Bernard takes Fred’s last words—“That should have been better controlled”—as a very clear accusation aimed at him. Fred usually holds his tongue, unlike Sullivan and Delgado. He has to admit that Fred is right. Calista Gates ought to have sworn Gerald Hynes to silence after the garbage bag was found. But people in Port Brendan play by their own rules. Sooner or later the details would show up on Facebook—sooner rather than later, in his experience.
“Gates comes from the big city and hasn’t got a clue about the small world we’re in,” Bernard retorts, justifying the situation. “Her mind-set is probably still back in Vancouver.”
His voice is more condescending than is appropriate for the faux pas. A concession to Fred. Bernard has to keep his deputy in a good mood. His superiors had planned to send Bernard to Edmonton. He’s been in Port Brendan for four years; usually after that long, the RCMP moves personnel around. Bernard was ready to move on, but his wife wasn’t. And neither were his two kids. His family had grudgingly moved from British Columbia to Ontario and then to Labrador, but by now they felt very comfortable here. His wife had found a good job in the clinic; his son was on an up-and-coming hockey team, and his daughter had made half a dozen friends in her class. Bernard’s family threatened him with open rebellion.
Then came the phone call from Vancouver. It led to a secret deal. Bernard’s transfer had been postponed for two years. And Fred had to bury his hopes of becoming the boss in Port Brendan. All because of Calista Gates.
“None of us knew how the world in Port Brendan worked when we started here,” Fred replied. “It’s up to us to explain that to Gates.”
By “us” he means me, Bernard thinks to himself and changes the subject, as he finds himself doing whenever the conversation turns to Calista Gates.
“The dog owner has been found: Melissa Richards.”
Fred is not so easily diverted.
“That’s already on Facebook.”
“Anything about the red sweatshirt?”
“Apparently there’s a dozen of them. The animal rescue group ordered a bunch. Lorna was only one of several group members to get one. The sweatshirt in the garbage bag could have belonged to anybody.”
Lorna Taylor. Bernard has sensed the locals’ mistrustful frustration over the last three years. They can’t understand why the police aren’t able to solve the case. But there’s a spark of hope now. In him as well. It has to do with the skeleton but also with Calista Gates. He doesn’t come right out and say it, but a new investigator sees old crimes from a new angle. Unexploited possibilities. He just has to ensure that everybody on his team gets credit and that Gates, whenever necessary, gets put in her place.
He stands up behind his desk.
“We must find out where the ax came from, and whether it was used to cut the dog’s head off. And we’ll want to find the rest of the cadaver.”
“Not to forget the Olympic hat.”
For a second he thinks Fred means it ironically. But his face looks serious as he leaves the room. Nevertheless, Bernard is left with a bad feeling.
No sooner has van Heisen left when an unfamiliar woman’s voice hits his ears. Wendy appears in the doorway.
“Melissa Richards is here about the dog.”
Wendy had filled him in on Melissa’s clan. Because having background on someone’s clan is de rigueur in Labrador.
“Melissa Richards, from Port Brendan South; they’re the Richardses who came over from Newfoundland years ago, from St. Anthony. They bought the old orphanage—the building with the blue metal roof. You’ve surely seen it. Melissa’s mother raises flowers in her greenhouse in summer. She cleans in the clinic two days a week.”
He presses his lips together.
“I can’t worry about her now, too. I have other things to deal with. Is Gates back yet?”
“Here, sir,” somebody calls, and Calista Gates pops up behind Wendy. She has her helmet under her arm. Strands of hair from her ponytail have come loose everywhere. The cold has turned her face red. “I’ll take care of Miss Richards.”
“We can question her in here,” he suggests, changing his mind on the spur of the moment. When he writes his report for the Vancouver RCMP, he can say in good conscience that he’s observed her doing an interrogation.
She throws him a look. He can tell by her expression that she sees right through him.
Melissa Richards is wearing white, tight-fitting stretch pants and knee-high boots. He can’t recall ever seeing pants like that in Port Brendan. Or colored hair that shines like copper. He suspects her red bomber jacket with a Canada Goose badge is a knock-off. These illegal imitations have been making the rounds in Port Brendan for some time now. Even his daughter wanted to buy a cheap imitation from China, but he vetoed it, promising her the original for Christmas. It will cost an arm and a leg, yet the girl sulked for days.
“Why did everybody know and I didn’t?” Melissa gripes as she’s brought over to Gates.
“We wanted to be absolutely sure where the dog came from so we wouldn’t frighten any children unnecessarily and let them think it was their dog,” Gates explains in a reasonable tone of voice. “Please have a seat over here.”
Melissa sits down and keeps on bellyaching.
“Everybody knows our dog, the only black-and-white whoodle here, so you didn’t need to ask too many questions.”
“What’s a whoodle?”
Gates takes off her ski jacket. Closs watches Melissa eye her up and down. People in Port Brendan all shared a common characteristic: curiosity.
“A cross between a Wheaten terrier and a poodle. It’s the only one in South Labrador,” Melissa adds proudly.
Gates writes something on the pad in front of her.
“Gerald Hynes was there when we found the dog, and he didn’t recognize it. He’s your ex, is he not?”
Melissa shakes her copper mane.
“Gerald knows the dog very well; he’s lying like a mink. Maybe he’s behind it.”
“So the dog’s yours?”
“It belongs to both of us. Kris bought Arrow for me.”
“Kris Bakie?”
“Yes. Can I see Arrow?”
“Unfortunately not. We’ve sent him to the medical examiner in Happy Valley-Goose Bay. Can you hazard a guess as to who might have killed your dog?”
“Maybe somebody who’s jealous. Everybody here begrudges everybody everything. It’s a hoot.”
“Do you have any suspicions?”
“No, not really.”
“Can you give us some names of people we might interrogate?”
“Names? Good heavens! If I’m wrong, then folks won’t ever look at me again.”
Melissa tugs at her skintight pants and stops looking at Gates.
“Kris will be devastated. Arrow followed him around everywhere.”
“You haven’t talked to him about this yet?”
“I’ve tried to get him on his cell phone, but he doesn’t answer.”
Closs sees clearly that Gates hesitates briefly. Why doesn’t she follow up on the Hynes clue?
“Kris is your partner?”
“Yes, we’re engaged. He asked me six weeks ago.”
Melissa raises her hand to show her ring.
“Congratulations,” Gates says in a friendly voice. “Your fiancé is participating in the charity event for the clinic, so I’ve heard.”
“Yes, he’s going to do seven courses.”
“He’s on the organizing committee, with Dr. Perrell, is he not?”
“Yes. The ladies are making such a to-do about this fundraiser. My goodness! We collect money every year for the Youth Club and don’t puff ourselves up like those folks do.”
“Which ladies do you mean?”
“Shannon and Ann.”
“Ann Smith and Shannon Wilkey?”
She nods.
“And Meeka Stout is part of it. She lives right below you; the gray house with the white shed.”
Interesting, Bernard th
inks, that Melissa Richards swapped Gerald Hynes for the prominent chef. Kris Bakie is definitely the reason she hasn’t moved away from Port Brendan like many other young women, to Newfoundland or Ontario, or wherever there are more options. Bakie’s an Inuk, but one with prestige. That’s important to Melissa for sure. In Labrador, whites and Inuit have often intermixed. It was mainly white men marrying Inuit women. He’ll point this fact out to Gates, who hasn’t got a clue about such things.
Melissa has hit her stride.
“They’re doing it for Dr. Perrell; that’s why Shannon is here so soon and Ann Smith, too. Nobody can refuse a request from Dr. Perrell. It didn’t take him long to persuade Kris.”
“Are you or were you active in the local animal rescue group?”
Melissa regards Gates in surprise. “No, I mean . . . I haven’t saved any cats or dogs. I’ve sometimes taken part in the group’s online auction on Facebook. Why do you ask?”
Gates continues, impassively. “Do you have any tattoos?”
“Yes.”
She takes off her Canada Goose jacket and rolls up the sleeve of her body-hugging sweater. Four butterflies flutter in a dance on her lower arm. Bernard can see them, because Melissa shows her arm for him to admire the tattoo.
“That’s the only tattoo you have?”
“I have a caterpillar here.”
She points to the top of her breast and grins.
“That’s all of them?”
“Yes. Why are the police interested in tattoos all of a sudden?”
Gates ignores the question.
“Did you ever have anything to do with the Viking house? Did you work there or dress up like a Viking for tourists?”
Melissa shakes her head and knits her eyebrows.
“Did you ever buy a cap from the Vancouver Winter Olympics or receive one as a gift?”
“No. I used to have a T-shirt but threw it out a long time ago.”
“Do you happen to know if anyone in Port Brendan owns a cap like that?”
Melissa rolls her eyes.
“Man, that’s ten years back! How am I supposed to know? What’s that got to do with our dog?”
“Those items were found together with your dog. We’re trying to establish a connection.”
“A connection? Don’t you want to find the person who killed Arrow?”
She grabs her jacket and gets up to leave.
“I met your fiancé today in front of Shannon Wilkey’s house,” Gates reveals.
Melissa’s attractive face immediately tenses up. “He was at Shannon’s again?”
“Didn’t you know?”
“He was at her place two days ago to talk about the fundraiser. I thought . . .”
She doesn’t finish her sentence.
“I asked him about the dog because I . . . because I thought he might know something about it. He told me he didn’t have any idea whose dog it was.”
“Did he say that?” Melissa’s voice sounds less cocky. “And Shannon? What did she say?”
“She wasn’t home.”
“Where did Kris go afterward?”
“I was hoping you could tell me that.”
“Sorry, I can’t.” She throws her hair back. “Is that everything? I’ve got to go; my mother is sick.”
“Yes, of course,” Gates replies, as if unsurprised by her sudden departure. “We’ll keep you informed about the dog. Here’s my card and phone number in case something else occurs to you.”
Bernard waits until Melissa is gone. Then he leaves his corner and closes the door. He’s experienced enough to guess at least one of Gate’s conclusions.
She immediately says: “She didn’t even ask what happened to her dog. Whether it was a cruel death. Weird.”
He nods and waits.
She folds her arms. “At the beginning, she accused Hynes, but it was a halfhearted try, and she didn’t come back to it. Strange that both men claimed they didn’t recognize the dog.”
“That’s really odd.” He wants to know why.
Gates seems lost in thought about Melissa. “For instance, she didn’t ask, who could have done such a terrible thing to my dog? She didn’t even shed a tear.”
Gates shakes her head as she ponders. “She was upset when she heard that her fiancé was at Shannon’s place again, and she didn’t know about it. And she still can’t get him on his cell phone.”
“Maybe jealousy’s involved,” he adds. “Shannon is supposed to be an exciting blonde.”
He’s glad his wife doesn’t hear him. Georgina wants a politically correct father for her adolescent children.
“Maybe something other than jealousy,” Gates says.
“What are you thinking of?”
“Don’t know, exactly. It’s more of a hunch.”
He doesn’t think much of hunches. He goes to the door and opens it.
Gates gets up slowly, pointedly.
“Is Melissa in danger? Is the blue garbage bag a warning to her?”
“You should work Hynes over,” he replies, surprised at himself.
16
Dr. Carl Perrell strides into the room, bursting with energy, a folder in one hand, the other reaching out toward me. A pleasant handshake, winning smile, mellifluous voice. Tall, strong shoulders back, and a very short haircut that makes him look athletic. A youthful, college-football-player look. What’s a man like him doing in Port Brendan, for heaven’s sake? He could fit right into a Netflix series about a popular doctor—and the entire hospital staff would give him the shirt off their back.
I’ve dreaded coming to the clinic. What will I have to reveal in this small hospital? And who’ll see my data? It already started badly at the reception desk. An employee behind the glass looked at my card from the Ministry of Health and called out, as loud as she could: “Your birth date is June 17, 1985?”
As if this information wasn’t on my health card.
The waiting room was filled with people who now knew the date. As I stared at the woman, appalled, she opened her mouth again.
I intercepted her: “Wait!” I whipped out my notepad and wrote: “Please do not announce my private data to the whole world,” and shoved the note under the glass partition.
She read it and was annoyed. “We have to do it in case the information on the card is incorrect.”
Then she directed me to take a seat in the waiting room. I evidently alienated her, and all Port Brendan will learn how arrogant the new RCMP officer is.
Dr. Perrell knows nothing about this intermezzo, but he’s studied my medical file from Vancouver. My history seems to fascinate him. He wants to pump me for all kinds of facts, though they’re in my file. Maybe he thinks he’ll find out something my brilliant doctor at Vancouver General missed.
“Brain injuries can be complex,” he declares, as if I didn’t know. He has a British accent. “Every injury is different, every brain responds differently. That’s why research is pretty much at the beginning stage.”
Even that tells me nothing new.
“I get brain damage cases time and again,” he says. “So many accidents with Ski-Doos: the head hits the ice; it can be severe even with a helmet on. The ATVs are bad, too, especially because people don’t wear helmets.”
I don’t inquire what happens to these injured people. I’d love nothing better than to not discuss a thing in my medical history with him.
Dr. Perrell rubs his chin. And then comes a sentence I don’t ever want to hear again: “You’re apparently very lucky. Very few people recover so quickly from such a serious brain injury.”
Rapid recovery. Rapid for the experts. For me it’s been an eternity. A year and a half of tests and then more tests and rehab.
But I must secretly admit he’s right. I’ve read enough to know that I’ve been fortunate in the midst of misfortune. For example, I sleep quite regularly. The only thing that keeps me awake sometimes is the pain in my leg and my head. Most people with brain damage can only sleep for a few hours and then
only by taking pills. But most notably it’s my memory that’s working much better again. I still can’t remember the details of the assault, and sometimes I can’t recall other events in the past, either. But my brain has responded very well to the intensive memory training I do every day. Different brain cells have gradually taken over from dead ones. New receptors and synapses have formed.
“It’s a small miracle,” my doctor emphasized again and again.
I still have trouble with those damn numbers. It’s hard to do math. Algebra was once my favorite subject, but it’s now an incomprehensible chaos for me.
“Puzzles, wow! You’re still good at puzzles. Baffling.”
Dr. Perrell looks at me as if elephant ears were growing out of my head. “Almost every person with brain damage has huge problems with spatial orientation.”
I stay silent, furious. As if there aren’t enough problems to deal with. My stabbing headaches when I have to concentrate for a long time. My loss of libido. I’d love to finally get the hots for a man again. I can’t distinguish between red, purple, and orange anymore. I have to sleep for at least ten hours to feel rested. I can still smell, but I can’t say for certain what I’m smelling. Of course, I don’t rub his face in all that; the less he knows, the better.
“Have you had any seizures since coming here?”
Oh, yes, the seizures. When I suddenly fall down.
His eyes show concern. This man must have charisma if Ann Smith and Shannon Wilkey come here to assist him in his humanitarian work in spite of snow storms. His British accent must certainly charm some women. For me he’s a potential threat. He’ll have a say as to whether I’m capable of fulfilling my police duties.
“No, I feel pretty good,” I assert. “The medications help.”
“Problems sleeping?”
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 10
