep? What looked perfect on the surface was a tangled mess behind.

He nodded toward the group, a few elbowing each other to take their turns with Chipper. “Jeff ’s got his head shaved. He’s a swimmer, too. Went all the way to the Nationals. And Lindsey...” He craned his head as a girl with extra pounds only a seventeen-year-old could carry well blew her nose on a tissue. “She’s the one in cargo pants and the polka-dot bikini top. Nothing shy about her. A few more years, and look out.” Then he cleared his throat and smiled, revealing one chipped incisor, which added a touch of vulnerability. “Any other questions? I’m overdue to call my wife. She’s eight months pregnant and keeps me on a short leash.”

Kim Bass, the English teacher, had an oval face with high cheekbones. About Holly’s age, she wore wheat jeans and a faded plaid shirt. Her sleek black hair was razored at the sides. She wore soft, beaded moccasins that looked more comfortable than Holly’s hot, stiff boots, which had raised a blister on her heel with the prolonged and irregular beach walking. Kim’s voice was husky and low, sweet as lemonade on a July afternoon. “Angie was in my British Lit survey this year. I also had her in tenth grade for Communications. Straight A’s.”

“When did you see her last night?”

She shuddered, even though the day was warm, sun streaming through the trees. A sheen of sweat broke out on her brow. Doe eyes and a faintly darker complexion made Holly wonder if she had First Nations connections. “Dinner, of course. There was a volleyball game.” She pointed to an open area, where a net was set up. A lone, deflated ball sat to one side. “We were all playing.

Angie won nearly every serve. A natural athlete.”

“And afterwards?”

“I developed a headache and went to my tent for an early bedtime. Smoke from the campfire maybe. Kills my sinuses.” She gave a small cough into her hand. “Not that I expected to get much sleep with all these teenagers, but I took a sleeping pill.”

Holly’s eyebrow rose. “I see.”

“My head was throbbing like a jet engine.” She levelled her gaze at Holly and gave a weary sigh. The sclera were pink and inflamed. “You remember slumber parties. Girls can yak all night. The boys keep it down.”

“Lucky you brought a supply, then.” Had the woman been unconscious? Was she on a medication with unusual side effects like sleepwalking?

“Just generic stuff. They were in my personals bag from a trip to England a year ago. I always take a couple on the plane.”

Having been told that Jeff had been Angie’s former boyfriend, Chipper directed the young man to a bench under a massive Sitka spruce with its trademark cracked bark. “Do you carry one of those cool daggers?” Jeff asked, unable to take his eyes from Chipper’s uniform.

Chipper’s soft smile hid an internal eye roll at the naïve question, but he refused to answer directly. “Actually, it’s called a sword, though the use is purely ceremonial. It’s a very old custom dating back over four hundred years.”

“Wicked. I’ve seen a few. Way better than crucifixes and rosaries.” Jeff awarded himself a congratulatory snort on the joke.

Chipper explained the interview process to the young man. “And your relationship to Angie?”

Jeff straightened his broad shoulders and completed a bullish neck roll. “We were dating. Were. Not this year.”

“What happened between you, if I may ask?” Chipper made a point of writing neatly. It was one of his trademarks.

Jeff blew out a contemptuous breath. “That’s no secret. Everyone used to see us arguing.”

Chipper’s pen poised. The boy seemed more angry than wounded by the death. On instinct alone, he didn’t like the teen. Cocky and immature. Interested in immediate gratification. Disciplined about his sport, but accustomed to the accolades as a birthright. Jeff wouldn’t have had to fight for anything. Chipper found himself listening to his inner voice instead of his subject and gave an internal shake. “Arguing about what?”

“Hey, man, you know chicks. Teasing you. Gets to be a hassle.” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

“We need to be clear. Are you saying that she wouldn’t... have sex with you?” One ebony eyebrow arched into a question. His stomach rumbled faintly, and he shifted.

“Don’t spread it around, man. I had all the guys thinking I’d been into her pants for months.” Then his eyes narrowed, and he turned away, miming a cigarette toke at a friend raising a pack. “Almost finished, dude,” he called.

“Were you trying to get back together with her last night?” Chipper asked, annoyed that Jeff seemed to have his own agenda. He needed to take back the interview. A small muscle in his neck started aching from tension.

Jeff turned to him with a worldly-wise curl to his full lips. “Just some fun. Why not? Didn’t work out, so I blew her off. We were going off to different universities anyway. Who cares? Follow what I’m saying?”

“Oh, I follow completely, sir.” Chipper snapped his notebook shut.

Last on Holly’s list was Janice Mercer. A short, wide girl with blocky glasses came over. Instead of the revealing shorts that most girls wore, her denim pair hung nearly to her knees, topped by a Save the Rainforest sweatshirt. Her eyes were beady and swollen, and she sniffed at intervals. “I was her tent partner, but honest, I conked right out around nine. Mom says I sleep like a log. I never saw her after dinner at all. She just, like, vanished.”

Holly let her talk for a moment. Janice hugged herself and gave a shiver. “Brr. I’ve been going all hot and cold, but I’m not sick. Do you think it’s shock?” She blinked at Holly, an innocent calf-like creature at first glance, but with crafty intelligence behind the pose. She reminded Holly of someone who sought small advantage by talking behind a person’s back. A sneak.

“Very likely. If there’s a regular soft drink around, try that. Or coffee with sugar.”

“Yuck. I never drink caffeine. Just herbal tea. Chai.” Her cautious diet hadn’t helped a serious case of acne. Having skated clear herself as a teen, Holly could only imagine the humiliation.

“Please tell me what happened. Anything you remember.”

“Not that she was my good friend. I’m not very popular. That’s ’cause I believe in hard work, not fooling around like some of these...kids.” She waved a stubby hand in their general direction. Her nails were short and serviceable, without a hint of polish.

“It’s tough. I was kind of independent, too.” Holly revised her strategy. Here was a girl on the edge of the crowd, quiet, paint on the wall, but perhaps a conduit for information. On the other hand, sometimes these types sucked up extra attention, embellished their stories or even lied to attract a rare spotlight. She moved closer, locking eyes as if they were confidantes. “What’s everyone saying?”

Janice gave a humph. “I don’t pay them any mind. They’re all so stupid. The boys show off like gorillas, and the girls talk about nothing but clothes and make-up. And they read Teen magazine. My parents gave me a subscription to National Geographic.”

Holly had to smile. “So did mine.”

Despite the years gone by and the addition of boys, not much would have changed at Notre Dame. In Holly’s day, even the lunch tables had status levels. She gave Janice an understanding nod. With a more flattering hair-do, a touch of natural makeup for those zits and some less intrusive glasses, she might be a late bloomer...if she got a personality transplant. “High school is an artificial world. I tried to forget it as fast as I could. And you’re a senior now.”

The girl leaned closer. “They’re all losers. They just don’t know it yet.” Her tone was bitter, with an undercurrent of strange confidence. She saw someone in the crowd and brightened. “Do you have any more questions? I need to ask Mr. Gable something.”

Holly set her free and reviewed her notes. She couldn’t see Chipper.

Gable walked toward her a few minutes later. “Have you talked to the students you mentioned? I’ve been making some calls from the restaurant phone. The parents will be at the school in an hour and a half to pick up their teens.” He brushed a hand through his hair and sighed. “God, the place will be buzzing. At least, that’s what happened when we lost two boys to an auto accident last summer. Alcohol was a factor. And speed.”

Holly turned at the diesel rumble of an elephantine motorhome in blinding chrome entering the campground. She was hardly aware of the fact that she spoke aloud. “Now’s the worst part.”

He cocked his head, a concerned smile on his lips. “I don’t follow.”

“Telling the family,” she said, turning to a fresh page. “Do you have an address, offhand? Nate’s the father, you said? Same last name as Angie? I have to ask these days.”

He touched her arm, an honest plea in those grey eyes. “Listen, could I come along? Nate and I have been good friends since I moved to the island. We’ve both raised money for the Lions Club.”

She thought for a minute. This should be her task and hers alone. No shortcuts to this heart-tugging ritual. But Gable knew the man. The father might need someone to stay with him. People often said that of women, but men were equally, if not more sensitive. A man was more likely than a woman to commit suicide after a love affair gone bad, partially because his choice of weapon was more fatal, a gun rather than pills. The romance of death supped from the blood and bone of the young and impressionable.

“I’d appreciate it.” Gable would be the first contact person should more information be needed. There was nothing suave or smooth about him, just an earnestness that proved he cared about his charges. The stereotypical job of vice-principal put him in control of discipline, a dull but necessary job outside of the inner city. Presumably he had his eye on a principalship, either at Notre Dame or another Catholic high school. Even now, were there any woman principals in the parochial system?

He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a thoughtful gesture. This would be a brutal assignment for him, too, she imagined. “Maybe I should call Nate first. Normally we’d be watching the Major League playoffs together. Boys’ night out. Pizza and beer.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the ground.

“Thanks, but we prefer to tell the family ourselves.” Not only was it a courtesy, but in the odd case where the parents might be involved in a crime, it was necessary to gauge their reactions.

Gable paused for a moment, then blew out a breath in frustration. “But I—”

“Protocol.” She gave him a sincere but professional smile. Her vocabulary was beginning to assemble a category of helpful terms which made an officer sound efficient but still human.

“Okay, I guess that’s best.” He pressed his palms together. “Can we meet at the Grant Road turn at four? They live on Rhodenite. Nate works as a senior manager at Costco in Langford, but he has weekends off.” He paused as if something else bothered him. “Sure I can’t even call him? Give him a minute to prepare for the bad news.”

Holly closed her notebook. “Think about it. That would be even worse. Letting the man stew for an eternity, wondering about the details. We’re counting on you to help us do things the right way.”

As they returned to their respective vehicles, she could hear him mustering the youths to pack up. Clearly, the entry of civilian personalities could compromise even the most straightforward situation. She remembered how Ben Rogers had played a distraught family like a sweet piano until he got the necessary information. An older boy had been molesting the neighbourhood children, often through his sessions as a babysitter. The fact that he worked cheaper than the girls had made him popular. Avid churchgoer and boy scout, he was the last person to suspect. The children adored him and his gifts of candy. Apparently he was quite gentle, convinced that his affections were welcome. Recalling that sad monster gave her the shivers.

“I’m going to call in,” she said to Chipper. When the radio failed to work, she added, “I thought we were on West Coast Repeater west of Sooke.”

Chipper fiddled with the controls and shook his head. “It’s in and out like a yo-yo.”

Cells also out of range as expected, they found a pay phone at a service station. Holly didn’t like the feeling of being hung out to dry. What if something went seriously wrong? The techies had been working on the problem for years. At the end of the line, Port Renfrew was stricken when their phone lines went down in storms. Last week a car rushing a patient to hospital had crashed, leaving two victims to the failures of telecommunications along a rocky, forested coast.

Back in Fossil Bay, she and Chipper completed their paperwork at the detachment. Late reports were an officer’s bane. This would be a good test of the man’s determination... and his grammar. Careless errors which emerged in court cast doubt on the investigatory skills of an officer and could toss a case into the garbage can. Ann had left on their arrival, taking her aching back to an early bed.

A few hours later, she rendezvoused with Gable at the busy corner of Grant Rd. Noticing that he drove a venerable VW bus with large flowers painted on the side, she couldn’t help but comment when they parked on Rhodenite Drive in a tidy suburban enclave. “I know,” he said with a grin as he bumped the rusty door with a hockey hip block. “Got it from the collection of an aging hippie draft dodger. Runs an organic farm in Duncan. As old as the Vietnam War, but it still ticks like a Timex. While the weather’s still good, I plan to do some exploring on the island. Strathcona Provincial Park, Cathedral Grove. Come winter, I might get over to Whistler for some skiing.”

The Didricksons lived in a pink stucco storey-and-a-half home, judging from the rounded brown shingles, probably built in the early nineties. A towering monkey puzzle tree grew on the front lawn. As they walked along the bricked path, Holly gazed up at the heavy fruits ready to fall. Late-blooming azaleas and plump rhodos added riots of pink and purple to the tropical effect. Greater Victoria benefitted from the Japanese current, which moderated temperatures. Neither too hot nor too cold. The perfect porridge. A glossy black vintage Mercedes sat in the drive, ready for a Sunday parade. Islanders pampered their classic cars, freed from the salt and wear of winter driving. Forty-year-old Mustangs mingled with Gremlins, Bonnevilles, Pintos and the odd Studebaker Golden Hawk.

More nervous as they approached, Holly reviewed her courses in Interpersonal Communications, Crisis Management and Grieving. What had she learned about breaking bad news? Empathy. Eye contact. No box of tissues to replace the charming but unhygienic handkerchief. She hoped she wouldn’t stutter.

“Ready?” Gable gave her an encouraging look. For a moment, she thought he was going to squeeze her hand.

She knocked firmly, and the door was opened by a large man with broad shoulders. He had a slight beer belly, but the fitness genes announced themselves, and so did the aromas of bacon and fried potatoes from a late breakfast. In comfortable jeans, he wore a polo shirt and carried a copy of the Times Colonist under his arm, a welcoming smile on his round face, thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing her uniform, he furrowed his brow, then looked at Gable, a question in his cool blue eyes.

“Paul? Anything wrong?”

Gable shifted his glance back and forth. “Nate, this is Corporal Martin.”

Her pulse off to the races, Holly stepped forward, her hand extended. Their shake was a mere gesture of civility. Out with it.The swift cut is the kindest. “I have bad news. Your daughter, Angie, has been in an accident at Botanical Beach.” Damn. She hadn’t breached the battlements of the cruelest truth.

He stepped back as if struck, placing a workingman’s large hand on the door frame. His unshaven face paled, and his jaw hardened, a muscle at the corner pumping. “A car wreck? Damn those kids. I told her not to ride with anyone with a novice license.” He paused, staring in accusation at Gable. “You said you were taking vans. Call this responsible chaperoning? What the hell—”

“It’s not that, Nate,” Gable said, putting a hand on his shoulder and blinking, moisture in his eyes.

Holly swallowed back a sob. “She drowned, sir. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

As they stepped inside, she let Gable take him aside for a moment, opening her notebook in an automatic gesture. What did she really have to ask him anyway? A few muffled groans came from Nate, the paper dropping to the handsome fir flooring. Behind him, a polished mantelpiece was covered with shiny gold and silver trophies. On the wall, candid pictures of Angie poised at the starting blocks at her meets displayed the progress of a champion. Hadn’t Gable mentioned a son? An ancient golden retriever rose from a cushy corduroy pillow in front of the fireplace, shook its arthritic body, and ambled toward Nate to nuzzle his hand.

He straightened and cleared his throat. For a moment, though he opened his mouth, no words came. Suddenly he became aware of the dog and let his fingers brush the silken ears. “Buster. He’s nearly blind now. Got him when Angie was three. He was her guardian angel.”

Holly made sure that the dog saw her first before she stroked it. Like most goldens, it was quiet and amenable. A perfect therapy dog. Not as serious as shepherds, nor as bright, but a winning, dippy smile that made it one of North America’s favourites.

Nate pulled himself from Gable’s steadying arm. “When can I—”

Holly adjusted her voice for the gentlest tone. He was handling the death of a child better than she expected. Yet what else could he do? Keening and wailing was a woman’s province. Men had such burdens. No wonder they snapped. Her father had been dry-eyed throughout the crisis with her mother. For her a solid knight. But in private, she knew he mourned at every sunset, staring out to sea, alone and frozen in grief.

“Angie is at the Jubilee. There are formal procedures. An autopsy perhaps.”

“Is that necessary? She drowned. It seems simple enough. Why put us through...” His voice trailed off, and he finally let his legs shuffle him to a seat in a leather armchair.

“They’re ordered thirty per cent of the time. It’s rare but possible that physical causes were responsible.”

“What physical causes? She was a goddamn world-class athlete. She should have lived...” His voice trailed off, and his fists squeezed into themselves.

Holly took from him only what she needed for the time being, the evidence of a life. “We’ll give you a call tomorrow. And Mr. Didrickson, I’m so very sorry.”

As they walked to their vehicles, a boy about eight with a vocal VRRRROOOOM tore down the street on a mountain bike, bumped up a curb, and turned into the driveway. Gable gave a wave. “That’s the son. Robin.” He wiped at a tear in his eye. “I’m going to stay with Nate for awhile. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“It’s kind of you. I was going to suggest it if there isn’t local family. This is no time for him to be by himself.”

“He has a sister in Metchosin. Very nice lady. I’ll get her over here.”

Back at the detachment, Holly passed Chipper heading for his elderly Sunfire. He’d been taking the bus, but had recently got a loan from his parents to buy the thousand-dollar beater.

Under his arm, he carried a manila folder. “Taking my report home for another read,” he said. “One class assignment I wrote: ‘She said that she had been gone for fifteen minuets and that her ex-husband had stolen the cat for breading purposes.’” He spelled the offending words.

Despite the grim day, Holly produced a genuine laugh. “Spellcheck was invented to lull a writer into a false sense of security.”

“You’ve got that right.” He held up a battered Strunk and Whyte style manual. “Ann gave me this. Said she nearly wore out the pages. I never can keep affect and effect straight.”

At least her staff got along with each other, she thought. Inside, she organized her notes and rerouted the answering machine to her house as officer on call. Then she set the security cameras and locked up. As quiet as Fossil Bay was, keeping the detachment open for more than one shift wasn’t feasible.

“Hello, baby,” she said to the 1985 Honda Prelude. When her Civic had coughed its last breath at 250,000 klicks, she’d traded it in at Sooke Motors, adding a new sound system for CDs. The Prelude was cherry in colour and condition, having been owned by an eighty-year-old retired jeweller who drove it only on weekends. The sound system was top of the line. She rolled back the sunroof and slipped in a disk of Sheryl Crow’s duet with Kid Rock. Holly’s mother had been no faithless spouse diving into a bottle, but lines from “The Picture” made her throat hurt. “I called you last night at the hotel/ Everyone knows but they won’t tell.” Did someone on this tight little island have information about Bonnie Martin? “I want you to come back home.” As if she could. From the beginning, Holly had known in her heart that her mother was dead.

She headed east a few miles on winding West Coast Road toward Otter Point, where her father lived. It had been too easy to accept his generous offer to share the large home. With her fledgling career and modest salary, buying a property was impossible with average prices shooting past four hundred thousand dollars. Legal (or illegal) suites were available only through close connections, and apartments were scarce. Park trailers were an alternative, but she wouldn’t be stationed here for more than a few years and didn’t want the hassle of selling.

Reluctant though she’d been to return to a place with bad school memories, she wanted to be sure her father was as well and happy as possible. The quintessential professor, he nursed his absentmindedness like a fond character trait. It allowed him a certain aloofness, especially from women. She wondered if he was lonely, because he’d never admit it. Neither did he mention female companions. Perhaps, with her dismal dating history, she was closer to him in personality than she thought. The social whirl never had meant much to her, busy and content in her own company.

She passed Kirby Creek, Muir Creek, Tugwell Creek, pioneer names from settlement. A metal sign on each bridge flagged the salmon habitat and urged people to protect “our” resource. Many feared the fishery might collapse, due to overfishing, sea-lice transfer from fish farms, or hungry seals staking out claims near spawning areas.

At Gordon’s Beach, a curious string of miniature homes perched on the narrow shoreline, elbowing each other like in a Disney film. Some were flimsy shacks, others brand new whimsical hobbit houses with gables, turrets, nooks and crannies valued at over half a million. With fifty feet frontage or less, they clung like limpets to the strip of land. Turning on Otter Point Road, passing a llama farm and saluting the dark brown shaggy male who gazed into another pasture at his harem, she took a left at Otter Point Place, a sunny hillside dead-ending in a turnaround. With the opposite side of the street still pasture returning to bush, it had an unsurpassed view of the ocean.

She stopped at the new mailbox pavilion. Nothing from Kevin in Nunavut. Why did she expect him to write? Even though they’d dated in Port McNeill, he’d made a deliberate attempt to keep their relationship casual. At first she’d been seduced by his gourmet Italian cooking and black belt in karate. Then, near the end, enter that new file clerk with the low-cut blouses and high-cut hemlines. He’d had such an odd look when she’d met them leaving the evidence lockers. After that, he’d been slow to return her calls, pleading the need to attend sessions of a court case.

As she opened the box, Telus, Shaw and B.C. Hydro bills spilled from the metal cubicle. Obviously, her father had neglected to collect the mail for at least a week.

Unlike the cottagey New England style of its demure neighbour, his was a white Greek villa, huge windows in the solarium, two decks, a hot tub, a rampant kiwi and a stand of banana trees. The lawn was dry and brown, even with the flushings from the septic bed. The monsoons couldn’t arrive soon enough. As she passed the peach tree at the side of the house, she smiled at the flourishing holly bush her mother had planted and her father had nourished. Tempting red berries protected by prickly leaves, a wry allegory for any independent woman.

Norman Martin taught popular culture at the University of Victoria and steeped himself in a different period each semester. The concept anchored his life and removed him conveniently from the realities of the present. A savoury stew infused the hall as she entered, a mysterious ingredient teasing her nose. Her father loved to cook for his research, and she loved to eat. She blessed him for waiting for dinner. Reunited only a few weeks ago, already they had an understanding that if she wasn’t back by seven, unable to call due to her remote location, he’d chow down.

“Get in here. Your old dad’s nearly faint,” he said, waving a wooden spoon from the kitchen. He wore a gingham apron over his chinos. Definitely not her mother’s. Bonnie Martin had never made a meal in her life. Food was a fuel to reach her goals, the simpler and faster the better, often no more than fruit, bread and cheese eaten on the go in her Bronco and washed down with cold green tea.

“Let me climb out of this gear. The vest is smothering,” she said, taking the winding staircase to the upper floor. Oblivious to its view, his nose in books, he had given her the master suite, taking the two back rooms for his bedroom and study. It gave her an odd feeling to have her parents’ room, but its double occupancy had been short. Perhaps her father wanted a fresh start, too. For all she knew, he’d abandoned that room to far-off memories. But he hadn’t sold the house, though he knocked around in its sprawl. Did he hope Bonnie would come home?

After a quick shower, she tossed on shorts and a T-shirt. At the pine table in a sunny, adjoining alcove overlooking the strait, she sat down to a Fifties meal. Shelves in the oak kitchen were lined with cookbooks, from Mrs. Beaton to Betty Crocker to Joy of Cooking to the Barefoot Contessa. He served a rich beef stew made with beer, boiled potatoes and a can of green peas. Starving, she dug into the meal, pausing only for appreciative nods and sips of the rough red wine he made at a local do-it-yourself vintner for three dollars a bottle. No need to make conversation. His commentary would be forthcoming.

Norman blotted his mouth with a pure white cloth serviette. “If they couldn’t get to a market or raise their own, even in summer canned vegetables would be welcome. Birdseye had just brought in the frozen variety.” He scrutinized the soft, mushy pale-green balls. “A different animal, but I crave them from time to time. Takes me back to my boyhood in Sudbury. Had a friend in Little Britain there whose mother served them mashed with fish and chips.”

Holly was transported to her childhood. “Mushy peas, I remember.”

Norman, never Norm, Martin was closing in on sixty, but she knew he’d retire only when they wrenched the cold chalk from his dead hands. Whip-slim at six feet, recently his shoulders had assumed the beginnings of a stoop, and his sleek blond hair was shading to grey. She doubted that he got regular exercise, though Otter Point had many excellent walking areas, from residential streets to clear-cuts, and the shortcut to the beach. Except for his professorial mien, an off-putter for some, he was an attractive man. She could imagine him fending off advances from middle-aged female staff. Sometimes she wondered about the unmarried departmental secretary, Frances, who baked him blackberry pies and used to call in a worried voice when he was running late.

Like companionable stablemates, they quickly slipped back into old familiar routines. “How did everything go, little freckle-pelt?” he asked. That curious lichen had been her pet name, a step up from the ubiquitous frog-pelt which Bonnie had showed her in the Plants of British Columbia guidebook, a gift for her twelfth birthday.

On the stereo in the tiled solarium down the stairs, a CD of Kate Smith played “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain”, then “Be My Love”, and “Danny Boy” as she gave him an update. His tastes in music were as eclectic as his many rotating historical periods. One semester he was enjoying Scott Joplin, the next the Beatles. “That woman could belt them out,” he said, pumping his fist in an unusually assertive gesture. “Whenever I hear ‘God Bless America’, I could almost march off to war myself.” An incongruous comment from a peace-living NDPer who drove a Smart Car, she thought as she managed another swallow of ghastly wine. If it had been in the bottle three weeks, she’d be surprised.

“Sorry, what did you say about the poor girl? That must have been a rough introduction on your first day. This is supposed to be a quiet place. I was relieved when you got the post. Never liked it when you were so far from civilization in that darn bush.”

“Sometimes the bush is safer. Give me bears over brawls. We’ll know more when the medical examiner takes a look,” she said.

He seemed pensive, shook his head and pushed the last pea to the side. “Terrible place for young girls. The morgue. So wrong. Any woman...” He paused and gazed across the strait to Washington State. A bank of clouds was dissecting the landscape, suspending a cruise ship in the air. Each year five thousand vessels used the passage. The possibilities for accidents were becoming exponential. Another Exxon-Valdez waited around every cove.

She knew he was thinking of her mother. Ten years had passed since she had disappeared, past the legal time for a person to be declared dead, such an artificial line. She knew nothing about what life insurance the woman might have had. To ask would be not only crass but an affront to her father.

Her mother had First Nations blood, growing up on a Coastal Salish reserve near Cowichan. When Bonnie had failed to return from a trip to the Tahsis area to start a safe house for abused native women, a search had started. At first they thought she’d driven off the road in a snow storm, but days had gone by, then weeks. Even when spring had revealed the landscape, her Bronco had never been found. The months that followed had been grueling. It had even been whispered that her father had played a role, not surprising, given the statistics in domestic killings. Normally he was peaceable, but her mother’s long absences in her social causes exasperated him, and the neighbours beside the eighty-foot lot had heard arguments, she suspected. Nor did Bonnie appreciate his career. “A waste of time,” she would say, considering the plastic black-cat clock he had found at a garage sale and mounted in the kitchen. “Why chew old bones? Do something for the living, for god’s sake.”

“Those who don’t remember the past are condemned to—” He’d retreated into professor mode. Fifteen-year-old Holly had been outside on the deck, but with the thin walls of the house, she heard every word.

“Give me a break, Norman. I know all about the past...and so do the women I help. We’re trying to make a difference.” Bonnie left to answer the phone, one of many calls which arrived at all hours.

Coming back inside that sad day and trying to feign ignorance, Holly had never forgotten his defeated look. With his tenure assured at last, he’d bought the Otter Point Place house for Bonnie, a sunny change from their dark A-frame in East Sooke, where the sun cast a fleeting glance down through the dense firs, and lights burned in the daytime. But it hadn’t helped. She cared little where she hung her hat, straw in summer, a warm toque in winter. Holly supposed she got her contempt for fashion from her mother. Bonnie would have liked the freedom of the uniform. Imagine starting each day with a series of bothersome decisions about what to wear and what makeup might complement it.

After dinner, they took their desserts and tea to the TV room for his favourite channels, Turner Classics or American Movie Classics. In keeping with his Fifties theme, they were watching River of No Return. Robert Mitchum was solid and upright for a change, even if he had killed a man in self-defense. Marilyn was buxom and casual, a wasp waist cinched in her blue jeans. Her scenes with young Tommy Rettig, Jeff in the Lassie series, were honest and touching. “Weren’t we watching this movie when I left for university?” she asked.

“You can never see this couple too many times,” he said. “Mitchum wasn’t just the dope-smoking bad boy in the tabloids. He was talented in many directions. Did you know he composed a symphony that was played at the Hollywood Bowl? Orson Welles directed it,” her father said, a master of trivia.

A sea change from Mitchum’s villainous roles. Even here in a quiet backwater, chances were strong that a sociopath lived within range, whether or not the person would ever act violently. “No return, no return, no return,” the theme song warned as she thought about her mother.Was he thinking the same thing? She shook her head and finished the prune whip. Not as good as his floating island.

When the movie ended, she looked at her watch. “Damn.”

Norman yawned and stretched. “What’s wrong?”

“I should have written up my notes at the station. That’s going to take me at least an hour and a half.”

He wagged a finger at her. “You always were a bit of a procrastinator. Unlike your old man.”

She stuck out her tongue and headed upstairs to her bedroom, where a new Dell computer awaited. Once seated, she opened the palm-sized notebook. The routine had been laid down at the academy. Dates of each notebook on the cover, ink only, no erasures, any changes initialed. Crucial for a court case. Then the transcription into a formal report. No secretary for that, they were warned. Her handwriting wasn’t the best; she tended to think faster than she wrote. In university, she’d used a shorthand which helped her to take notes in heavy-content courses like Abnormal Psychology and Sociology of the Family. If she hadn’t memorized the Criminal Code, she could cite numbers on command. And not everyone realized that Canada didn’t have the official Miranda warning like on American TV shows, but a caution based on the Charter of Rights. Each notebook contained a glossary at the end, which included radio codes for incidents and other standard information.

She was a long time getting to sleep. And the half moon was rising, not over the mountain like Kate’s, but across the water, pulling Orion and its triple-star belt in its numinous wake. Her mother had said that when it formed a C for coming, it was actually waning. She got up, slid open the patio doors, and walked onto the deck to contemplate the strait. Cruise ships took polite turns with freighters to ply their way west toward the Pacific or east to Puget Sound, the lights on their wires and superstructures like a mobile amusement park. Getting back into bed, she burrowed into the down pillow. Tomorrow wouldn’t be pleasant. She could take a pass on the autopsy, but how bad could it be? Telling the family was worse, and she’d leaped that hurdle today. She wondered how Nate Didrickson was faring. His daughter had seen her final moon.