CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1)

by Bernadette Calonego

  I’m staggered. Why is she telling me this so openly?

  “I can take a look at them if you want. Maybe I can find out who’s sending them.”

  Meeka’s face looks even more concerned.

  “That would get my husband really upset. He doesn’t want the police . . .”

  “You can block the sender. Did you do that?”

  She shakes her head. “Rick says he’ll find out who it is.”

  Rick doesn’t seem to me to be the sort who knows his way around complicated technology, but maybe I’m being prejudiced.

  “The emails are upsetting. You shouldn’t read them anymore. Block them. If you don’t know how to, I can show you.”

  “I’ll find out how.” She opens the door of her pickup. “Somebody’s waiting for you over there.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I think it’s Georgina.”

  Meeka shuts the door, starts the motor, and drives off.

  It’s a mystery to me how Meeka can recognize that heavily clothed person from over here. But she wasn’t wrong. My boss’s wife seems rather impatient when I get to her.

  “You didn’t respond to my text message from this morning. So I thought I’d come right here.” Her voice is as girlish as her face, but with an energetic undertone.

  “Did Sergeant Closs tell you I was here?”

  “Oh, no, Wendy told me. Can I take a quick look at the rooms?”

  “I haven’t got them ready.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I just want to see how much space there is.”

  How much space there is? I open the door to the basement where the guest room is.

  “Yes, this looks very nice,” Georgina exclaims cheerfully after sizing up the room. “Bunk beds. If you don’t mind, we can accommodate three women here. They’re friends.”

  I feverishly rack my brain to find a way out of this situation while I steer her to a second door.

  “The bathroom, how wonderful! That’s splendid!”

  “Maybe the ladies need a more private space and don’t want to be three in a room,” I object.

  “Nah. People in Labrador aren’t as squeamish as Vancouverites.”

  “And how does it work with meals?”

  “They’ll be taken care of in the Pentecostal community kitchen. Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring over three of our sleeping bags today; they’re washable. And an air mattress for the floor. You’ve got enough towels? And how’re you fixed for pillow cases?”

  This is getting to be a bit much. I prefer to steer clear of type A people with an inexhaustible supply of energy and good intentions like Georgina. They affect me like leeches draining my veins.

  “I don’t want any alcohol or drugs or loud music in here,” I warn her, “and no male visitors.” I sound like a den mother in a religious youth hostel.

  Georgina stares at me in astonishment with her big childlike eyes.

  “They wouldn’t dare do that in a policewoman’s house—just imagine. They’re in the lion’s den here.”

  I feel cornered. How do you give your boss’s wife a kick in the shins? You don’t.

  “When do the athletes arrive? And how long are they staying?”

  “They’re supposed to be here by late afternoon tomorrow and will stay for six or seven days. They’re in the biathlon.”

  She makes for the door. Maybe she’s afraid I’ll simply refuse.

  “Thanks for being so generous. I’ve run up against a wall with some other people. Like Shannon Wilkey—but don’t tell a soul. She has a huge house and won’t take anybody in. She says she’s an artist and doesn’t want to be disturbed while she’s painting.”

  “And Ann Smith?” Sure, I know her house is too small but can’t resist asking.

  For the first time, Georgina’s virginal face seems peeved, but she catches herself right away.

  “That lady is only out to exploit people.” She looks at me, with her hand on the doorknob. “My family is taking in three men. That’s what we owe the people here after all that’s happened.”

  The door closes, and I watch her drive away.

  Only now does it dawn on me what a biathlon is. People on cross-country skis who shoot with rifles.

  30

  Ann still feels his warm body on hers as she gets into her cold car. These intimate rendezvous are secret, and now, with Kris Bakie’s death, they’ve become even more precarious. No one can know.

  This game of hide-and-seek doesn’t bother her; on the contrary, she feels free. Hiding has become second nature to her. When safety or even life depends on it, then you quickly adapt. The thought had come to her in her more lighthearted moments that she’d have been well qualified as a secret agent or a spy. But those playful feelings always evaporate quickly.

  She mustn’t think of his passionate embrace now, the scent of his manliness, the sounds from his mouth when he shares their desire. She must concentrate on the cars behind and in front of her as she turns onto the highway to Port Brendan. Their meetings always take place away from the village, in a remote cabin on a lonely forest road. Never at her place. And never at his. In summer they sometimes make love outdoors if a strong breeze keeps the mosquitoes at bay.

  Incredible how lively Port Brendan’s streets have suddenly become. Unfamiliar faces, figures in Inuit parkas, colorful headgear everywhere, logos on ski jackets that say things such as Team Walbush or Labrador City. A food cart sells hot dogs and hamburgers from the grill. A fuzzy snow hare, the mascot of the games, wanders down the slope and is soon encircled by children.

  Her eyes hunt for a place to park, but every spot is taken by vehicles and snowmobiles. Suddenly the nervous, enthusiastic excitement before a sporting event seizes her. She’d love to take off on a pair of snowshoes, heading for the finish line step by step. She’d love to be part of a team feverishly looking forward to the big day, or a team that hopes for victory for their country. But her role in the Winter Games is limited to technical work on the website. The organizing committee asked her to contribute photos. So she maneuvers her car toward the harbor, past pedestrians and vehicles. There’s a big parking lot in front of the fish factory.

  Her festive mood plummets at once when she discovers the new RCMP woman talking to another Mountie. They’re standing beside the police car and talking, looking serious. Ann recognizes Fred van Heisen. Upon reflection, she manages to remember the policewoman’s name. Calista Gates. Even close-up she looks pretty beneath her fur hat. Pretty in a natural way, not like Shannon, that Hollywood doll who dresses up to the nines. Calista won’t be dangerous for me, she persuades herself. She’s not so sure about Shannon.

  The two officers look concerned. So would she in their shoes. The RCMP must be worried not only about the games but about solving two murders as well. She notices something else. The way van Heisen looks at his partner. Is she telling him something outrageous or . . . or does she fascinate him that much? Van Heisen has a girlfriend in Saskatchewan, so she’s heard. He flies out there at times, but his girlfriend apparently won’t come to see him in Port Brendan. As long as the murder investigation is on, he definitely won’t be slipping away to Saskatchewan.

  Ann isn’t under the impression that the killings have frightened the villagers. It could have something to do with the Labrador mind-set. They concentrate on what’s in front of them, on the everyday, because they can’t solve a murder. She’s convinced, though, that the seriousness of the situation won’t really and truly become clear to them until after the games are over. But she sees herself in a different position. She can’t give a reason for her assessment of the situation; it relies on instinct. On the other hand, when she thinks about the garbage bag on the ice, her heart beats faster. Her lover doesn’t want to discuss it. That bothers her. She has no one else she can confide in.

  Then she does something she wouldn’t have thought possible two minutes ago. She parks behind the RCMP car, gets out, and walks over to the constables. Two heads swivel in her direction.

/>   “Constables, hello. I just wanted to ask if there’s any news regarding the find on the ice.”

  “Hello, Miss Smith,” Gates responds. “I understand that the incident is of interest to you. We’ve discovered the dog was poisoned. We’re looking hard for the owners of the cap and sweatshirt and are looking into the origin of the bag. Have you heard anything that could help us?”

  The constable’s voice is full of warmth, and Ann thinks that people could underestimate Calista Gates because of it, which would be a mistake. She’s given her just the amount of information she needs to. But not the whole truth. Ann’s aware of the fact. Her bare temples hurt in the bitter cold.

  “Maybe,” she hears herself say, to her own astonishment. “I organized an online auction about three years ago for the animal rescue group to raise money for strays. I remember that a cap from the Vancouver games was offered some time ago. Past auctions were deleted, but perhaps somebody in the group remembers who won the cap back then.”

  “That’s a useful tip, thank you very much,” Gates says. “We’ll follow up on it.”

  “Were red sweatshirts auctioned off as well, with the words Animals Are the Better People on them?” van Heisen asks.

  “I don’t remember,” Ann answers. She yearns to escape the cold and says good-bye. Inside the car, she puts on her wool hat and pulls the fur-lined hood over it. A handy camera is in her inside pocket.

  On the way to the arena, where the opening ceremonies will be held the next day, children are selling tickets for a raffle. She’s seen pictures of the grand prize, a quilt. A masterpiece. An elderly Inuit woman made it over weeks of long, hard work. It shows scenes from the locals’ everyday life in accurate detail. She buys twenty tickets, but she’ll give them away. They’d never forgive her in Port Brendan if the quilt were to go to someone from elsewhere, like herself. Because that’s what she’ll always be, an outsider—she harbors no illusions about that. Even if she were to live here for twenty years. At that moment she discovers a person she can give the tickets to.

  “Meeka,” she shouts, “are you going to the arena?”

  Meeka Stout stops. She’s wearing a modern version of the traditional parka, with colorful embroidery.

  “I’ve got to go on stage again,” she replies, “for the rehearsal. There were problems with the microphone earlier.”

  “Here.” Ann hands her the tickets. “I bought too many and don’t want the quilt.”

  Meeka sees through her ploy and grins. “Yes, I heard it’s ugly. Nobody wants it.”

  She doesn’t take the tickets.

  Ann sticks them in the side pocket of her parka.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “Rick took them over to the barbeque. He promised them some Arctic char.”

  Meeka makes no move to leave. “I saw you with the two Mounties. The new one was at my place this morning. But don’t tell Rick.”

  “No worries. What did she want from you, anyway?”

  Ann knows direct questions like this are not welcomed by the locals. But in this case, Meeka brought up the subject and probably forgives her pushiness.

  “Who knew that Bakie went to the Viking house on Wednesday?”

  Ann is taken aback. “She asked you that?”

  “No, I’m asking you. What was he doing there?”

  “No idea. I only know that Dr. Perrell thought we’d have to test the acoustics there again. He said in an email that he wanted to go there with you. But that has . . . had nothing to do with Kris.”

  The sound of drums and singing wafts over them from somewhere.

  Meeka responds with astonishment. “Dr. Perrell has never said anything about it to me. I didn’t know he wanted to go there with me.”

  “Oh? I don’t get it. It seemed very important to him. You see him quite a lot, don’t you?”

  Meeka turns her face away so that Ann can only see her embroidered hood. “Now and then, for . . . ”

  A gang of young people merrily whooping it up passes by. Some words on their backs tell where they’re from: Team Rigolet. A woman follows them, her child sitting on a sled drawn by a large husky.

  Meeka looks back at Ann. “She asked who has a key to the Viking house. Why did she want to know?”

  “Maybe because she suspects one of us.”

  When Ann sees Meeka’s stunned look, she regrets her rash answer. “I wasn’t serious. We all have an alibi.”

  Meeka half turns away. “I’ve got to go now. Thanks anyway for the tickets.”

  Ann’s eyes follow her. She actually wanted to go to the arena, too, but changes her mind. She might well intimidate Meeka even more.

  So she limits her plans for the time being to taking a few pictures of the visitors, of the preparations for the snowshoe race, of volunteers in their green jackets, and of dog sleds. When she turns around to photograph a group of young athletes, she almost bumps into a fast-approaching snowmobile. She saves herself by jumping aside, but catches a glimpse of the woman driving it.

  She recovers from the shock only after taking several deep breaths that burn her lungs. RCMP Sergeant Bernard Closs’s wife missed her by a hair. Then drove on unapologetically; her snowmobile is already on the ice in the bay.

  A passerby who watched the near miss grins.

  “That was a close one,” he shouts at her.

  Ann grins halfheartedly back. Although she in fact sees nothing funny about it. But something entirely different.

  31

  I see no reason not to ride around on my snowmobile today. There are far too many cars in Port Brendan. It’s cold, but the sun’s shining, and that makes everything a bit more bearable. Besides, I'm getting a better handle on driving the machine. I'm not afraid of the trail across the bay anymore. My right side isn't hurting. That gives an enormous boost to my feeling of wellbeing.

  And that Fred comes along pleases me, too. He’s opening up a little more with each passing day. The police car is parked in front of the fish factory, where as a matter of fact we run into Ann Smith. Which surprises us both.

  I can’t shake off the suspicion that she’s keeping a whole lot of things from us. Behind those fake eyelashes, there are probably red herrings hiding away that she’s feeding us. Nothing has changed this feeling, even with this brief encounter; quite the contrary. I intend to speak with her a second time.

  But Fred and I must first make a quick trip to the shed at the cell-phone tower, where teenagers reportedly drink loads of alcohol. We arrive to find four empty beer bottles but no teens. So it’s back to Port Brendan. I’m disappointed that we don’t meet Ann Smith again in the village.

  I briefly consider phoning her, but I’ve always been one for surprise attacks.

  “I’m going to pop over and see her,” I let Fred know. “Can you hold the fort?”

  He agrees at once. My respect for him goes up accordingly.

  I take the Ski-Doo out on the bay ice. When I don’t see Ann’s car at her place, I change my plan.

  I leave Ghost Bay behind. The ice scrunches and crackles beneath my snowmobile’s skis. I go slowly so that the wind in my face doesn’t feel colder. The ice should hold through March, but I don’t know that for sure. I see other people riding over it, apparently carefree. What would I do if a crack opened up somewhere? Or if the ice sagged? I haven’t got a clue. Nevertheless I drive impatiently toward the Viking house. I can’t help it; sometimes it simply grabs me. If I didn’t have this obsessive urge, this feeling of being driven, fear would open its jaws. I hope to discover something in the house that I missed earlier. If I’m there alone, I can completely immerse myself in the scene of the crime.

  I’m annoyed when I must stop on the ice: my sunglasses keep fogging up and have to be wiped clean. All the same, I feel something like freedom and control on the ice for the first time. The vastness expands my head and lungs and takes a weight off both. Only light and white and sky and horizon. Maybe that’s what lures fishermen onto the infinite ocean each year, this la
ck of any limitation. The ocean is stronger than anything, even when it’s covered with ice.

  I get moving again. The Viking house comes closer. I steer my machine carefully over the beach and up the snow-covered bank. How different the place seems. Weird. I sometimes wonder if the ghosts of murder victims still hover above the scene of a crime for days on end. But I don’t say that to anybody.

  I park the snowmobile some distance off; I want to examine the tracks around the house once again. My hopes are dashed. The snow is trampled down almost everywhere. Good that I took pictures when the tracks were still visible. I blink in the sunshine. A lot of people in and around Port Brendan own heavy Ski-Doos with wide skis, not only Hynes and my teammate Sullivan. Checking numerous alibis turned up nothing suspicious. All kinds of people apparently have a key to the Viking house, not merely the fundraisers but also people in the tourist office. And Hynes and his workmen.

  Sullivan and Delgado didn’t come across any promising angles when interviewing Bakie’s friends and relatives. Maybe we’re digging in the completely wrong place. Sullivan is still investigating whether Bakie’s one-time friend and employee is considered a suspect. And Dennis, Melissa Richards’s brother, came up with an alibi for the time of the murder. Unless his mother’s lying. Which can’t be discounted. Three days have passed since the murder, and there’s still no concrete clue as to Bakie’s killer. Three days aren’t much, but still, things can’t move fast enough for me. Hopefully forensics in Happy Valley-Goose Bay will finally come through with results.

  I’ll work on Bakie’s laptop tonight, in peace and quiet. But something’s driving me to go back to the crime scene. The way a murderer often returns to the scene where he committed his horrible act.

  I slowly approach the sod house. It’s so quiet here, after the noise in the village. Suddenly, a large, brown animal stumbles among the trees at the edge of the woods. A bull moose. I freeze. It freezes also, and its dark eyes look at me through long eyelashes. Then it takes two steps toward me and doesn’t change direction until I raise my arms, terrified. It gallops along the border of the woods as if on stilts and disappears. My heart is in my throat, beating wildly. I read somewhere that the bull moose is classified as one of the most dangerous animals on earth, especially when in rut. That’s in autumn, I know, but the sheer size of the moose was alarming. I stand on the spot for a while as if paralyzed and scour the forest edge for any hint of the moose.