Ann can’t pigeonhole her. Not yet.
The Mountie looks at her in a friendly way.
“It’s nice and warm in here; this constant wind is brutal. I’m going to freeze my nose off.”
Okay, she’s making small talk before the tough questions. So Ann strikes up a chatty tone, too.
“Unlike you, I have the luxury of staying inside and simply waiting for the weather to improve.”
“Wendy, our dispatcher, told me you’re not here normally in the winter.”
“Yes, this time I came a little early because I wanted to help with a fundraising event for the hospital. I promised Dr. Perrell.”
“When does the event take place?”
“During the Winter Games, March eighteenth to the twenty-third.”
“What’s the money for?”
“It’s going to computer tomography.”
“Do you know Dr. Perrell well?”
Careful, Ann!
“Who doesn’t know him? Dr. Perrell is very committed and really wants to help people here. I think he must be supported.”
“What brought you here originally?” The Mountie puts her notepad on her lap.
Ann hesitates, although the locals often ask her this question. Or tourists she happens to meet while hiking. It may mean something quite harmless.
“I read a book about Mina Hubbard, who went on an expedition to Labrador shortly after 1900. I found it completely fascinating and wanted to see the region for myself. That was four years ago. And then I got hooked on Labrador.”
“Mina Hubbard?” Calista repeats.
It doesn’t surprise Ann that the Mountie from Vancouver doesn’t know the name. Women of extraordinary achievement often find it difficult to receive recognition.
“Mina Hubbard was a Canadian,” she explains. “She came to Labrador in 1905 because her husband Leonidas had died on an expedition here. He starved to death. She wanted to carry his plan through to the end and so explored huge areas.”
She could tell her visitor so much more about Mina’s adventures or show her one of her books. She could describe how a companion of her husband’s on the first expedition left him high and dry, and wanted, after Leonidas’s death, to finish the trek successfully on a second attempt. And how Mina won the race with this man in Labrador and, after six hundred miles, reached the finish line before her rival with seven weeks to spare. But she doesn’t want this Mountie in the house any longer than necessary. She can’t read the officer’s notes, but it appears she’s jotting down Mina Hubbard’s name.
The officer looks up from her notepad.
“When do you normally return to warmer climes?”
Warmer climes? She must have got that from Wendy.
“Beginning of November.”
“You work at home?”
“Yes, I design websites.” Don’t reveal more than is necessary.
Calista Gates sighs.
“You’re lucky. I’m from Vancouver. In my city, we have maybe four or five days of snow in a year, and that’s it.”
A smile of longing plays around the Mountie’s prettily shaped lips, and Ann feels reminded of her own unfulfilled yearning for a familiar place that is still out of reach. She feels a sudden bonding with this woman, with her open face that she presents in such a vulnerable way. People’s eyes are sure to dwell on her mouth, on her straight nose, on her dark brown eyes. Ann wonders how the men at the station are reacting to the new arrival. The Mountie looks graceful, but not fragile.
Ann blinks. Her flight of fancy has passed.
The touch of sympathy Ann just felt evaporates when the officer continues: “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”
Because of an avoidable blunder of mine, Ann thinks to herself. Too late.
“Can you describe for me once again what you saw on the ice yesterday?”
Ann shifts around in her leather chair.
“The first thing I saw was a snowmobile.”
Calista Gates raises her eyebrows.
“Have you given us this information before?”
“No. It crossed my mind afterward that I should have mentioned it. There’s a snowmobile track across the bay. I see a vehicle go along it now and then.”
“Go on.”
“I didn’t think anything of it. I saw some movement afterward. Something colored on the ice. When the movement didn’t stop, I went and got my binoculars so I could get a closer look. A blue plastic tarp. When the wind blew it upward, I could see the hairy head of an animal.”
“How much time had elapsed since you saw the snowmobile?”
She pretended to think about it and responded: “Maybe twenty minutes . . . or half an hour.”
“Did anybody stop there?”
“I didn’t see anybody.”
“What did the snowmobile look like?”
“Nothing conspicuous about it. Maybe black or gray. It was difficult to make out.” She crosses her long legs in order to relax. “Sergeant, I saw someone else out there yesterday, later on. Was that the RCMP? Did you find anything?”
“I’ll get back to that in a minute. Didn’t you see us as well through your binoculars?”
“No.”
Ann knows that it must sound odd. She watches the Mountie as she writes. Those thin, feminine fingers. The small nails. She’d like to know how Calista Gates manages to get along in the male-dominated world of the police. She doesn’t look sexy, but she’s attractive in spite of her bulky winter clothing. She must be a little older than Ann, midthirties probably. Has a pleasant, soft voice.
“How many people were on the Ski-Doo?”
“I can’t say for certain.”
“What would you say off the top of your head?”
“One person.”
Calista Gates looks out the window onto the bay. She sees what Ann has to put up with every day: Shannon Wilkey’s grotesque palace. Ann secretly hopes that Calista Gates is as shocked as she is.
But the officer doesn’t let on a thing.
“Rather lonesome here,” she remarks. “Do you visit your neighbor sometimes?”
Ann chooses her words carefully.
“I like it lonesome, which is why I’m here.”
“So you haven’t talked to Shannon Wilkey about what you saw?”
“No.” Has she questioned Shannon already?
Calista Gates strokes her cheek and then speaks frankly: “We searched the bay yesterday and found a blue plastic bag that was weighed down with a big iron chain. In the bag there was a red sweatshirt with the words Animals Are the Better People and a cap like the ones sold during the Olympic Games in Vancouver in 2010. There was also the frozen head of a black-and-white dog and an ax. And a wooden board with a Viking symbol: three interlocking triangles.”
Ann feels a chill creeping up inside her as if someone has injected ice into her veins. The officer keeps talking, but she has trouble following the Mountie’s words.
Calista Gates watches her with interest. Too much interest.
“Mrs. Smith, do you know that dog? Do you know the owner?”
“No,” she replies. “I . . . I have no idea.”
13
I stop the snowmobile in front of Shannon Wilkey’s villa. The driveway has been plowed and the snow on the patio behind the house has largely been cleared. Shannon must have a private snow removal service. No neighbors like Rick Stout to come by with a snowblower every so often. No, this is the work of a professional snow remover with a huge plow. The space looks deserted; not a car parked anywhere. I can’t see a garage, either. Strange.
Ann Smith’s house is easy to spot from here: a traditional little house like so many in Port Brendan. Ann adapted to this place. Unlike Shannon, whose residence dominates the surroundings. The American can overlook the entire bay from this location.
For some reason Ann didn’t phone Shannon to discuss the blue garbage bag on the ice. She loves her solitude, as she says. In my opinion, her style of self-presentation doesn’
t go with that. The elaborate makeup, lavish but not excessive, tasteful but Hollywood-esque. Jennifer Lopez couldn’t have done it better. Who in Port Brendan sticks on false eyelashes on a normal day? And her stylish clothes caught my eye. Does Ann want to step out today? I’d like to know where to.
She’d sought out this modest house on a lonely bay. And then they drop this concrete colossus in front of her nose. Shannon could have built on another bay, where it would be flatter and simpler to build than on the rocks here. Wendy told me that parts of the bluffs had to be dynamited. She also told me that tons of earth had to be spread on the coastal rocks for the septic field. A bit extravagant for Port Brendan.
I hear a droning sound. Not a car but a snowmobile out on the bay. My binoculars reveal a silver Ski-Doo with a wide, green stripe. Even if it were gray or blue, I wouldn’t recognize it. I’m annoyed at myself for mentioning the ax to Ann. As soon as I did, she clammed up and turned very pale. Might be that she’s an animal lover and was horrified. But she did know already that a dog’s head was involved.
I take off my helmet and glide from the machine. From up close the Texan’s house is even more imposing than when seen from Ann Smith’s living room window. A monument to modernity. A white concrete facade with gigantic windows. I’m not an expert on buildings, but the windows must be at least triple glazed, given the wind storms around here. The roof rises boldly on the ocean side, like a billowing sail. The front door appears to be made of oxidized copper.
There’s a doorbell that I press firmly. With a house like this, nobody’s going to burst in just like that. No response. I push the doorbell again. Nobody’s moving. I work my way around the house in my snow boots. The front of the house has as much glass as the Museum of Anthropology in Vancouver. Nothing that would stop curious eyes like mine. Trendy furniture, large paintings on the walls, cathedral ceiling up to the gabled roof. Everything looks expensive. Imported from a long way off for sure.
I want to question Shannon about the stray dog on her property. And now she’s not in. So much time lost. The air smells like more snow, but the gray sky over the iced-in bay radiates peacefulness. I can see a tiny island off the coast. It sticks out of the ice like a lump. The only eye-catching spots are Ann Smith’s ochre-colored house and the ochre-colored fishing sheds on the bank.
I hear a motor again. Only much closer. I tramp quickly around the corner. A Ski-Doo. The driver stops and reveals his head. A young man. I’d really like to put on my helmet, that’s how cold I am already. Next time I’ll pack a fur-lined cap.
The man comes closer. An Inuk.
“Hi, anybody home?” he asks and glances over at the house.
“No, I haven’t seen anybody.”
He’s wearing a dark-green winter jacket. He looks good in it. Besides, I like green. He’s someone who takes some care with his outward appearance—I can see that immediately.
“I’m Sergeant Calista Gates of the RCMP. And you?”
His face clouds over. I know, I know. Not everybody loves the police.
“Kris Bakie.”
“You want to see Mrs. Wilkey?”
“Yes, she’s organizing a culinary evening for the hospital fundraiser.”
That comes out pretty quick in spite of his mistrust. His neck and head are exposed to the ice-cold air. The people here treat the cold like an insect that’s best ignored, although it bites.
“Are you involved?”
“I’m the chef de cuisine. I’m cooking a seven-course menu.”
Wow! Seven courses. And in Port Brendan.
“Are you from here?”
“Yes. But I live in Happy Valley-Goose Bay mostly. I’m the owner of the Eider Duck restaurant. And you?”
“I’m from Vancouver.”
Now the penny drops. That restaurant in Happy Valley-Goose Bay. Fred mentioned it recently. The pride of the region. The jewel of Labrador. Two Michelin stars. And a prominent chef. A young Inuk who’s gone far in haute cuisine and in Canada. In Vancouver, for instance. And who then returned to his native home. Shannon, the rich Texan, had hooked the illustrious chef for a fundraising gala in Port Brendan. Look at that! Maybe I’m not living so deep in the boondocks after all.
“You used to work as a chef in the Hyatt Hotel on Burrard Street?”
His face lights up.
“Yes. Until a year ago.”
“I once had an excellent caribou tenderloin there. Was that one of yours?”
Now he smiles in delight. I’m finding the guy simpatico.
“I introduced some new dishes from the Arctic there. They were very well received.”
“I can imagine. We Vancouverites are real foodies.”
My nose tickles. It will start to run now. I fumble for my handkerchief while not letting him out of my sight.
“Please, don’t leave the area. I’ll eat at your place every week when the road opens again.”
He eyes me with amusement.
“Labrador must be culture shock for you.”
“Thanks for your sympathy. I’ve only been here for a few days. Is there another season in Labrador besides winter?”
“Early winter, winter proper, late winter, mosquito season, and winter again.”
I join in with his laughter and am surprised at myself. Better get serious again.
“Did you make an appointment with Mrs. Wilkey?”
“Sort of, but she couldn’t say for certain when she’d be back.”
“Back from where?”
“No idea.”
I think for a minute. Should I wait? She can’t have gone far.
Bakie scuffs the footprints in the snow with the soles of his boots.
“What’s the RCMP want with Shannon?”
Now that he’s identified himself, he’s become bolder.
“She complained about a stray dog.”
“A dog? Isn’t Lorna Taylor a priority for you?”
I can’t tell him that the dog might have something to do with Lorna’s murder. Or maybe not. I must find out both of those things.
“Yes, it is, absolutely,” I answer, then add my litany. “If you have any information that might help us, then please, do let me know.”
He doesn’t say anything, just shrugs. We’re both cold, but he suppresses it better.
I follow up.
“Do you perhaps know whose dog it is? It’s black-and-white with a curly coat. Looks like a Labradoodle.”
“No idea.”
He turns around slowly and walks back to his snowmobile. Helmet in hand, he shouts: “We’ll see if the Brown Man has got Shannon.”
“What’s this about a Brown Man?”
He laughs. “An old legend. Way back, they say a man roamed the area wearing brown buckskin clothes. And attacking people. But you don’t have to be afraid of him, Sergeant. Good luck on your search.”
He turns his machine around and goes off. I fish out my cell phone with my ice-cold fingers to inform the head office about what I’m up to. A year ago, that wasn’t expected of me. I would have considered it controlling.
Then I see a new text message from the animal rescue group: The dog probably belongs to Melissa Richards in Port Brendan or her boyfriend, Kris Bakie.
I swear out loud.
Then it occurs to me who Melissa Richards is, because Wendy told me when it was hot off the press.
Gerald Hynes’s ex, the man who was with me on the ice.
14
Hello.
Shannon?
Yes.
Is this connection secure?
Yes.
I’ve got some info for you. The new policewoman.
Good. What have you got?
I don’t think you have to worry about her.
Okay . . . What . . .
She’s from Vancouver, that’s right. She was a detective sergeant in the Major Crime Homicide Unit until about a year ago.
But I want to know why—
I know—let me finish. She was in the hospital fo
r weeks. Then she was transferred. Probably to be tested to see if she’s still fit for service.
But that doesn’t tell me why she’s in Port Brendan of all places.
We mustn’t get paranoid. It can simply be by chance. A new position opened up in Port Brendan.
That doesn’t make any sense at all. Why can’t she stay in Vancouver? Surely her doctor’s there. And the whole infrastructure in case . . . in case something happens.
Maybe she picked Port Brendan herself.
Good God, do you know what you’re saying? If she did, then she must have a reason. She’s not just anybody.
I get your cautiousness. But it doesn’t give us the slightest bit of evidence that anybody knows anything about the person we’re watching.
I can only hope you’re right. But it wouldn’t surprise me if she soon turns up at my door with some awkward questions. Then we’ll have to talk again, seriously.
We have a plan. For whatever happens. Don’t forget that.
15
Bernard knows immediately that something not good’s going to happen when Fred van Heisen shows up in his office. He sees the indignation writ large on his deputy’s face, and that doesn’t happen often. He takes the bull by the horns and asks straight out: “What’s the trouble, Fred?”
Van Heisen fires away without hesitating.
“It’s everywhere on Facebook: the sweatshirt, the dog’s head, everything. And they’re speculating wildly all over the place and spreading rumors. That should have been better controlled.”
Bernard’s already aware. His thirteen-year-old son told him about it over breakfast. Fred doesn’t have children who operate as secret informers. Probably he’s a “creeper,” someone who looks for info on Facebook under a false identity. Bernard doesn’t think that’s wrong, because Facebook is a veritable gold mine for the Port Brendan police. Folks talk about everything on Facebook; most people don’t have the slightest inhibition. His son once drew his attention to pictures of a grandmother displaying her Christmas presents; among other items he spotted a voluminous bra and personal lubricant. Closs knows the woman; she works in the kitchen at the nursing home. Georgina, his wife, once told him that a local woman openly confessed on Facebook that she cheated on her husband with R. G. (everybody knows who R. G. is, naturally). That she deeply regrets the affair and is now working on her marriage. Closs recently caught his daughter giggling with a friend as they were looking at a tablet. The cause was a young fisherman on Facebook who was sitting bare-assed on a bucket on his boat and doing his business.
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 9
