Then something disastrous happened. Wick Posen was shot. He survived the attack, but ever since, he’s only been able to get around with a wheelchair. The right-wing media made Shelcken morally responsible for the attack. She received death threats. That did it: she went underground. These days, nobody knows where she lives or what she does. She completely vanished from the scene.
I study Yvonne’s face in the photos. I’ve never seen this woman before. The Olympics were of no interest to me at the time. Why did Carl Perrell save these articles?
My cell phone startles me out of my ruminations. It’s Closs.
“We’ve got the guy who poisoned Bakie’s dog. Joshua Price. A loner.”
Sarge says nothing about the fact that Fred and I invaded the privacy of Perrell’s house.
“What have you found?”
“He set out poisoned bait because he was annoyed by coyotes.”
Fred stirs on the couch. He blinks and stretches his legs.
“And Melissa didn’t know about it?” I ask. “That Bakie’s dog was poisoned?”
“She and Bakie had a fight. Remember? They didn’t speak to each other for days on end.”
“Did you see my text messages?”
“I did. Is Fred still with you?”
“Yes.”
I’m about to tell him about the press clippings when he says: “I need him at the office. I’ve got other plans for you.”
“Ann Smith and Shannon Wilkey, I know.”
He corrects me: “No, there’s an ice fishing competition this afternoon on Sataka Lake. I want you to be there. Keep your ears open, and keep an eye on people.”
I’m speechless for a second. “This afternoon? We’ve just had a storm.”
I can’t think of a better argument on the fly.
“It’s over. Good weather today. The competition takes place every year. You can’t bar people from holding it. The lake’s not far from here. It’s not hard to find. Ice fishing starts at one o’clock. You’ll have to take the Ski-Doo.”
I’m still flabbergasted.
“Is Fred coming with me?”
“No, we need him for something else. We have to stretch our staff somewhat.”
He’s keeping me away from the investigation. That’s all I can think. Why? That’s no help to him. I’m supposed to keep my ears open during the ice fishing. As if people would tell me anything. Me, the stranger from Vancouver.
“How long does the event last?”
All is not lost. I can still see Ann and Shannon afterward.
“Probably around two hours. Dress warmly. You won’t be moving around much.”
That’s a provocation. I won’t let him treat me like a child. And I’m not letting myself be pushed away from the investigation.
Without missing a beat, I say: “Does the name Yvonne Shelcken say anything to you?”
A long silence.
“Sergeant? Are you still there?”
“Yes, of course. What makes you bring that name up?”
“Carl Perrell collected a dozen or more press clippings about her.”
“Where did you find them?”
“Gerald Hynes discovered them. During the renovations.”
“Maybe Hynes smuggled them into the house.”
What an extraordinary response. He doesn’t even ask who Shelcken is. He must know the name. He’s probably more interested in sports than I am.
“I’ve got a call on the other line. Fred’s to bring the articles with him. He can also tell you where Sataka Lake is. We’ll take care of the house search.”
“Sarge, I have a suggestion. I think it would make sense to go public with some things so we can move ahead.”
“Can you express yourself more clearly?”
“I think it would be useful if more people knew about the flashlight and the white pocketknife. Then we have a chance of getting some helpful tips. It’s clear to me that you’re holding this information back because they’re details that only the murderer knows about. But I think the time has come to inform people. Somebody must know more about it and will finally come out with it, now that there’s been another murder.”
He pauses again.
“I’ll think about it.”
And he’s gone.
Fred’s standing up. He sits down at the table with me.
“What was that all about?”
“If I only knew.” I shake my head in my cluelessness. “Sarge is sending me to Sataka Lake. To an ice fishing contest. To sound people out. He wants you to go to the office.”
I’m so furious that my voice is almost beyond my control.
“Sataka Lake is pretty far away,” Fred says. “At least twelve kilometers. I went last year. There’s a Ski-Doo trail to it, but you ought to have somebody take you there.”
“Sarge claims the lake’s not far, and you can explain how to get there.”
We look at each other.
“Aha,” is Fred’s laconic comment as he interlocks his fingers on the table. “What did you find?”
“About what?”
“About Shelcken.”
I summarize my discoveries for him. He’s now wide awake. I’m glad he’s no longer asleep. The situation would have felt too intimate. Shelcken’s a good diversion.
“Maybe she moved to Canada,” he speculates. “Under a new name. The cook says Perrell’s supposed to have had a girlfriend in Happy Valley-Goose Bay. There were rumors. Maybe Yvonne Shelcken is living in Labrador.”
“You seriously mean that?”
“Why not? In the States, she’d have to fear for her life. She’s safe here . . . as long as nobody knows her true identity.”
I’m charged up. “Perrell probably knew her identity because he was a doctor at the Olympics. Maybe he got to know her through that.”
Fred folds his arms and leans back. “Did you know that Sarge was stationed in British Columbia at the time?”
I stare at him, open-mouthed. He almost seems a little proud to be able to tell me the news.
And he unpacks some more: “In Kelowna. That’s not too far from Vancouver.”
“Was he deployed at the Olympic Games?”
“You can go ahead and ask him. Maybe police from all over the province were in Vancouver back then, as reinforcements.”
A thought flashes through my mistreated brain. That’s why the RCMP hit upon Port Brendan when they were looking for a post for me. Because Closs has connections to the RCMP in Vancouver. That must have been how it worked.
“Then Sarge might know Yvonne Shelcken?”
Fred looks at me without a word.
I jump up and photograph the articles with my cell phone. Who knows if I’ll ever get hold of them again, given these omens. My thoughts are racing. It can’t be Georgina. It can’t be Shannon.
Good Lord! A woman who’s an outstanding shot. And who’s athletic.
Fred leans forward as if waiting for the answer from me that’s been obvious for a long time.
I shake my head.
“Ann Smith doesn’t look like Yvonne Shelcken. See for yourself.”
But as I place a portrait of her in front of him, an insight takes shape.
The clever makeup. The dark hair. The perfect teeth. The straight nose. That can all be manufactured. That can all be paid for. The perfect camouflage!
“Ann Smith?” The name comes out of my mouth like shocked amazement.
47
I don’t want to find anyone in front of my house. Not when I’ve got so much to think about. I’ve got to solve the puzzle of Yvonne Shelcken. I don’t want any conversation or interruptions. I particularly don’t want to deal with Georgina Closs at the moment. And yet she of all people is standing at my front door. How did she find out again where I am at a particular time?
Her yellow Jeep is parked in front of the shed. The only yellow vehicle in Port Brendan. The snowplow has already cleared the streets, and Rick Stout must have removed the snow in front of my house. That means
Grace Butt has not instructed him to stop working for me. I can still stay in the house. It’s eleven thirty, and almost half the sky is blue. What crazy weather in Labrador. Rays of sunshine break through, and I have to squint in order to see Georgina.
“I’d like to pick up the sleeping bags and pillows. You don’t need them anymore, of course,” she explains.
“Sure,” I respond, and let her in. She takes her colorful pointed cap off inside the house. Her fine, blond hair flies in the warm air from the heating. She looks gloomy. When she sees the guest room, she heaves a deep sigh.
“The girls must have been very disappointed that the games were called off.”
“They were inconsolable,” I acknowledge. “Have you heard from Karissa Pardy?”
“I’ve asked her parents about her; she’s putting on a brave face, but I’m not allowed to speak with her, officially—my husband wouldn’t feel comfortable with it. He considers it a potential manipulation of a witness.”
I hear the bitter undertone to her voice. It’s certainly not easy being a policeman’s wife. Together we pack the bedding into the shiny blue garbage bags Georgina brought. Garbage bags from the hospital.
Maybe I can quiz her about that. But suddenly I don’t feel like talking to Georgina. I mustn’t rush it.
“I’m sure you were just sympathetic with Karissa and didn’t want to do anything illegal when you phoned her parents,” I venture to say. “I think it’s nice you were concerned about the athletes. Women must support women. Even Ann Smith helped and drove the girls back and forth.”
“She really did that?”
The snippy remark reminds me that Georgina doesn’t like Ann Smith. Not a good move on my part.
The puzzle crosses my mind; that will interest Georgina.
“Come here, I’ve got something to show you.”
I go upstairs with her to the living room. The puzzle with the bird’s-eye view of Port Brendan is still on the table.
“Take a close look. What strikes you?”
She raises a quizzical eyebrow, probably surprised by my request, but she studies the puzzle.
“Is that Port Brendan?”
“Yes, my youngest brother had it made for me as a present. What else strikes you?”
She leans over the table. Suddenly her body goes rigid. She must have discovered the yellow dot. Her Jeep Renegade. She’s not smiling as she straightens up and asks: “Did you tell my husband about this?”
“I showed him a picture of it on my phone.”
Her lips go thin.
Did Closs not tell his wife anything? It would have been a nice anecdote over supper. For example.
“And what did he say?”
“Not much. I think he wanted to know when the picture was taken.”
She receives the information without a word. Her otherwise fresh, girlish face looks infinitely sad.
“Do you like this house?” she asks, looking all around her.
“Yes, very much. I hope I can keep living here.”
We’ve avoided the subject of Carl Perrell until now, but it’s the elephant in the room. I can’t hold my tongue any longer.
“What’s the mood in the hospital like?”
“Everybody’s devastated. Nothing and nobody will be able to replace Dr. Perrell.”
Her mouth is trembling. She sits down on a chair.
Now it shouldn’t make any difference that her last name is Closs. She’s a witness like any other, and I’m investigating this matter.
“Weren’t you at work that evening when Dr. Perrell autopsied the dog? You do take the night shift. Somebody must have taken the dog’s head away. And taken a blue garbage bag. Who could it have been?”
“Haven’t got a clue. Maybe Kris Bakie?”
Strange for her to bring up a dead man who can’t speak for himself. She certainly knows that Bakie brought in his dead dog and then left without it.
I stick to my guns.
“The contents of the garbage bag were so peculiar. But the things in it definitely have a meaning.”
“What meaning are they supposed to have?” She says it almost in resignation.
“To me, they express a threat. The red sweatshirt like the one Lorna Taylor had. The dog’s head. The ax. The board with the Viking stamp. The way I see it, that can only mean: the same thing’s going to happen to you that happened to Lorna and the dog.”
“And the chain?”
The question takes me by surprise. How does she know about the chain? I expected her to leap up and make an excuse and leave. But she stays in her chair.
“Well, I’m not too clear on that. Maybe it was there just to weigh down the bag.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Georgina declares. Then she brings both hands to her face and begins to cry. It’s an abysmally profound, desperate sobbing. It shakes her slim body so powerfully that I’m afraid she’ll fall off the chair. It doesn’t leave me cold, her despair. I know the feeling all too well. But some hope is mingled in with my sympathy. A dam bursting is usually a prelude to a confession. I hand her a tissue.
She turns her tearstained face toward me.
“He meant so much to me,” she gasps. “I don’t know how things go on from here.”
She means Dr. Perrell—I don’t doubt it for an instant.
“And you, what did you mean to him?”
“I don’t know. He . . . never spoke about it.”
“Mrs. Closs, did you put that garbage bag on the ice?”
She shakes her head. Lowers her eyes. “I just put it outside the door.”
“Whose door?”
She says nothing, rolls the tissue between her fingers.
I know the answer.
“What were you trying to tell Ann Smith with what was in the bag?”
She sucks in her lips, wipes her bleary, puffy eyes. “It’s nothing like what you said before. I . . . I didn’t plan much. I just wanted to scare her.”
“Where did you get the ax?”
“I found it in the cellar.”
“In your cellar?”
“No, here, in this house. When I was stocking up food for you before you arrived. I looked around the guest room. The ax was in the basement. The board, too. I just took them with me.”
My brain’s rattling. Scott Dyson. He worked in the house. He must have stolen the ax from Gerald Hynes’s pickup.
“Why the red sweatshirt? The cap from the Olympic Games?”
“The animal rescue group didn’t want me anymore. So I got rid of the sweatshirt. And the cap . . .” Her troubled face is agitated. Vertical lines appear on her forehead. “That’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Because she was at the Olympics. That’s where she got to know him.”
“Who? Dr. Perrell?”
She shakes her head again and presses her lips together. A signal that she might clam up, so I change the subject.
“Why the dog’s head?”
“I saw it lying there in the clinic. I know that she and animals . . . I thought it would scare the hell out of her.”
“And the chain?”
“Because I’d like to put her in chains.”
“Why?”
She refuses to answer again. Her tears have ended. She looks completely drained.
“The scalpel and the message?”
“What scalpel?”
“Did you put it in the RCMP mailbox?”
“No.”
“Why did you want to scare Ann Smith?”
Georgina gets up. “Ask my husband.”
“Does he know? Did you tell him all about it?”
“No, and he doesn’t tell me anything anyway.”
“Then do it, please, Mrs. Closs, as soon as possible.”
She goes into the kitchen.
“I haven’t committed any crime,” she replies, almost defiantly. “Just done something stupid. Other people do stupid things, too.”
I’m about to follow her into the b
asement, but she wards me off.
“I’ll find the way by myself. You surely have other things to do.”
I watch her through the little kitchen window as she loads the blue garbage bags into the back of her Jeep. A charming, slender figure with a colorful pointed hat. Georgina revealed her innermost self to me. She fell apart, then straightened herself up again within half an hour. I marvel at how she did it. Will she confess to her husband that she was in love with Dr. Perrell? A love she masked with gruff behavior. And confess that she did something out of jealousy of Ann Smith, something so crazy that people would never have thought it possible? I doubt it. She unburdened herself so that I would tell her husband.
I watch the yellow Jeep drive away. Georgina Closs has put me in an untenable position.
48
Ann stretches her back in the plow position. Yoga exercises always do her good when she’s stressed. She survived the worst phase of her life thanks to yoga. But Carl Perrell’s murder threatens to turn her carefully constructed life upside down. A second murder in a short time. As to Kris Bakie’s murder, she can still delude herself that it had nothing to do with her. Maybe it was an angered acquaintance, a drunken settling of scores. Labrador’s a wild part of the country. Many people drink more than is good for them; they carry guns. An argument can escalate very fast. Her lover, whose name she’s told no one, had been able to calm her down. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, he kept saying. She’s got to believe him, because he knows more than most people.
Lorna Taylor’s brutal end—that was back in the past. Lorna lived in Happy Valley-Goose Bay. She never met Lorna. Never heard of her until she disappeared.
She tries to keep breathing calmly. Just concentrating on her pose. Don’t slip into panic. Yoga has always helped her until now. Yoga and well-meaning people. The police. The Canadian government. Her brother’s help. A man’s love. She followed him all the way to Labrador. A secret love, but it’s strong. It offers her so much support that she’s ready to take on a lot.
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 32
