“So who are his biological parents?”
“His mother is Priscilla Genge. Nobody knows who the father is. Except Priscilla, of course.”
“Does she live in Port Brendan?”
“No, she took off when Ernie was a baby, left him behind.”
“Where’d she go?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Ernie doesn’t know, either?”
“Maybe he does. He’s got connections. Maybe you should just ask him.”
“Did Lorna drive men in Port Brendan crazy?”
I call this type of questioning my Betty’s-come-to-visit ploy. Betty was someone my mom knew who’d always show up at our house when least expected.
Scott Dyson’s mother probably likes my surprise question as little as Dad did Betty’s visits. Nevertheless she responds.
“You can say that again. But the boys here weren’t good enough for her.” That sounds like an echo of her son. “She only made promises but didn’t deliver.”
A crude description. Still, it’s interesting.
“She set the bait but actually didn’t want to catch anybody?” I’m already speaking in fishing metaphors.
“Better ask Grace; she knew Lorna really well. Or Ernie.” Scott’s mother is almost through the door when she adds: “The less Scott has to do with Ernie, the better.”
Then the door is shut.
I stand there for a few seconds, then get into the car and go down the driveway in reverse. I turn onto the street without a hitch and push down on the gas pedal. My hands are tingling, but it’s not the cold. I go up the main street to the gas station, park on the edge of the plowed area, and phone Fred van Heisen.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“At the hospital. Trying to question as much of the staff as possible. Not the best place for it. They’ve got to keep the show going with just one doctor.”
“Fred, you have a list with the people who built the playhouse, don’t you? Can I have it?”
“Gates, you got a lead?”
“More of a wicked hunch. But I definitely want to check it out.”
“I’ll send you the list. Keep me up-to-date.”
I promise to. Driving through town, I see that it’s almost dead compared to the day before. Many of the athletes have probably left by now, and some are waiting. Like my three guests.
My visit to Shannon has to wait. At the station, I run into Wendy.
“They’re all out stalking,” she declares.
“Wendy, does the name Priscilla Genge ring a bell?”
She nods. “My mother’s second cousin.”
Cousins. Of course, how could it be otherwise? Everyone’s related to everyone in this place.
“What do you know about Priscilla?”
“She had a child by somebody. Then she high-tailed it out of town. She left the child here.”
“Was it Ernie Butt?”
“Yes. The Butts adopted Ernie. They didn’t have any kids of their own.”
“Where did Priscilla go?”
“I can’t say. Her parents have heard from her off and on. But they don’t say a word about it to anybody. They’re ashamed.”
“Why wasn’t Ernie raised by Priscilla’s parents?”
“I’ve heard they didn’t want the child because they couldn’t bear the father.”
“So people know who the father was?”
“Only rumors. They say he was a bitter enemy of Priscilla’s father. But like I said, it was a rumor.”
“It’s easy to determine paternity with a test.”
“Have you spoken with Ernie about this?”
“No, and this must stay between ourselves.”
I already regret getting Wendy involved in the matter.
But then she suddenly comes out with an unexpected piece of news. “Mom once told me that Priscilla probably moved to the States. She saw a postcard from San Francisco on Priscilla’s mother’s fridge. That made Mom curious. But Mrs. Genge didn’t say who the card was from.”
I feel my hands tingling again.
“When did Priscilla leave? Does your mother know?”
“My parents have passed away. Mrs. Genge, too; her husband has dementia. But just a minute . . . It must have been 1990. Because the Genges took Ernie in that year. He wasn’t even a year old at the time. Why not ask Ernie himself? He’s sure to know where Priscilla lives.”
“No, not yet.” I raise both hands defensively. “Don’t breathe a word about this.”
Wendy looks taken aback. I have to hammer it into her.
“It’s very important that nobody knows anything about this, do you understand? We could look foolish if it gets out.”
I look a bit like I’m imploring her, and she nods. I’ve got to act as fast as I can now, before things get out of hand. I close the office door after me and call a former coworker with the Vancouver RCMP.
“I need information on a Newfoundland woman named Priscilla Genge. She might have moved to the United States in 1990 or thereabouts. Maybe San Francisco. I’d like to know where she’s living, what she does, whether she’s married, and if so, to whom. Can you dig that up for me?”
“For you, I’d do anything,” the voice says at the other end of the line.
I sink back in my chair with relief. I still have allies in Vancouver.
43
Wendy’s gaze seems peculiar to him when he returns to the station. Bernard wonders if she knows something. Or just has an inkling. She’s friends with his wife. And curious by nature. He expects his coworkers to always keep him au courant about where they are. He doesn’t always do it himself. Hopefully it will never catch up with him.
“Constable Gates and Constable van Heisen are waiting for you in the meeting room,” the dispatcher tells him.
That’s not normal. First of all, what she said, and second, the formal way she conveyed it to him. What’s the matter this time? He’s really had his fill of bad news.
Coming through the door of the meeting room, he already feels the air is filled with tense expectation. He reads it in his team’s faces as well.
“You’d better have a good reason to take me away from an interrogation,” he begins. “I . . .”
“We do have good reason,” Gates says, interrupting him. “Let me explain. First, we discovered that the board with the Viking stamp in my cupboard that I showed you was left over from making the playhouse. You remember that the sawmill donated the material because it was the wrong size for the Viking house. Ernie Butt was one of the men organizing the construction of the playhouse, and he took the remaining boards with him after it was finished. He could easily have put together the crate with Lorna’s skeleton. Second, Ernie . . .”
Gates interrupts herself, goes to the door, and quietly closes it before resuming her report.
“Ernie was adopted by the Butts because his biological mother, Priscilla Genge, abandoned him a few months after he was born. She never revealed who his father was. She emigrated to the US, to a suburb of San Francisco, and married an American. And now the bombshell: her husband is a former American soldier, who was once stationed in Happy Valley-Goose Bay.”
Here she pauses. As if he is supposed to see some point to it.
He doesn’t quite get it and looks at her.
“You don’t mean to say that Ernie . . .” He shakes his head.
“That isn’t the whole story,” Gates continues. “Ernie knew Lorna. She and his wife, Grace, were close friends, as you know. Grace told me that he was worried about Lorna’s relationship with the American soldier. Maybe it was more than worry. Maybe he was mad at Lorna for getting involved with an American soldier, like his mother, Priscilla Genge, who took off and deserted her baby.”
He’s calmed down. And is disappointed. Calm because there might be something to Calista’s revelations. And disappointed that there aren’t more of them.
“Now tell me, Gates, how are we to build a credible case from these paltry pieces of a puzzle?”<
br />
“When I spoke to the Butts at my place, Ernie maintained that he always only drove a pickup before he bought his new SUV. Grace corrected him, saying Ernie often took her Hyundai Santa Fe. Ernie wasn’t happy about being corrected. I first thought it was because men like Ernie don’t like to be contradicted by their spouse. But now I think there’s probably another reason behind it.”
She looks at van Heisen, who responds immediately. “Ernie Butt wasn’t in his office the afternoon Lorna disappeared. Nor during the following days. He called in sick.”
“Where did you get that, Fred?”
“In the investigation files, Sarge. Grace told our men in Happy Valley-Goose Bay that she didn’t see Lorna the day she disappeared because Ernie had severe stomach pains, and she had to take care of him. It’s all in there.” Fred hands him some copies. “It’s odd that, on the same day, Grace nevertheless went to work. After work—at six—she picked up a snowmobile from the repair shop. That took an hour because she had to wait. This is in the files as well. She needed Ernie’s pickup because there wasn’t much snow in December three years ago. She couldn’t drive the snowmobile. She wasn’t at home until seven thirty.”
Before continuing, Fred picks up a written page off the table.
“Lorna left the furniture store at five. Ernie knew through Grace what Lorna’s plans were for the evening. Therefore, Ernie would have had time and opportunity to intercept Lorna after work and take her to a secret hiding place. And he had Grace’s silver Santa Fe at his disposal. Nobody examined it for clues.”
“Too late for that now,” Bernard remarks.
Gates picks up her narrative again.
“Grace also told me that Ernie always gets mad when her father says that Newfoundland should have joined the United States in 1949 instead of becoming a Canadian province. Maybe Lorna drove him into a blind rage with her needling. She was no shrinking violet and apparently had a sharp tongue. Maybe Ernie acted in the heat of the moment. The repressed anger at his mother, who found an American soldier more important than her own son. And because his mother was out of reach for him, he directed his anger toward Grace’s friend, who also chose to be with an American.”
Bernard shakes his head again. He needs more from Gates. Much more.
“I’ve got to solve the murder of a doctor, not to mention Bakie, and you come up with fanciful ideas that nobody can prove. Give me something concrete, Gates, then we can talk.”
She sits motionless on her chair, like a cat before a mousehole. Patient. Ready to jump.
“The murderer left the crate on Savage Beach intentionally, so that it would be found. He craves attention; he wants to show off. I strongly suspect he has kept trophies. Even the skeleton is his trophy. We haven’t found Lorna’s jewelry. Where’s the ring from her little finger? And what about her earrings? Maybe he’s got some of her clothing, too. I’d like to search Ernie Butt’s house and office.”
“What? I’ll never get a search warrant on the basis of those speculations. You know that better than I do.”
Ernie Butt. A government official! Ernie and Bernard are on a first-name basis. This is the last thing he needs. He feels his stomach tightening. If this had to do with a guy like Scott Dyson, a two-bit drug dealer who’s done time, then he’d have more elbow room. But now Gates had to go and sink her teeth into Ernie Butt, of all people. The worst of it is that he doesn’t completely mistrust her hypothesis. He’s always suspected that the perp came from Port Brendan but lives in Happy Valley-Goose Bay. In spite of this, he plays it down.
“Forget it. We’ll never get it past the judge.”
Gates stays calm. Her calmness irritates him. A thorn in his side. She doesn’t have all the pressure on her. If she has something go wrong, she can blame it on the consequences of that assault. Sure he’d like to act. God knows he’d like nothing better than results. A quick success, so he doesn’t have to watch his dreams go down the drain. Gates gives him hope but no certainty.
Now he hears her say: “We probably won’t get a search warrant for the house. But maybe we’ll find something in his car. That would be a good hiding place. He’d have easy access to his trophy when he feels like it. Ernie is still in Port Brendan today. Now’s our chance.”
She’s giving him a way out. Ernie’s car. How ingenious. His misgivings collapse like a row of dominoes. Ernie doesn’t have to know anything about the search. He could invite him to the station for a chat. Find some excuse. Involve him in a discussion about road conditions and how the police can better control street traffic. Ernie loves to talk. Crow about his job in the transportation office. He thinks feverishly. Best if Ernie parks behind the station where his car couldn’t be seen. By anybody. Ernie definitely won’t lock the car. Nobody does that in Port Brendan. That gives Fred and Gates time for a quick search. If they don’t find anything—and he’s afraid they won’t—Gates will give up. And he still will have done everything possible.
Unless the judge dismisses a car search out of hand. Which could happen; the judge probably knows Ernie Butt.
He gets up.
“I’ll phone the judge.”
He doesn’t fail to notice that Fred and Gates exchange pleased glances.
And then unexpected things happen. He’s put through at once. Explains that it’s more a matter of getting as many people as possible off the list of suspects.
The judge listens to his explanation without interrupting. Says at the end: “Send something over to me in writing, Detective Sergeant, but I’m prepared to approve this.”
He concludes the conversation and is flabbergasted. Fred and Gates rejoice. He thinks it’s premature. “We’ve got to contact Ernie first.”
But even that works. There’s no problem enticing Ernie to come to the police station. Bernard takes a deep breath. If only it all goes well.
Ernie parks at the rear of the station after Bernard tells him the front of the station is reserved. When Ernie comes into the office, to Bernard’s surprise he doesn’t want to talk about street alignment and traffic control.
“What a mess for Port Brendan!” he starts out right off the bat. “Two murders, and in such a short time. Do you have any suspects?”
Wendy brings in two cups of coffee and leaves.
“Ernie, we can’t discuss an ongoing investigation—you know that.”
“Who’d want to do away with Dr. Perrell? The guy has only done good things for us. People are totally shocked, believe me. They can’t get a handle on it at all. We prayed for him in church, but you could have reached out and felt the people’s horror with your bare hands.”
“His death affects all of us deeply, Ernie, and Kris Bakie’s death, too, of course. We’re doing our best to catch the killer or killers.” He’s on edge.
But Ernie doesn’t seem the least bit upset. “Were they vendettas? In my opinion, it probably has to do with revenge. With jealousy and resentment. I can’t explain it any other way. There were probably people who didn’t like Bakie. He . . .”
“Who? We’re delighted to have any tips.”
“No idea. I don’t have any concrete knowledge. But when somebody’s successful, there are always envious people around. I can vouch for it from my own experience. I’ve got a new car, and people are already complaining that the government pays their employees too much and could spend the money on more important things.”
Bernard twitches inwardly when Ernie mentions his car. He quickly changes the subject: “We’d like to put a traffic light at the crossing near the supermarket because there are so many near-collisions. Visibility is so poor.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Ernie assures him. “Maybe the government can free up some extra cash. But that’s surely not your biggest worry, Bernard, am I right? How’s it look with Lorna’s case? Anything new? Are you still investigating it, or is it just all about Perrell and Bakie now?”
“We’re searching everywhere,” Closs responds. “If you hear something, report it to us.”
<
br /> “Grace and I, we’ve told everything we know to Constable Gates. Did she tell you that Lorna threatened poor Bakie about his liquor license?”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. We follow up on every lead.”
Wendy reappears, this time with a plate of cookies. The damn door was open the entire time. Gates is right: that mustn’t happen.
Wendy puts the plate on the table. “More coffee, Ernie?”
“Please. The sergeant here is letting his get cold.”
Bernard attempts a smile. “It’s not good for my stomach. I ought to quit.”
“What? A little bit of coffee? My stomach takes anything. Never had problems. I’ve got a constitution like a horse. What’s happening with the Taylors, those thugs? Any updates there? The police surely can’t allow an innocent man like Scott to be beaten up that way. You put Dennis Richards behind bars because he clobbered Gerald Hynes. The Taylors are . . .”
Bernard doesn’t hear the rest. A figure has appeared in the doorway.
“Sarge, can I speak to you for a minute?” Gates asks.
His pulse accelerates.
“Have some cookies,” he says to Ernie. “I’ll be right back.”
Gates walks into the large office ahead of him and closes the door behind them. She takes an evidence bag out of her pocket and holds it up.
Something golden flashes through the transparent plastic.
“Lorna’s necklace, a present her parents gave her as a child.” Gates’s whispering is hoarse with excitement. “Way at the back of the glove compartment.”
44
Closs immediately arrested Ernie Butt yesterday. I’d have held off a bit and monitored him, but I’m not the decision-maker here. Actually, I ought to consider the arrest a compliment from the boss. He has confidence in my investigating ability. But we still have a long road ahead of us. Ernie instantly shut up and demanded a lawyer. I harbored the vain hope that he’d defend himself and get caught up in contradictions. Because he so loves to talk. But there’s a ray of light: our people in Happy Valley-Goose Bay have searched Ernie’s home and his office. They found one of Lorna’s rings in a drawer of his desk. The ring she wore over her tattoo on her little finger. At the moment they’re securing some evidence in Ernie’s cabin in the woods.
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 29
