Tell Anna She's Safe

by Brenda Missen

  “So the dogs are yours,” said Quinn, giving Belle a pat on the head. “Did you get custody?”

  “Shared,” I admitted.

  “So you are having contact with Marc?” Was there a note of anger in his voice? I gave him a quick look but his face wore an expression of mild curiosity.

  “Just over the dogs.”

  I took him out to the backyard and through the break in the trees at the bottom of the yard. We crossed the railway tracks and I led him through a narrow opening in thick bushes. You had to know it was there. I liked that. The path opened onto the small grassy point. Shrubs lined the southeast side. In them I had stashed a folded lawn chair. The northwest side sloped down to the water, lined by rock and small boulders.

  I gestured to the point as we came through. “This, in theory, is my access point.”

  “If you wanted access,” Quinn said, nodding his understanding. Then he gestured at the lawn chair in the bushes. “Nice secluded place to sunbathe.”

  I ignored his suggestive tone.

  We crossed back over the tracks and ducked through the break in the trees into my yard. I spoke over my shoulder. “I’d offer you a beer, but I doubt you’re allowed on duty. Would you like a—”

  “Beer, yes.”

  He shrugged when I turned to look at him. “I’ve taken the rest of the day off.”

  We sat in the Muskoka chairs in the backyard with the dogs at our feet and clinked beer bottles. “To your new life,” he said. “You’ve got a really nice set-up here. I’m envious.” Then he added in a more serious tone, “I hope you’ve been able to put all this behind you. Though I realize you can’t really until the trial is over. But take a break while you can. It was a stressful few months for you.”

  “When is the trial going to be? I’ve been going crazy over it. The defence is going to take me to pieces over my witness statement to the Quebec Sûreté. I wish you guys had taken my statement later that week when I was thinking more clearly.”

  “Stop worrying. You’ll be fine.”

  “They won’t ask me about the—dreams will they?”

  “El, I honestly don’t know.”

  I didn’t normally like my name being shortened, but it came so naturally out of Quinn’s mouth—sounded so familiar—I didn’t mind.

  “But why are you worried?” he added. “We often use psychics.”

  I sighed. “And you think they’re kooks.”

  “Well, when they’re sexy kooks, we don’t mind.” He was laughing at me. “You’ll be subpoenaed,” he added. “As for when?” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “The wheels of justice.”

  He saw my look of dismay. “Don’t worry, they are moving. There will be a pre-trial hearing first. Probably this fall or winter. I can’t say for sure when, but soon.” He gave me a significant look and repeated, “Soon.”

  Then it was his turn to sigh. He punctuated it with a long swig of beer. “Anyway, stop stewing about it, Ellen.” He sounded annoyed. “Put it out of your mind.”

  “You’ve got to be joking. I think about it all the time. I have a thousand questions.”

  He spread his hands. “Well, take advantage of the fact that I’m here then. Ask away.”

  But my mind went blank. I spread my own hands in a gesture of futility. Where to begin?

  “How are you doing here on your own? You’re not nervous? Not afraid?”

  “No. You’ve got him safely in custody, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, the bastard. Just give me five minutes with him.”

  He must have seen the look of alarm on my face. “It boils my blood when I think about men like him beating up on women, and frightening other ones. I hope they throw away the key this time.”

  “Just how bad was it—Tim beating up on Lucy?” Curtis too had hinted at abuse. But he hadn’t known any details. Did I want to know them?

  “Pretty bad. A couple of trips to the hospital that we’ve been able to ascertain so far. Once for a sprained ankle. That was in the fall. The other for a sternum injury. Much more serious. That was at Easter. Just the week before she went missing. God knows how many injuries didn’t make it to the hospital.”

  I cringed. “What were they fighting about?” The differences Curtis and I had talked about didn’t seem serious enough to warrant physical violence. Did the injuries correspond with her contact with Curtis? She’d been with him at Easter. I tried to hide the shudder that ran through me.

  “What weren’t they fighting about?” said Quinn. “Money was a major issue. And it’s clear he was jealous. Of all Lucy’s male friends but especially her ex, Curtis Fry.” He nodded at me. “You met him. You were talking to him at the memorial.”

  Did he notice everything? I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to talk about Curtis. For various reasons. “You said before he defrauded her. How did he do that?”

  Quinn was shaking his head. He glanced at his watch. “That’s a longer story than I’ve got time for now. But you know she set him up in a handyman business.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, that took a lot of money—according to Brennan. He told us he kept saying to Lucy ‘you gotta spend money to make money.’ He claimed to be buying tools, supplies. And he needed a truck. But funnily enough, the first truck got stolen—and all the tools with it. That was in the fall I think. So of course he needs another truck, and more tools. And then—lo and behold—that one gets stolen too.”

  “So I don’t see how that’s defrauding her.”

  “Sweetheart, it wasn’t really stolen. The first truck was found burnt out in a field. He probably set fire to it himself. Him and his friends. The tools were gone. No doubt he got money for them. And probably for the second truck too—it was a van, a Curbmaster, all set up as a portable workshop. I can’t remember how much Lucy poured into the business. Something like nine thousand dollars in the first month alone. And the thefts, and the burnt-out truck, provided a convenient excuse for another scam of his.”

  “Which was?”

  “He was being threatened—he said—by a biker gang. They were—he said—extorting money from him.” He snorted.

  “How do you know it’s not true?”

  Quinn just shook his head at my naiveté. “It’s all lies. Everything he fed her was lies.”

  “So he told her about the threats?”

  “Probably not at first. But when the money started disappearing from her account, she no doubt confronted him. And he had his story ready.”

  “He had access to her account?”

  “She tried to get him his own account but—funnily enough—the bank wouldn’t give him one. So she gave him full access to her own. Including a bank card and a cheque book. So he was writing cheques left, right and centre. She had a thirty-thousand-dollar line of credit. But she never used it except very occasionally. And always paid it back within a week or two at the most. Suddenly, for the first time in her life, she finds herself in the red. And it just keeps getting deeper and deeper.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “We’ve got a forensics accountant looking into her financial affairs. And the asshole’s being questioned, and giving us his bullshit stories. We’ve just started talking to her friends too. The picture’s beginning to come together. It’s not a pretty one. Then there are the forged cheques and the whole Bill Torrence scenario. But,” he looked at his watch again. “I’m afraid I’ve got to get going.”

  His mention of the forensics accountant reminded me of the other kind of forensics. “Was there any evidence found on her body?”

  Quinn had got to his feet. “Well, I’d say ‘remains.’” His eyes were trained on mine as I stood up. “There wasn’t much left of her. It was a hot spring. And she hadn’t been buried.”

  I put a hand on the back of the chair. “And is there
any hard evidence in the—remains?”

  Quinn shook his head. “No, the hyoid bone was never found.”

  “The what bone?”

  Quinn took a step closer. “Hyoid. It’s the bone under here.” His hands were suddenly around my neck. He pressed his thumbs lightly on the front of my throat. “It’s a small horseshoe-shaped thing. The one that breaks when you choke someone.”

  “Don’t press too hard then,” I joked. I wondered if he could feel my pulse hammering in my throat. I could still feel his hands after he took them away. They were warm and dry. Gentle. Presuming.

  It was a moment before he stepped back. An electric moment.

  He spoke in a neutral tone. “The only thing we have to go on is the teeth.”

  “You mean her dental records?”

  He shook his head. “No. Their colour. They were pink.”

  “Pink?” I felt sick.

  “There are three things that make the teeth go pink.” He spoke in a detached scientist’s voice. “Choking, asphyxiation, and drowning.” He checked them off one by one on his fingers. “The pressure causes red cells from the blood vessels that supply the teeth to seep into the enamel. It stains them pink. We’re running some further tests now.”

  We walked back up to the house in silence. The vision of Lucy’s pink teeth had made me feel sick. And angry.

  “We are not—” said Quinn, beside his car.

  “Having this conversation,” I finished. “I know. I do appreciate your telling me the things you do.”

  “You deserve to know. And it really doesn’t have any bearing on your own testimony, so there’s no reason you shouldn’t know. Except the Crown would have a fit. As he would if he knew I was here.” He began to jiggle his keys. “El.” He avoided my eyes. “I’m not going to be able to see you for awhile. Or call.”

  I should have been relieved, but my heart jolted in disappointment. “Because of the case.”

  He looked as though he was going to say something else, but he repeated my words: “Because of the case. One of us will be calling you when the hearing gets under way. You’ll be called in for an interview to review your testimony. But until then….”

  “I understand,” I said. I opened my mouth to say it was probably better this way. But it got covered, briefly, by Quinn’s mouth.

  “Now be good, ” he said, pulling back. And he was into his car almost before I had time to register the kiss.

  I took myself down to the point to do just that. In the warm sun I leaned back in the lawn chair and closed my eyes. Replayed his kiss. It had been brief but warm. Claiming. He had no right to claim me, but there it was. I was letting myself be claimed. There had been no chance to ask him what was going on with us. Or with him. The slightly stressed air still hung about him.

  His stresses probably didn’t hold a candle to Lucy’s. Her stresses wouldn’t have started with money—or even, likely, Curtis. They would have been about the simple everyday things. A man gets out of prison after fifteen years and comes to live with you. He has little experience of the outside world. You have to show him how to do everything. Even how to get around. He has a lousy sense of direction and keeps getting lost. It would be like having a child suddenly on your hands. Worse, because you’d be expecting him to act like an adult.

  Compound all that with your own fears and idiosyncrasies—and temper—and there would have been frequent fireworks.

  *

  JULY FIRST ARRIVED. SHE HAD never made much of Canada Day. She certainly wasn’t keen on fireworks. But Tim was excited about the celebrations, and his excitement was contagious. They planned to go to Parliament Hill that evening, to watch the display. During the day, the festive atmosphere permeating the city infected them both. They had a peaceful day of kind words and affectionate hugs; she even let Tim take her off to bed for an hour in the afternoon. She dozed contentedly in his arms afterward. It was worth being reminded that they did fit, sexually. More than with any other lover, even if he didn’t kiss as well as Curtis.

  When dusk came, she packed up a blanket and extra jackets for both of them. “I guess I should drive, shouldn’t I?”

  Tim nodded.

  But she found herself wishing he could handle driving at night. On the way to the city centre, he did nothing but criticize: she wasn’t watching carefully enough, she was following too closely, she wasn’t quick enough off the mark when the light turned green. She reigned in her retorts, needing all her concentration to navigate through the traffic around the Hill. “Just find me a parking spot.”

  There were no available street spots. The expensive lot they finally found was miles away, and the cars were squeezed in so tight she was afraid she was going to scratch her car. It didn’t help to have Tim yelling at her to watch out every time she turned the wheel.

  The crowds on the Hill were suffocating. The exhaust fumes from all the cars that had driven into the downtown core seemed to hang in the air. They found a place to sit, but barely had space to spread out the blanket.

  “Why didn’t we come earlier?” asked Tim. “You shoulda known it was gonna be this crowded.”

  “I didn’t know,” she retorted. “I never come here.”

  The music from the performers was hundreds of decibels too loud. The fireworks sounded like rifle shots. She couldn’t relax. Every time another firecracker went whistling up into the air, she grabbed Tim’s arm, waiting for the explosion. She wished she’d brought her earplugs; she could have enjoyed the displays without the sound. Without the noise they were spectacular. She could feel her tension affecting Tim, making him tense too. Why hadn’t they just stayed home and watched it on TV?

  Finally the show was over. She pushed the panic away as people pushed at her, everyone wanting to get off the Hill at once.

  She wanted a frozen yogurt, something to soothe her insides, but they couldn’t find one on Bank Street. She was voluble in her complaints. It seemed unjust that after all she had just suffered she couldn’t get a simple soothing snack.

  And then Tim disappeared. She was walking down the street with him one minute, and the next he was gone. She stopped in her tracks, letting the crowd stream by her, her eyes searching frantically. But he was gone. As if he’d just walked away from her. Maybe he had. There was nothing to do but keep walking to the parking lot and go home. He’d call from a pay phone eventually.

  There were no messages on the answering machine. She opened up the bag of popcorn she’d bought at the 7-11 on her way home and sat down on the couch to wait. She had devoured half the bag before the phone rang.

  Tim’s voice yelled in her ear. She held the receiver a foot away and could still hear him. This time, he said, he was really going to the police station. He was fed up. All she did was complain—about the crowds, and the firecracker noise, and the traffic fumes, and not getting her precious frozen yogurt. And not being able to take constructive criticism about her driving.

  She did her own share of yelling. His “constructive criticism” had been back-seat driving. She didn’t need his criticism.

  “Some of your own medicine,” he shot back.

  When he was finally done, forty-five minutes later, she got back in the car to bring him home.

  18.

  THE IMAGE OF LUCY’S PINK teeth haunted me. It had been a hot spring, Quinn had said, and she hadn’t been buried. But as disturbing as they were, the pink teeth were also oddly reassuring. Drowning had not been ruled out as a possibility. Maybe there was some truth to my visions. Even though they felt unreal now. I decided I would concentrate on finding out what had happened to Lucy before she’d gone missing. There were concrete answers out there somewhere.

  Marc called as soon as he got back from the Dumoine. I could hear the excitement, the rush, of the river in his voice. These trips always energized him. I had been selfish to begrudge him.
Except it had been all he ever wanted to do and talk about. I wasn’t entirely to blame. Now he wanted to get together for dinner. But I was ready for him. Or rather, I wasn’t ready for him. Curtis’s words about taking the time to gain some emotional distance had hit a nerve. And Quinn, in his inimitable way, had been recommending distance too. The hug I’d given Marc before he’d left had shown me I needed it.

  I felt his rush deflate when I told him. “We can still share the dogs, but I just don’t think it’s a good idea to spend time together right now. I need some time. We need some time. To adjust.”

  I prepared myself for protests, or even silence, but to my surprise I got agreement. He admitted the hug had confused him, he had thought about me all week. I felt a pang of warmth for him, for this new openness. Why did closeness always come when you were on your way out? I had a sudden feeling that Lucy had probably felt the same way with Curtis. He’d said that as soon as he’d committed, she’d dumped him for Tim. But maybe as soon as he’d committed he’d stopped trying. Until she’d dumped him for Tim. And by then it would have been too late.

  Marc and I came up with an amicable agreement for sharing the dogs while minimizing our own contact. But when I got off the phone I felt flat rather than relieved. It was necessary, I told myself. With Steve Quinn too. It would be good for me to have time away from both of them. And there were other people to call.

  Curtis was a rare male who liked to talk on the phone. He enjoyed talking, period. I could see why Lucy had been attracted to him. Much more than I could see why she’d been attracted to Tim. Tonight I asked Curtis about his attraction to her. I leaned back on the futon couch, enjoying the sound of his voice in my ear. It was ten o’clock. We often called each other late in the evening and talked long into the night on our one-track topic.