[Kate Lange 01.0] Damaged

by Pamela Callow

  “I’ll just leave Alaska on the front porch.” She tied his leash loosely to one of the posts. She could just imagine his reaction to being in a house full of cats. He’d think he was in heaven.

  “Be good,” she said to his alert face. His tail thumped. He turned away and began sniffing the porch.

  Enid held the screen door open for her. Kate noticed it was about the same vintage as her own door. She stepped inside the large foyer. It was dim, but not oppressively so. The old walnut floors gleamed discreetly with polish. She wondered what her floors would look like with a bit of elbow grease. She wished now she’d had them stripped and varnished before she’d moved in, but she had been too impatient.

  On the far wall, a massive antique mirror caught the light from the old ship’s lantern that hung from the middle of the ceiling. She started. The mirror had also captured her reflection. She hadn’t recognized herself for a minute. Her figure was trimmer than it had been for a while, which pleased her, but there were sharper angles to her face. She wasn’t so sure about those.

  “I’ll go make the tea,” Enid said, smiling. Her teeth were crooked but well kept. Her smile lit her fair skin with an inner glow. Why hadn’t Enid married? She had such a vivacious air about her.

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat in the living room,” Enid said. “Muriel is in there.” She ushered Kate through a large arched doorway into a room that seemed empty. Then Kate realized that Muriel was sitting on the piano bench. Her back was to the keys.

  “Mil, do you remember Kate? She lives in the Hansens’ old house.”

  Muriel gazed at Enid earnestly. “Mother says we need to be home by five o’clock and not a minute later.”

  “Yes, Mil. Don’t worry, we won’t be late.” Enid turned to the sofa. “Shoo, shoo, Brûlée.”

  Kate threw a startled glance at the sofa. A caramel-colored cat lay curled on an overstuffed brocade pillow. The cat threw her a baleful look and jumped off the sofa. Enid gestured to Kate. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be a minute.”

  Kate settled herself gingerly on the sofa. There were a lot of pillows, covered in various shades of cat hair. She gazed around the room. Brûlée lounged under a brocade footstool, which looked too fragile to support anyone’s feet.

  Sitting at right angles were a velvet-covered sofa and love seat in a beautiful shade of deep cherry red. Kate studied them. The color was so vibrant, so youthful, yet not at all out of place with the room. They looked fairly new. Only a few scratches marked the bolster.

  Muriel blew her nose. Kate glanced over her shoulder and gave her a tentative smile. The old lady was dressed in a long plaid skirt with a heather-green cardigan. She looked like many of the elderly ladies Kate saw around Halifax, except she wore a pair of Scottie dog hair barrettes, the old metal type. They were upside down.

  “Hi, Muriel,” she said.

  Muriel stared at her, her gaze searching Kate’s face. “Mother says I have to be home by five o’clock today.”

  “Okay.” Kate smiled tentatively.

  “But I want to stay longer!” Muriel’s face twisted in distress.

  “Now, we’ll just talk to Mother about it, Mil.” Enid walked into the room, her birdlike body stooped over a large tray. Kate jumped to her feet to help her lower it to the coffee table. “Thank you, dear,” Enid said. She prepared a cup of tea for Muriel. “Why don’t you come over here, Mil? I have some nice tea and those shortbread cookies you like.”

  Muriel’s face brightened. She left the piano bench, lowering her tall body onto the red love seat. Her hand slid back and forth over the velvety seat. Brûlée jumped up next to her. She fed him part of her cookie and he slid onto her lap.

  Enid poured Kate and herself some tea, then sat down on the sofa next to Kate. She lowered her voice. “I wanted to talk to you. I need some advice.”

  Kate glanced at Muriel. She was humming softly to herself, stroking Brûlée.

  Enid followed her gaze. “She won’t notice. And if she does, I don’t think she’ll understand.” Enid put her teacup on her saucer. “Yesterday I went to a funeral home to make arrangements. For myself and for Mil.”

  Kate guessed what was coming. She quickly ran through in her head the type of estate provisions Enid and Muriel should have: wills, powers of attorney, joint accounts.

  “Is everything all right with Muriel?” she asked. She didn’t know much about Alzheimer’s.

  Enid gave her a wry smile. “As can be expected. Mil is declining. But my doctor told me my heart is acting up. He tells me that every ten years or so. This time, though, he’s sent me to a cardiac surgeon.” She took a sip of her tea. “I haven’t decided whether I’ll go under the knife or not. But it seemed like a good time to get everything in order in case something happens to me.” She glanced at Muriel. Worry pulled down the lines of her face. “I contacted a nursing home and put Mil on a waiting list. Then I went to a funeral home to put in place funeral arrangements for when something happens to one of us.”

  Kate noted she’d said, “when something happens to one of us,” not if. She studied Enid’s face. Under those blue-veined eyelids were eyes that had seen a lot in their time. Right now they gazed at her with a look of calm resolution. Kate supposed if you live for eighty-odd years, uncertainties became less uncertain.

  Enid leaned forward. “I spoke to the funeral director and she put all the paperwork in order. Then she asked if I’d like to donate my body to science. I must have mentioned I’d been a nurse, because she told me that she thought with my background I’d be interested in helping medical research.”

  “Is that something you’d support?” Kate asked. She wondered how she’d feel if she was asked to give up her body in the aid of science.

  “Well, once she told me that this research would help people with neuromuscular disorders, I was interested to learn more. She gave me the donation forms. I signed one for myself, because after the things I’ve seen, I’d like to know that this old bag of bones—” she waved a self-deprecating hand over herself “—might serve some higher purpose.”

  “That’s great, Enid,” Kate said. She thought of her sister. She’d been too damaged to be an organ donor. It would have given some comfort to her mother to know that the precious life she’d nurtured hadn’t gone completely to waste. But Kate had been driving too fast for that one small consolation.

  Enid leaned forward. “But then the funeral director said that maybe my sister might be interested. I told her that we’d never know, because she is no longer capable of telling us her wishes. This is where it gets worrisome.” She placed her teacup on the table. Her gaze rested fondly on Muriel’s face. Muriel was staring at the cat, her eyes transfixed by the movement of her fingers over the cat’s fur. “The funeral director told me that I could sign the consent form for her. I said I didn’t think so. But she was very persistent, said that if I had power of attorney I could sign for her. She filled out the form and tried to get me to sign it right then and there.”

  Kate straightened. “Did you?”

  Enid shook her head. “No. It didn’t feel right. But afterward I wondered about it. Maybe she was right and I had the legal authority to do it. That’s why I thought I’d ask you.”

  Kate brushed her fingers free of crumbs. “I’m glad you asked. You don’t have the legal authority. If Muriel had put her wishes in her will, and you were the executor, you could do it. But the power of attorney only grants you decision-making authority over her care while she is alive.”

  “That’s what I thought!” Enid pursed her lips. “You know, I had the distinct impression she was trying to trick me. I’ve a good mind to go down there and ask for my money back.”

  Kate bit into a cookie. “Which funeral home was this?”

  “Keane’s Funeral Home.”

  Kate choked down her cookie. Keane’s Funeral Home? “So it was Anna Keane you were dealing with?”

  Enid nodded, and poured more te
a. “Yes.”

  Kate stirred milk into her cup. She was surprised to hear that Anna Keane had tried to take advantage of Enid. “Maybe it was a misunderstanding.”

  Enid shook her head. “No. She was lying to me. I know it.”

  “I wonder why…maybe she is trying to help this researcher.”

  “At my expense?” Enid snorted. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to go there on Monday and demand my money back.”

  Kate took a sip of her tea. She wasn’t sure if Anna Keane had tried to trick Enid. Maybe Anna Keane really believed that Enid had legal authority. Kate hoped so. She had liked Anna Keane; she provided a difficult service with compassion. Kate knew how valuable that was. The funeral director deserved the benefit of the doubt. She put down her teacup. “Would you like some company?”

  Enid smiled eagerly. “That would be lovely.”

  “I’m in court all day Monday. Why don’t you come over around four-thirty on Tuesday? Then we can drive together.” Kate stood. Her muscles had stiffened. She moved slowly to the door. “Thank you for the tea.”

  Kate felt Enid’s pleased gaze on her back as she followed her to the front porch. A small glow of corresponding pleasure spread through her. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  Chapter 31

  Sunday, May 13, 3:00 p.m.

  Judge Carson swung open the door to her condo. The afternoon sun blazed behind her. It took a second for Ethan’s eyes to adjust to the brightness. When they did, he saw she gazed at him with a glacial expression that was designed to establish who was in charge.

  “This better not take long,” she said. “I’m extremely busy.” She stepped back reluctantly, her hand still on the doorknob. Ethan walked past her. He breathed in deeply. Was that a hint of Scotch on her breath?

  Judge Carson crossed her arms. It had the effect of tightening her blouse against her breasts. Her shirt was a white fitted number, buttoned right at the spot where her breasts swelled. She had tucked the shirt into a pair of dark jeans that cupped her curves.

  Her tawny eyes flickered over him.

  And over him again.

  He shifted away from her.

  “Have a seat, Detective Drake.” Judge Carson turned toward the sunken living room. The view from the two walls of windows was stunning. The Public Gardens spread before him. Budding greenery and spring tulips swayed in a light breeze. Couples drifted through the meandering paths. He and Kate had done the same thing less than a year ago.

  He settled himself on a chair, his back to the windows. He wanted to check out the rooms, not the view. Judge Carson sat diagonally opposite him on the sofa. She raised her brows inquiringly. “You said you had an old case you wanted to discuss with me?” Her voice was brusque.

  “Yes—”

  “The Arnold case, I presume?”

  There she went again. Trying to wrestle control of the interview.

  Ethan leaned back and crossed his legs. He was going to set the pace. Not her.

  His eyes traveled around the room. Everything was the same as last time: bare, white. Not much had changed except what was on the long granite counter separating the living area from the kitchen. A crystal whiskey decanter sat on a small tray. The matching crystal glass was visible behind a pile of files on her stylish computer desk. The glass looked empty. Recently? He couldn’t tell from where he was sitting if it was clean or used.

  Judge Carson watched him from the sofa. Her face was expressionless. She leaned back, mimicking—or mocking?—his body language, stretching her arm along the back. Shadow and light played on the curve of her breast. “I’d offer you a drink, Detective Drake, but I know you’re not staying long.”

  He smiled and laid his notepad on the table. His leisurely appraisal of her home had unnerved her. It surprised him. He thought she was cooler than that. His mind swung back to the lion’s head on her door. He could think of no better symbol for her desire to guard her home. But from what?

  “No problem. As you guessed, I’m here about the Arnold case.”

  Mark “the Shark” Arnold was the only ex-con that Ethan hadn’t been able to track down and eliminate from his list. He’d served his full sentence with no chance of parole for a grotesque murder fifteen years ago, when he was nineteen. His victim had been his girlfriend. He’d raped her, strangled her, then cut her up and thrown her body into the Atlantic Ocean. The only problem was, he hadn’t gone far enough out to sea to dump her remains. Some of her body parts got caught in a fishing net. In a morbid postscript, a shark had also been caught in the net. His girlfriend’s torso was found in its belly. Hence, Mark Arnold’s nickname.

  It was a gruesome case, and he had been punished to the full extent of the law. It had been the most sensational murder in Nova Scotia until now. Ethan looked it up and discovered a disturbing fact: Judge Carson had been Mark Arnold’s defense lawyer. Had he been angered at the harshness of his sentence? Did he blame Judge Carson, fresh out of law school? Or did he harbor a hate toward teenage girls?

  Now he was back on the streets. His prison records indicated that he had received training in the plumbing trade.

  Judge Carson’s gaze sharpened. “You think he did it?”

  Ethan raised a brow. “I don’t know. But I wanted to make sure you knew he was out.”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, yes, I knew, Detective. I checked it myself.”

  When? Before she killed Lisa? It would be a perfect deflection away from her. Maybe Brown had been on the wrong track.

  “Has he been in contact with you?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Do you know if he was in contact with Lisa?”

  She paled at the mention of Lisa’s name. Her glacial demeanor was a lot thinner than he had thought. Was it the booze chipping away at it?

  Or guilt?

  Guilt could seep through the iciest hearts, weakening resolve in the most unexpected places, until the right question made the guilty crack and fall through the hole. They spent the rest of their lives drowning.

  “Not that I am aware.” Her voice was steady, clipped.

  “Did he ever threaten you?”

  “Yes.”

  Ethan picked up his notepad. “When?”

  “The day he was sentenced. He thought I hadn’t argued forcefully enough for him. He told me that when he got out, he’d make me pay.”

  Ethan searched her face. Her eyes met his. Strong, fierce, but not evasive. He’d be damned, but he believed her. “Did he give any specifics?”

  She gave that harsh laugh again. “No. But he had lots of time to devise something.”

  “You knew him.” Ethan leaned forward. “Do you think he was capable of carrying out this kind of crime?”

  She looked away. Ethan followed her gaze and saw that it was on the whiskey decanter. She glanced back at him. She had seen his eyes following hers. She straightened. “I don’t know,” she said flatly. “He wasn’t that bright. He killed his girlfriend in a fit of anger.” She snapped her fingers. “It was a classic crime of passion. But for some killers, once they do the first kill, the next one is easier. He already had experience with dismemberment. And he had fifteen years to formulate a plan. I think it’s possible.”

  She spoke in a dispassionate tone. She could have been arguing the facts before a judge. Ethan watched her closely. Again, there was no artifice. Her body language was open.

  Despite himself, he was beginning to doubt his suspicions about her.

  “Do you have any idea where he might be? He was released over a year ago. He stopped reporting to his parole officer three months ago.”

  “Figures.” Her mouth twisted. “No. I have no idea. I seem to recall he had some family on the south shore, but who knows? It was fifteen years ago.” She shrugged. Her blouse gaped a little. Ethan kept his eyes on her face.

  She rose to her feet in a fluid motion. “You’ll forgive me, but I have work to do.”

  Ethan stood. “Would you mind if I had a look around before I le
ft?”

  She crossed her arms. Her eyes, which had lost their hostility over the course of Ethan’s visit, hardened. “I’ve had enough police digging through my house. Check the reports, Detective. It’s all there. Hair samples, fingerprints, photos.”

  His jaw tightened. He knew it was all there. It wasn’t the same as looking at Lisa’s room with a fresh set of eyes, two homicides later. “Right.”

  She headed to the door. He walked the long way around her sofa so that he’d cross by her computer desk. He scanned the stacks of files. He found the whiskey glass.

  So she had been drinking before he came.

  He turned toward the door, giving the desk a final once-over. A letter caught his eye. Department of Justice, Government of Canada scrolled across the top. He made out the words, We are pleased to confirm…before Judge Carson’s voice interrupted him.

  “I asked you to leave, Detective.”

  He turned smoothly toward her. “Of course, Your Honor. Or should I say, Madam Justice?”

  She flushed.

  That’s a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

  “Don’t be impertinent.”

  He slid his notebook into his pocket. “I’ll call you if I track down Mr. Arnold. Please let me know if you see or hear from him.”

  “Don’t worry, Detective. I’m not a fool.”

  “Don’t worry, Your Honor,” he ever so gently mimicked her tone. “You would never be accused of that.”

  He closed the door behind him and left the building. He hadn’t been able to read it all, but he was sure that the letter had confirmed Judge Carson’s appointment to the Supreme Court Division.

  He bet she wasn’t the first drunk judge to grace that bench.

  Chapter 32

  Tuesday, May 15, 10:00 a.m.

  Kate eyed the three-foot-high pile of binders on her desk. Melinda Crouse had kept her word. The screening and tissue processing procedures were now awaiting her.

  But what she wanted was in a thin kraft envelope on top of the pile. She picked it up and pulled out a sheaf of reports. A Post-it note was stuck on top, with a note written in a rounded hand: The donor reports and blood-screening reports you requested for B.G. and D.R., M.C.