Whiteout

by Vicki Delany

  The defiant set of Tiffany’s shoulders deflated and she sunk further into her chair. “Okay, I was wearing it when you saw us at the Southland’s place. They’re just a couple of rich city assholes. Christ, they can buy out the whole liquor store and not care a shit. If they leave booze lying around all winter they’re just asking someone to come in and take it, you know.” She glanced at her grandmother, begging for the older woman’s understanding. “It was just for fun, Grandma, really. What the fuck else is there to do in this stupid place?”

  “Watch your language young lady,” Maude spoke sharply. “You know I’ll not have that sort of thing in this house.” It hurt Joanna to see the pain etched into her face.

  “Sorry, Grandma,” the girl mumbled into her flannel-coated chest.

  “And after that,” Joanna persisted. “What happened to it after that? Do you know why I am asking you this, Tiffany?”

  The girl’s head snapped up. “No, I don’t. It’s just a jacket. There are hundreds like it.” Tiffany’s voice lowered to a whisper. “My mommy bought it for me. Once she started on the booze she didn’t buy me much. Didn’t have any time for me then. But one day we were in the store and I told her how much I liked that jacket. That I wanted one like it.

  “So she bought it, right there. It cost over a hundred dollars. She didn’t make that kind of money working at Tim Horton’s, you know. It was a great jacket.”

  “So, where is it now?”

  “I lost it. What is it to you, anyway? I lost my jacket. Some asshole stole it.”

  “Tell me how you lost it.”

  Tiffany opened her mouth to tell Joanna to mind her own business but the look in the woman’s eyes stopped her.

  “My mom bought it for me. But I lost it. We went to the pool hall in North Ridge. I left it alone for a few minutes and some asshole stole it. It wasn’t there when I came back to my seat. I’m sorry Grandma. I know you don’t want me going there, but sometimes there isn’t anything else to do.”

  Maude fell back into her chair. Rocky walked to her side and whimpered. The dog licked her outstretched hand, love reflected in every movement of his big head.

  “Was that the Friday night before I found you in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is all this about, Joanna?” Maude interrupted. She scratched behind Rocky’s ears. “Why are all these questions so important?”

  Joanna ignored her. “Where were you that night Tiffany? And tell me the truth. Please. Don’t lie. I’ve had more teenage lies told to me than you can imagine. If you lie to me I’ll throw you to the wolves.”

  Tiffany stared at her, frightened by the worry in Joanna’s voice. “All right, I’ll tell you. I spent the night in the alley behind the Last Chance Bar.”

  Maude gasped. Rocky whimpered.

  “I’m sorry, Grandma, but that’s the way it was. Rick, the asshole, wanted to fuck me. I wouldn’t, so he dumped me in the street. He said he’d drive me home, but he lied. He just left me in the street. I didn’t want to phone and wake you, Grandma.

  “I went to your place, Joanna, to play computer games, like you said we would. But you weren’t there.” Shades of the child she still was crept into her voice. “So I came home and called Rick. Grandma was out. Rick and a bunch of the gang picked me up and we went to North Ridge. We played pool, had some wings, then some asshole stole my coat. The other guys left and Rick wanted to fuck me. But I didn’t wanna. So I slept in the alley behind the ‘Last Chance Bar’. The next morning I hitched to Hope River where Joanna found me and I came home. That’s it.”

  By now Tiffany’s nails were bitten down to the quick. Her voice toughened once again. “I’ve told you what happened,” she said defiantly, “so now you tell me why it’s so fucking important.”

  “I found Luke.” Joanna said simply. Maude gasped again and Tiffany looked up from her fingernails. They all started at the loud cry of the police dogs as they made their way along the lake and into the woods. Rocky’s ears twitched, but well trained, he did not leave Maude’s side.

  “And…” the old woman asked.

  “He’s dead. Poor Luke. Murdered, almost certainly. Left under a canoe on my property. That’s why all the police are up at my place tonight. But you see, Tiffany, what I found first was your jacket. Nicely tucked in with the dead body.”

  “No, not mine.” Tiffany leapt out of her chair. “I didn’t kill Luke. Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Sit down, girl.” Maude’s voice rang out sharply. “You haven’t been accused of killing anyone, yet. But I want to hear the rest of Joanna’s story.”

  Tiffany sunk back into her chair. Joanna continued, “It was one of those stupid Bulls jackets. Like you have, or had. There are a lot of those jackets around. I didn’t tell the police that I know you have one, Tiffany. But I’m not going to lie to them either. If they ask me right out, I will tell them. But up to that they can do the leg work themselves.”

  Tiffany was crying now. “I didn’t kill Luke. Someone stole my jacket, I told you that. You can’t say I killed Luke.”

  Joanna rose to leave. “I’m not saying you killed anyone, Tiffany. Because, to be honest, I don’t think you did. But you had better stay out of trouble for now.”

  Maybe for the first time in her life Maude let a visitor leave without offering tea. Instead she followed Joanna to the door. Rocky whimpered anxiously at her heels. He was terrified, something was happening, he was being ignored and he couldn’t understand why.

  Maude gripped the other woman’s arm tightly. “Tiffany didn’t kill Luke.”

  “I know that. Though why I know it, I don’t know,” Joanna said. She hugged Maude fiercely then turned to go.

  A thin, childish voice piped up from the other side of the room. “I’ll be over Friday, Joanna, for my lesson. Can I stay late and play Tomb Raider?”

  “Yes.” Joanna patted Maude’s hand, which was still clinging to her own. “Why don’t you plan on staying overnight and I will drive you home in the morning. Is that all right with you, Maude?”

  Maude nodded stiffly and Joanna said her good-byes. She walked heavily to her car, as the flashing red light of a police car drove past.

  News of the discovery of Luke’s body spread through the district like wildfire. To Joanna’s dismay phone calls to the cabin resumed in earnest. She briefly considered moving out for a few days, at least until all the excitement passed over. But she was making good progress on her work and was afraid to break the momentum, so she settled for hiding the phone in a drawer and curtly dismissing the few visitors who popped by to discuss it with her in person.

  She knew she was developing a reputation in the town of being “unfriendly,” a position she didn’t mind one little bit. She had moved up here to be alone and she was getting altogether too little of that.

  Try as she might, however, she couldn’t ignore the attentions of the police. Staff Sergeant Reynolds returned the next morning, bringing with him a homicide detective all the way from the big city.

  To Joanna’s considerable surprise, the detective was a tall, slight, crisp, stern-faced woman, one Detective Inspector Erikson. Although she was well on her way to middle age, the inspector’s hair was still a natural ash blond, a remnant of her Viking ancestry, along with the cool blue eyes. A few strands of gray were barely visible in the thick mass, which was tied tightly back into a severe bun. She was dressed in a somber brown pantsuit with a plain white blouse, tiny gold earrings and cheap pantyhose bunching around her ankles. She carried an unattractive, heavy brown purse from which she pulled out a tiny ring-bound note pad, and a pen.

  They sat in the living room and went over the events of the previous day in tedious detail. Erikson wrote everything down in her little notebook. Joanna explained, once again, about her late-afternoon walk on the lake and how she came to the unfortunate discovery of Luke’s body under the boat. She was already thoroughly sick of telling the story, and knew it would be much worse by the time all of this was
over.

  “When was the last time you were down by the dock?” Erikson asked. Her voice was surprisingly high-pitched.

  “More than a week, I would guess,” Joanna said. “Two weeks, maybe.”

  “And you saw nothing out of order at that time?”

  “No. Nothing I can remember.”

  “Tell me again about this jacket you found, the black one,” Erikson said.

  “It was lying under the boat, with just the sleeve sticking out.”

  “Too bad you moved it.” Staff Sergeant Reynolds was standing at the window with his back to the two women. Up to now he had not joined in the conversation.

  Joanna bristled at the criticism and glared at the staff sergeant’s broad back. “Well how was I to know what else was under that boat?” She turned back to Erikson, in time to catch a sparkle of laughter in the detective’s eyes before it was quickly extinguished. Joanna found herself liking the woman. She had enough experience working in a man’s field to know that you sometimes had to submerge your own personality in an effort to belong.

  She looked at the staff sergeant again, standing ramrod straight, back to the room, staring out the window. She suspected that he resented having to tolerate a big-city detective moving in on his case, and the fact that she was a woman probably made it all the worse.

  “You didn’t see any other loose clothing? Other than the jacket?” Erikson continued the questioning.

  “No, nothing.”

  “Did you hear any unusual sounds in the last few days? See any signs of people on your property who aren’t supposed to be here?”

  Joanna shuddered and shook her head. Until now the thought simply hadn’t occurred to her: someone either killed Luke by the lake or carried the dead body down the hill. Either way they were close to her-too close. She considered telling Erikson about the dark shape under the trees, but she had seen it only that once, and was afraid the inspector would think her nervous and over imaginative.

  The police didn’t stay for much longer. Erikson folded her notebook and returned it and the pen to her cavernous purse. She handed Joanna a business card. “If you think of anything else, give me a call at that number. If I’m not there, leave a message.”

  Reynolds grunted and Erikson quickly added, “Or call the staff sergeant here, of course.” The twinkle flashed through her blue eyes again.

  Joanna turned the card over in her hand. “I will.”

  She stood at the open door for a moment as inspector and sergeant made their way down the steps. She caught only two words of their conversation.

  “…Mitchell, now…” Erikson said. Reynolds nodded.

  Joanna stood in the doorway until she heard their car drive off. She grabbed her coat and ran out to her own car.

  She drove slowly past Maude’s, straining to see the house through the dark woods. As expected, the police car was in Maude’s driveway. Joanna parked her car and sat for a moment deep in thought, watching Reynolds and Erikson knock politely on the front door.

  She didn’t particularly like Tiffany, didn’t want anything to do with the girl and her problems, so why did she feel the need to interfere, to protect the teenager? Joanna couldn’t find the answer, couldn’t put it into words. It existed somewhere in her own past, in her own dark years of dealing, or rather, not dealing, with teenage angst. Of trying, and failing, to get through to an angry and troubled young woman. She had failed the last time, perhaps that was why she was drawn to try again. She switched off her engine and marched decisively up to Maude’s home.

  A look of absolute relief flooded through Maude’s aged and worry-lined face when she saw Joanna standing in the door. She eagerly invited the younger woman to come in.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you had company. Am I interrupting anything?” Joanna handed her coat to Maude and pulled off her boots, without being invited to stay.

  This time Reynolds sat in the prime chair, the one closest to the fireplace, while Erikson rummaged through her bag for the notebook and pen. Neither one of them looked happy to see her.

  “If I’m interrupting anything, I could come back later.” Joanna smiled sweetly at Maude.

  “Not at all, dear. Please come in,” Maude replied, as Joanna knew she would. As he did every time, Rocky sniffed at her crotch in welcome. There was no sign of Tiffany.

  “We’d like to speak to your granddaughter, Maude,” Reynolds said. “Is she here?”

  “Yes, but she’s in bed. What’s this about? Can’t it wait?”

  “Would you get her up please, Mrs. Mitchell,” Erikson said firmly. “We’d like to talk to her now.”

  Maude hesitated and glanced at Joanna. Joanna nodded. This was going to be rough, might as well get it over with.

  The little group waited in silence while Maude went in to get Tiffany. Reynolds shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Erikson casually reviewed her notes. Rocky paced. Maude returned to sit on the edge of her chair. Rocky paced some more. Maude picked up a piece of knitting from the coffee table beside her and turned it in her hands.

  “While we’re waiting, I would like to ask you some questions, Mrs. Mitchell,” Erikson said. “The night of Friday, December second, were you home all evening?”

  Maude placed the knitting needles in position and selected a length of wool. Her hands were shaking. “I’m not sure, that was a while ago.”

  “Try to remember, please-take all the time you need.”

  Maude glanced quickly around the room. Her eyes flickered but didn’t settle on any one person. She returned to her knitting and studied it carefully.

  The silence stretched into minutes. Maude put her ball of wool down. “I went out about five or so, I think.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “To Nancy Miller’s place. I’m knitting a sweater for her husband.” She held up the unfinished garment as evidence. “I went over to pick up the wool she bought for me to use.”

  “Did Tiffany go with you?”

  “No.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “Around seven.”

  “Was Tiffany here when you got home?”

  “No.”

  Tiffany marched into the room. She had dressed quickly and had pulled a brush through her purple hair. She stood with her hands on her hips, legs spread apart.

  “Hello, Tiffany.” Reynolds nodded at her. “Why don’t you sit down.”

  “I’ll stand,” she said, biting off the words.

  Maude continued to stare at the wool on her lap. No one introduced Tiffany to Inspector Erikson.

  “Do you know where she was?” Erikson returned her attention to Maude.

  “At Joanna’s. She told me she was spending the night at Joanna’s. They were going to play computer games.”

  Erikson flipped back a few pages in her notebook. “But Ms. Hastings told me she was in Toronto that evening until late.” She sounded confused.

  Maude shrugged, mute.

  “If you weren’t at Joanna’s, where were you, Tiffany?”

  Tiffany shifted under the inspector’s icy blue gaze. Silence hung like a razor-edged sword through the comfortable room. Rocky whimpered in confusion and nuzzled Maude’s leg, seeking comfort. In the fireplace a log collapsed in a flurry of sparks. A finger of bright red flame danced higher. Tiffany, Joanna, Maude and Reynolds watched the fire. Erikson watched Tiffany.

  “Joanna didn’t tell me she was going out.” The girl glared at Joanna. All this was her fault. “There was no one there. So I came home.”

  “Did you stay home all evening?” Again Erikson consulted her notes. Joanna was sure that the detective remembered every word written there. “Your grandmother didn’t see you when she came home.”

  “I called some friends. They picked me up and we went into North Ridge.”

  “What did you do in North Ridge?”

  “Look, Inspector,” Joanna asked, “is there some reason for these questions? This girl is only fourteen years old, you know. Perhaps you s
hould get to the point.” Joanna knew all there was to know about juveniles and the law.

  “The point, Ms. Hastings?” Erikson cast her cool gaze on Joanna. The twinkle was definitely gone from her blue eyes. “I will get to the point soon enough. What did you do in North Ridge, Tiffany?”

  “Hung out-no crime in that is there?” The girl shifted her weight and planted her feet again. Joanna wanted to shout at her that her attitude wasn’t doing her any good. But even if she dared to find the words Tiffany would pay no attention.

  “That depends, I think, on what happens when one is ‘hanging out,’ don’t you? What time did you get home that night?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Mrs. Mitchell, do you remember what time it was that Tiffany got home?”

  “No.”

  “Was it after you went to bed?”

  Maude continued to knit. She was dropping stitches all over the place. The whole thing would have to be ripped out and started all over again. “Yes, it was after I went to bed.”

  Joanna knew that she should speak up. She waited to be asked a question. It didn’t come.

  Instead Inspector Erikson turned her attention back to Tiffany. “Can I see your Bulls jacket please?”

  Tiffany’s face registered the first reaction of the day. “My jacket? Why do you want to see it?”

  “I have been told that you own one. Can I see it, please?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I hardly think that matters. Can I see it, please?”

  “Unfortunately the jacket has been lost,” Joanna interrupted. “Tiffany told me it was stolen. Happens all the time with these sort of trendy clothes.”

  “Yes, I know. When was it stolen, Tiffany?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember? That seems odd. Not to notice that your jacket has been stolen in the middle of winter.”

  Tiffany shrugged.

  Inspector Erikson shut her notebook firmly and rose to her feet. Reynolds scrambled to follow suit.

  “I’ll be in touch,” the detective told them, “and if your jacket should somehow show up, I would suggest that you contact the police immediately.” She crossed the room to place one of her cards on the table beside Maude. The older woman sat stiffly in her chair, staring at the mess of knitting in her hands. She did not get up to show them to the door. Once again, no tea was offered.