Ernie’s lawyer isn’t all that clever, but he’s still able to throw a monkey wrench into the works. He claims to reporters that the gold chain in the glove compartment was planted in Ernie’s car by the RCMP, who needed a win; that Lorna gave Ernie the ring as a prize for fundraising for the playground in Port Brendan, and that Ernie kept it because he believed an impulsive Lorna would soon regret it and ask for the ring back. But we have witnesses who saw the ring on her finger during the last days of her life.
The lawyer also stated that Ernie searched for Lorna for days after she disappeared and didn’t go to work. Grace could probably give us more on Ernie’s whereabouts at the time and what he did exactly. But she won’t talk to us since her husband was arrested. She traded in her Hyundai Santa Fe—it’s highly probable that Ernie used it for the crime—a year after Lorna disappeared. The Santa Fe was sold for scrap in the meantime. So that lead petered out. I don’t think that Grace was involved in Lorna’s murder. But for sure she knows more than she’s confided to me until now. I can only hope that the preponderance of evidence will induce her to speak and cough up more details. A faint hope, I know.
The available evidence is good but not damning. Not yet. At the present time, Lorna’s jewelry is being tested for traces of DNA at the lab. I’m desperately waiting for the results. Grace’s family meanwhile has publicly taken Ernie’s side. Any minute now, I expect them to throw me out of my house. Which would make me very sad. Especially now, when I have the house to myself. The three athletes have left.
The mood in Port Brendan is bad. The cancellation of the games has angered everybody. And Ernie Butt’s arrest hasn’t earned the police any sympathy from most of the populace. Ernie is one of their own. If Ernie gets arrested, then it can happen to anybody in town. Nobody’s safe from the long arm of the law. That’s the way people here think. Not even the Taylors can conceive of Ernie being the guilty party. That’s not what a murderer looks like. Thanks to Ernie, Port Brendan had an ally in government when community interests were endangered. It seemed that everybody expected he’d go into politics. Maybe even be premier of the province of Newfoundland and Labrador one day. And now this.
We can’t keep Ernie stewing in custody forever. Just twenty-four hours without an arrest warrant. The judge gave us an extension on account of the ring and the necklace. Without a confession, it’s still a race against time. Closs’s primary aim is to determine whether there’s a connection between Ernie and the objects found on the ice. And with the deaths of Perrell and Bakie. I think he’s going down a dead end. Ernie Butt was not in Port Brendan when the bag was left on the ice. And neither the footprints nor the snowmobile tracks point to him. And I don’t see Ernie having a motive to kill Perrell or Bakie.
I drive to Shannon’s house to learn more about that last conversation between her and Perrell in the arena. What made them so mad? The cleaning lady opens the door and tells me that Shannon’s at the hairdresser and will be back in two hours. I take a peek in the shed, and her car is indeed not there. Frustrated, I make my way to Crow Point. I pace up and down in my silent house in order to ruminate on the murder cases; it’s better here than in the office. I miss the girls’ voices. How will Karissa Pardy get over the shock of finding Perrell’s body? Or will she be overcome by the memory of it for years to come? Will she get psychological care? I’m not able to talk to her anymore. The doors in the guestroom closet stand open. I squat down and photograph the board with the Viking symbol. It will be part of the evidence against Ernie Butt. When I get up, I feel dizzy. My hand finds support against the wall until I can see clearly again. I must make it through this investigation. I must.
I’m the only one left to cook in the kitchen; I make a coffee and read the text messages on my phone. The first one is from Gerald Hynes. I was able to repress that unrestrained kiss with him, but now it catches up with me again. He tells me that he’s no longer in the hospital but at his parents’. And that he has something he must absolutely tell me. I ponder that one. It may have to do with the investigation.
If not, then it’s an opportunity to make it clear to him that I intend to maintain professional distance.
He answers my call immediately.
“When were you discharged?” I ask.
“This morning. They’ve got better things to worry about than a brawler with bruises.”
“What’s the mood like in the hospital?”
“Muted would be an understatement. Fear. Shock. Nobody can explain why somebody would kill Dr. Perrell. And now there are two murders.”
“Who discharged you?”
“Dr. Cameron.”
“How is she taking it?”
“She’s keeping it together. Many people fall apart in extreme situations, some get stronger.”
It’s not that simple, I think to myself. Violence and humiliation can destroy the strongest man. Unless he gets help.
“Why do you want to talk to me?” I want to get straight to the point.
“I left a tool at Perrell’s house. I wanted to get it before his relatives or somebody else shows up. But not without the police there. Had enough trouble already. Will you come with me?”
“Is there anything there that’s relevant for our investigation?” I adopt a more businesslike tone. Hynes has to realize there will be no repeat of the incident in the hospital.
He answers just as dispassionately. “I’ll show you something that might be important.”
He’s crafty, this Gerald Hynes. He’s given me an excuse to go into the house and look around a bit. He knows I can’t say no. I think hard. I quickly dismiss any thought of informing Closs. Better to present him with a fait accompli. The sarge is under pressure as much as I am. I’ve got a good hand to play after exposing Ernie Butt. All the same, he told me to go get some sleep before the clock even struck midnight, while the rest of the team kept working. Where did he find out that I can’t work all night since the assault? My teammates are sure to have picked up on it. All the more reason to have a look in Perrell’s house. It’s not so easy to keep me away from a case.
“Where do your parents live?” I ask.
“Across from the old post office.”
“Address?”
“Fourteen Pete Road. But you won’t find it that way. Go down the street to the harbor until there’s a turn. Take it, and it’s the third house.”
“The first turn—right or left? And what color is the house?”
After some mistakes, I don’t trust the locals to give directions.
“First turn to the right. The house is white and a bit brown. You can’t miss it.”
“Why don’t we meet at Perrell’s house?”
“Dr. Cameron won’t let me drive for three days because of the strong painkillers; then she wants to see me again.”
Well, okay. He doesn’t want his pickup to be seen in front of Perrell’s place.
I’m really supposed to be interviewing Shannon Wilkey and Ann Smith. The side trip with Hynes doesn’t have to take long.
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
I wolf down a muffin in the kitchen and drown it with coffee. When I look out the window, it dawns on me that I’ve got to drive through the snow storm that’s just beginning, although it was predicted for late this afternoon. It’s not far to the harbor, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ll simply have to drive at a walking pace.
After a few meters on the road, I break out in a sweat, although the heater isn’t yet running at full blast. There’s not much snow on the road, but the wind blows white flurries from left and right in front of the windshield, and I only have a few seconds between them to take in the surroundings. It has become quite dark, although it’s only nine thirty in the morning.
I drive in slow motion. Suddenly headlights loom up out of the blinding white cloud. Shit. I’m in the wrong lane. I’m shaking as I turn off to the side. How can I find the house on Pete Road like this? Somehow I manage to get to the street to the harbor. I
recognize the turn by a red rope flapping in the storm. Normally it’s tied to wooden posts. I barely make the turn and strain to find the first right. I see from the cars in the harbor that I’ve missed it. At that moment I hear my phone chirp.
“Where are you?” Gerald asks.
“At the harbor. Are you trying to kill me? It’s hell out here.”
“Wait. I’ll get the Ski-Doo. You can sit behind me.”
“I’m not dressed for a Ski-Doo and don’t have a helmet.”
He hesitates before saying: “I’ll bring everything.”
I wait with the motor running. Confused thoughts and images flit through my mind. Shannon and her Vancouver cap that she donated to the online auction. The group picture with Perrell, and Ann Smith standing to one side. The dog’s head severed by a sharp knife. With the scalpel somebody tossed into the mailbox in front of the police station. A red sweatshirt that disappeared from a Salvation Army shop. Did somebody steal it? Bakie, who’d booked a flight to Las Vegas to begin a new job. Without anybody knowing. Carl Perrell’s interest in Ann Smith, who gave him the cold shoulder. What was really going on between those two? The quarrel between Shannon and Perrell a few minutes before he died.
I finally see a shadowy, helmeted snowmobile driver beside my SUV. I unlock the passenger door and lower the window, and Gerald hands me a jacket and helmet. The jacket’s too big, but the helmet fits. It’s almost impossible to open the door in this wind. I push with all my might against it and force myself outside. How reckless it is to get out in this weather. You’d have to be crazy to even think of doing it. I consign my car to its fate and climb onto Gerald’s snowmobile, a rucksack squashed between us.
The wind whips snow in our faces. I hope Gerald sees the dim headlights that appear out of nowhere. How can he drive a motorized sled if his doctor prohibits him from driving a car? But it’s too late for such thoughts. I hold on tight to the side bars while the Ski-Doo shakes hard. Suddenly it stops. We’ve arrived at Dr. Perrell’s. I stagger giddily toward the front door, which Gerald opens after several awkward attempts. We bang the snow off our arms and shoulders as best we can. It’s surprisingly warm inside; nobody’s turned off the heat. What a blessing to escape the storm for a while. Gerald takes off his helmet; one eye is still swollen and black. His scars are awful. I quickly look away and take off my boots. We go into the kitchen, where the renovations are almost finished. Gerald puts his helmet on the marble counter and struggles out of his thick jacket. His face is contorted; it obviously causes him pain.
Feels odd to be alone with him. And in a strange house. I’m on guard. He’s planned something for me, but what?
“Come,” he says and goes to the living room. I see the couch with mixed feelings. That’s where I lay as I woke up from my fainting spell. It seems like so long ago, and yet it’s only been a few days. Gerald pushes the couch aside and picks up something from underneath it.
“We had to move the electrical wires in the kitchen and considered our options. We tested the living-room walls and moved the sofa to do it. I found this underneath it.”
He has a stack of papers in his hand. They’re newspaper articles in a transparent plastic cover.
“I don’t like to admit it, but I flipped through all of them quickly. I think they’ll interest you.” He points to the article on top.
I put on my latex gloves and take the article out of its cover. The headline is short and in bold: America’s Triumph! Below there is a picture of a woman on skis with a rifle on her back. She raises her arms, still holding her ski poles, to acknowledge her victory. The caption below the picture: “Yvonne Shelcken makes history! The first Olympic biathlon gold for the USA.” I sit down on the couch to read.
The article describes how Shelcken won the Olympic gold medal at Whistler in Canada against overwhelmingly strong competition from Russia, Germany, and Scandinavia. She benefited from a rule change, the text says, that gave more weight to the shooting contest in the total score. A result of doping charges against the Russians, who had manipulated the results for years. I recall that the three athletes mentioned Yvonne Shelcken at dinner in the kitchen. A paragraph about Shelcken’s life followed. The daughter of a Montana farmer and his wife, her ambition drove her athletic career. She’s obviously an incredibly good shot, but a top cross-country skier as well. A small picture shows her during the medal presentation: a healthy, freckled face, blond, short hair—the farmer’s daughter bit rings true.
I feel Gerald watching me and look up.
He gesticulates.
“Don’t you think it’s funny? That he held on to these articles?”
I reflect on what I’ve just read. Perrell was employed as an emergency doctor during the Winter Olympics. He told me that when I had my hospital appointment. Is that why he was interested in Yvonne Shelcken? Shannon Wilkey was also in Vancouver for the games. And Meeka Stout. Is there any connection there? Now I really would have liked to know what Perrell and Shannon were talking about in the arena just minutes before the doctor was murdered. I look at my watch. Just over an hour to go before Shannon’s back home.
I leaf through the rest of the clippings. More about Yvonne Shelcken.
“He seems to have been obsessed with the biathlon,” Gerald remarks, somewhat impatiently, because I don’t react. I read on. The articles all concern the Olympics in Vancouver and Whistler. He’s right: they’re all about the biathlon, and Yvonne Shelcken is in all of them. Perrell’s name shows up in one of the articles. My pulse quickens.
“Dr. Perrell was working as an emergency doctor during the Olympics,” I explain to Gerald.
“Then why did he hide this stuff?”
I have no explanation for him.
Bird calls. My phone. I hesitate. Then I recognize Fred’s number. I press the talk button.
45
The lighting in the small canteen is unpleasant. Fred has to suppress a slight chill.
“The women here are all in love with Dr. Perrell,” the hospital cook says. A skinny person with a long neck, her voice is as bright as a glockenspiel. The brightest voice he’s ever heard in Port Brendan.
The cook is also astonishingly forthcoming, unlike the three employees he spoke with earlier.
“I mean, I should probably say were in love with him. Dr. Perrell could wrap them around his little finger.”
Lost in thought, the cook falls silent briefly before continuing: “They’d have done anything for him. That’s why the place worked so well, though the clinic doesn’t have much money.”
Fred can hardly concentrate. He can’t get Ernie Butt’s arrest out of his head. Also the question of how they should nail Ernie down so that he ultimately confesses. Mind you, the necklace in his car and the ring in his office are pieces of evidence that a prosecuting attorney could only dream of. But Ernie will talk his way out of it. He’s already mobilized his family and relatives and his friends in government and tried to convince them he’s innocent. Fred wishes Calista Gates would keep concentrating on Ernie. But Closs has set her on Shannon Wilkey and Ann Smith, where Fred doesn’t see there’s anything to be gained.
Ann Smith had definitely allowed herself to play a little bad joke on Dr. Perrell. She must have been so proud of her win in the shooting competition that she tried to unsettle the doctor a bit. Sort of a role reversal between the almighty doctor and the mocked outsider.
And Shannon was sure to have criticized Perrell in the arena for the disaster with the fundraising event in the Viking house. Or vice versa. Bad organization, a quarreling committee, unrealistic ideas. Two alpha animals, each of whom tried to push through their own plan.
He wished Gates were here. She’s good at questioning. He could swap ideas with her afterward. Yesterday she’d allowed Closs to send her home without a peep, while everybody else stayed in the office. Sure, they’re all exhausted but were working on adrenaline. Maybe Gates is keeping mum and just does what she wants. Like with the Butt investigation. It doesn’t take much to
see that Calista has a certain something: intuition, acuteness of mind that go beyond normal investigative work. He’d expected a call or text from her today, but she hasn’t said anything. That unnerves him. His life suddenly has a new component: with her, an important person has arrived who has influence on his professional everyday life. He doesn’t understand yet what he’s supposed to think about it.
The cook pushes a plate of partridge berry pie closer to him that he hasn’t touched. He doesn’t think it proper in this situation to eat, although the pie looks delicious and he’d like to keep the cook speaking freely.
“And that accent!” she exclaims. “Like a British lord. The ladies simply couldn’t resist him. They swarmed around him like bees to the hive.”
Fred finds the comparison interesting, because he sees bees in Port Brendan rather rarely.
“Did he . . . was one of the women closer to him than the rest?”
“I once heard that he had a girlfriend in Happy Valley-Goose Bay, but nobody could say who it was. Probably just a rumor. People often spread rumors about him. Many say he’s gay. But that’s just jealousy.”
“Did any men have reason to be jealous?”
The cook leans over the table conspiratorially.
“Oh, there are so many jealous people here, you can’t even imagine. There are definitely people jealous of you, too. Because of the new policewoman from Vancouver. Such a pretty one.”
She points to the pie. “Please do have some!”
That sounds like an order. Fred takes a little piece and slides it into his mouth.
The cook looks at him pleased as Punch.
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 30
