Tumbled Graves

by Brenda Chapman

  Bennett finally broke his silence when he pulled into the Delaney driveway. “I think we should go easy, maybe not push Delaney too hard.”

  Woodhouse slapped the dashboard with the palm of his hand as if he’d just heard a whopper. “Next you’ll be telling me not to ask any questions about the murders in case I hurt his wittle feewings.” He shook his head. “You really have to grow a set, Bennett. We’re detectives, not bloody social workers.”

  “I’m just saying, the guy doesn’t look like he can take much more.”

  “Not our problem. Where’s your compassion for his dead wife and three-year-old kid?”

  “It’s there. I think we should wait to see what Stonechild and Gundersund come up with before we go at Delaney again.”

  “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  They climbed the driveway, Bennett holding back a few steps. Woodhouse rapped on the door and moved back. After half a minute and no sound of anyone moving around inside, he pounded on the door again. He tried the door handle just to be sure, but the door was locked.

  “I’ll check around the back,” said Bennett.

  Woodhouse nodded and tried to peer in the square of glass covered by a curtain. Bennett was at the corner when Ivo finally opened the door. The sight of Delaney’s sunken eyes and white face almost gave Woodhouse pause, but then he remembered his dead wife and child. Who would speak for them if not the police? This guy didn’t deserve his sympathy.

  “We’re here about a break in. Can we come inside?”

  Delaney stepped back, leaving the door open.

  Woodhouse waved his arm at Bennett to hurry up before following him inside. Delaney was already disappearing into his office by the time Woodhouse started down the hallway after him with Bennett close on his heels. They crowded inside the office and Bennett let out a low whistle. Papers and books were tossed about, the desk and bookshelves overturned and laying on their sides on the floor. The desk drawers had been emptied of contents and tossed against the wall.

  Delaney stood just inside the doorway with his shoulders hunched and hands hanging at his sides while they surveyed the damage. He was everything Woodhouse despised in a man — weak, snivelling, and soft to the point of effeminate. Top that with his murdered family and Woodhouse had no compunction about bringing him to breaking point if that’s what it took to make him own up to what he’d done.

  “Anything taken?” asked Bennett. He took his camera out and started snapping photos.

  “It’s hard to tell. My bedroom’s been gone through too.”

  Woodhouse pointed to the door. “Well, let’s go have a look.”

  They trooped upstairs and met with the same mess in his bedroom and bathroom. The sweet smell of talcum powder filled Woodhouse’s nose and he saw that a container of it had been dumped on the tile next to the tub. Bennett moved around the debris, taking more photos while Woodhouse asked questions and took notes.

  “Where were you when this alleged robbery was taking place?”

  “I went into work in the afternoon to take my mind off Adele and Violet. I might as well have stayed home because I couldn’t concentrate. When I got back after six-thirty, this is what I found.”

  “How’d they get in?”

  “I’d left the back door unlocked. Whoever came in left it wide open.”

  “Now why would you go out and leave your door unlocked?”

  “We never lock it during the day. I never thought of it.”

  Convenient. “What did you think when you first saw that you’d been broken into?”

  “That someone from the media was in here looking for something.”

  A slippery thought nagged at the back of Woodhouse’s brain. He let his mind go back over their visit. The ah ha moment wasn’t long in coming. “Your front door was locked just now. Why would you have locked it and not the back door?”

  “I didn’t want anybody else to get in. I locked both doors after I saw this mess.”

  Woodhouse let the silence lengthen, long enough for Delaney to start looking uncomfortable. He kept his voice on the accusatory side. “Have you remembered anything else about the day your family went missing?” Like the fact you killed them?

  Delaney looked confused for a moment, then his eyes focused on Woodhouse’s. “I have nothing more to tell.”

  “A guilty conscience is a tough thing to live with,” Woodhouse said softly. “You might want to rethink your earlier statement and take responsibility for your part in their deaths.”

  Comprehension crept across Delaney’s face. He dropped his eyes from Woodhouse and looked down at the floor, his big shoulders drooping like a sail made slack from retreating wind.

  Bennett picked that moment to straighten from where he’d been crouching near the bed taking photos. “I think I’m done here.” He motioned toward Delaney. “Perhaps you can call someone to help clean up this mess.”

  “I can manage.”

  “We’ll be close by if you decide to ease your conscience.” Woodhouse snapped his notepad shut. He put his mouth near Delaney’s ear. “Adele and Violet deserve that the truth come out. Their spirits’ll never rest easy until you tell us what really happened.”

  They left Delaney standing by the door to the bedroom. As they clattered down the stairs, Woodhouse in the lead, Bennett stopped partway and said, “Do you think we should call the neighbour woman to come over and give him a hand? He seems … I don’t know. Unwell.”

  Woodhouse stopped too and looked up at Bennett. Are you friggin kidding me? He turned back around and kept going down the stairs. He said over his shoulder, “Nah. He’ll figure it out. He’s a big boy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Gundersund gathered the team in Rouleau’s office at eight the next morning. He’d brought doughnuts and Bennett had been the first in and made a pot of coffee. They stood around Rouleau’s desk taking a few minutes to ingest sugar and caffeine before recapping the previous day’s activities.

  “So we’re up to speed,” said Gundersund after Woodhouse finished his report on their trip to the Delaney house in the early evening, for what he called a wild goose chase. Gundersund looked at Bennett who was studying Woodhouse with thinly disguised dislike. “Anything to add, Bennett?”

  “No.”

  “Rouleau is staying in Ottawa for another day. I’m keeping him informed as much as he needs to be. At this point, we haven’t much new to trouble him with. What are your plans for this morning, Stonechild?” He didn’t ask her what was on her mind even though he wanted to. She’d been quiet since she came into the office. Distracted, he’d say.

  “I’m going to see about getting us an interview with Benoit Manteau in Millhaven. I put in a call last night and am waiting to speak with somebody.”

  “It’s prudent to close that loop,” said Gundersund, more for Woodhouse’s benefit than Stonechild’s. He knew that Woodhouse wasn’t a fan of Stonechild’s investigative style. Woodhouse believed the obvious was always the answer and the rest deserved only a cursory look — his biggest failing as far as Gundersund could see. He added, “And I’ll be updating Heath this morning. I can come with you to interview Benoit Manteau if you’re able to set something up for this afternoon, Stonechild.”

  She nodded. “I have a personal appointment at four but am hoping Millhaven can accommodate us closer to lunchtime. If not, we’ll have to try for tomorrow.”

  He looked at Woodhouse. “What have you got on today?”

  “We’ll be finishing up interviews with Delaney’s coworkers while we wait for the final forensics to come in.”

  “Great. We’re promised the report on his vehicle and Adele’s by end of day. The team continues to go through the computers and laptops, so hopefully we’ll get something from them today too.”

  Woodhouse nodded. “If it plays out lik
e it should, we’ll be waiting for your call to bring in Delaney. Is that it?”

  Gundersund thought for a second. “I got nothing else. Just keep in touch if you find out anything the rest of us should know.”

  Woodhouse signalled to Bennett to follow him out.

  Gundersund watched Stonechild smile at Bennett as if telling him to keep the faith. Bennett smiled back before trailing out after Woodhouse. Gundersund felt his stomach tighten at this exchange.

  Stonechild held back after the others left. It took her a few seconds to start talking. “I have to go into Dawn’s school again.”

  “Has something else happened?”

  “I’m not sure, but the social worker wasn’t as friendly as last time she called.”

  “How was Dawn when you got home yesterday?”

  “Fine. She’d made supper and then went upstairs to do homework. A typical evening.”

  Gundersund wondered how typical it was for a thirteen-year-old to spend every evening in her room doing homework, but he kept silent.

  Stonechild seemed to sense something in his mood because she added, “I’ll be calling her counsellor to set up an appointment for later in the week now that our case appears to be settling down. I’m trying, Gundersund. I just don’t know if I’m who she needs to get through this.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I think you’re just what she needs.”

  She smiled at him but the smile didn’t linger. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I really hope your faith in me isn’t misplaced.”

  Gundersund would later remember how close together the two calls came. Two devastating calls, one expected and the other a complete shock. The first came through on his cell — Rouleau telling him that Frances had passed away that morning and he’d be staying in Ottawa a few more days until after the funeral. Gundersund had never met Rouleau’s ex-wife but he knew by the odd comment that Rouleau had let drop that he was still in love with her. Her death would be hard for him to get over.

  Gundersund looked over at Stonechild. She was eating an apple while reading something on her computer screen. He was going to have to let her know, let the entire team know. He always felt like time hung suspended at these moments just before breaking bad news, knowing that the person he had to tell would never be quite the same. The desk phone rang before he could get up from his chair. He picked up the receiver, planning to make quick work of the call, knowing that Rouleau had called Vera before him and word would spread quickly through the station.

  In response to his abrupt hello, the caller didn’t say anything, but Gundersund could hear raspy breathing and a strangled sound that made him lean forward and cover his free ear in an effort to hear better.

  “Are you in trouble? Can you tell me where you are?” Why hadn’t this person called 911? From the corner of his eye, he saw Stonechild stand and start toward him, a look of concern on her face.

  “Are you there?” he asked again, louder this time.

  At last a woman’s voice made a discernible sound that sounded like a high-pitched shriek. “I found him. Hanging. You people did this. You drove him to it.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you tell me who you are?” He was vaguely aware of Stonechild next to him, bent over so that she could hear. He pulled the receiver from his ear and held it between them.

  “He’s dead.” The woman’s voice was lower now, in vicious control as she enunciated every syllable. “Ivo Delaney is dead. He hanged himself from the beam in their bedroom. Sammy and I found him when we came by to make lunch.” She began sobbing then and Gundersund let Stonechild take the phone while he took out his cell. He listened to Stonechild’s calm voice assuring Catherine Lockhart that they were on their way, while he placed a call to the front desk to mobilize a squad car and the ambulance. He and Stonechild wouldn’t be far behind.

  Stonechild finished speaking with Catherine at almost the same time as he completed his call. She stood motionless for a moment, the look on her face broken but quickly hardening into anger. She glared at him.

  “How could we have let this happen?”

  “Woodhouse and Bennett were with him yesterday because of the break in. They would have reported if he seemed suicidal.”

  “Bennett maybe. I’m not so sure about Woodhouse.”

  “You can’t know that. This is an awful shock, but we have to work together. You have to step back.”

  Her eyes bore through him and it took an effort not to look away. He’d never seen this anger and pain from her before and he wondered for the first time what she was capable of doing when provoked. She had depths that he was only now glimpsing.

  She was the first to look away. “I’ll just get my jacket,” she said, her voice even, revealing none of the emotion he’d just seen in her eyes. She ducked her head and said as she turned, “I’ll take my own truck and meet you there.”

  “I’ll just stop by Heath’s office and will be right behind you.”

  He was in the parking lot before he remembered that he hadn’t told her about Frances. He looked at the taillights of her truck pulling onto Division Street. “Dammit,” he said out loud. He’d have to find a moment to tell her as soon as he got to the Delaney house because if Stonechild heard about Frances from somebody else, his lapse wouldn’t be easily forgiven.

  He reached his car and unlocked the door. How had the day gone from contained to disaster in the space of ten minutes? He slid inside and started the engine. For the first time, he thought about what Delaney’s suicide could mean. If they were lucky and he’d left a note confessing to his family’s murders, his death might be a blessing in disguise. Gundersund had almost convinced himself that this was how it would play out by the time he reached the outskirts of Kingston. Only the anger he’d seen in Stonechild’s eyes kept him from fully believing in the possibility of a tidy ending to this whole ugly mess.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Gundersund parked on the side of the road behind two police cars and waited for Fiona to get out of her SUV. He’d seen her in his rear-view mirror pull in behind him.

  “This is tragic,” she said. She wore a black leather jacket and grey slacks, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She carried her medical bag in one hand and her cellphone in the other. It rang as they started up the driveway and she spoke a few words into it before tucking it back inside her pocket. They walked up to the house, past the ambulance and fire truck parked next to each other in the driveway.

  “Have you heard if he left a note?” Gundersund asked.

  “No, but I haven’t heard that he didn’t.”

  He held onto the hope as the officer standing outside the front door greeted them. Two firemen came out of the house and headed back toward their truck. Gundersund and Fiona stopped and put white suits and boots on over their clothing and shoes before stepping inside the front hallway. The light was greyish and damp, dust visible in the air. A second officer directed them upstairs.

  Stonechild was already in the bedroom, standing next to the photographer, both also dressed in the protective white suits. Two paramedics stood talking in quiet voices next to Ivo Delaney’s body, which they’d lowered to the floor between the bed and the window. The remainder of the rope still hung from the beam, but a length of it was wrapped around Ivo’s neck and trailed on the floor next to him. A chair lay on its side not far away. His face was white and his eyes bulged from their sockets. His body looked big and awkward even in death. He lay on his back with his arms at his sides, palms upturned. He was wearing a plaid shirt and beige pants and he smelled of urine and sour body odour. It took all Gundersund had to keep looking. Fiona crouched to begin her inspection of the body.

  Stonechild moved over to where Gundersund stood. “No note,” she said. “Catherine Lockhart is in the kitchen waiting to be interviewed.”

  “I�
�ll come with you. I’m not much use here.”

  Fiona looked up. “I’ll see you before we leave.” She had on her professional face but he knew suicides always upset her. Her sister had killed herself when she was sixteen. They’d formed a bond over dead siblings. In the end, it hadn’t been enough of a reason to keep the marriage going.

  “Yeah, I’ll check in with you before we head back.”

  Stonechild didn’t say anything on their way downstairs but he knew that she’d overheard the exchange with his wife. They found Catherine in the kitchen with Sammy. He was colouring on a pad of paper with a pack of crayons. He looked up at them as they entered, but went right back to colouring. A female officer was refilling Catherine’s mug with tea and she smiled gratefully at Gundersund as they took seats at the table.

  “I’ll just take Sammy out to play in the backyard, shall I?” she asked.

  “Don’t wanna,” Sammy said without looking up.

  “Go with the policewoman, now, Sammy. I mean it.” Catherine spoke without her usual energy and Sammy stared over at her. He looked puzzled but obediently put down his crayon and got up, racing ahead of the officer and yanking open the back door. “You can push me on Violet’s swing,” he said.

  “If you like.” The officer gave Gundersund one last smile before following Sammy outside, shutting the door behind her.

  “What am I going to do with that boy?” Catherine looked at Stonechild. “Luckily, he was behind me and didn’t see Ivo hanging. He’s already having nightmares. All I need is for him to have walked in on that. I keep thinking, a whole family dead in the space of a week. Happy and alive last week at this time and now.… The speed and cruelty of their deaths has been truly mind-boggling.”

  “This must be very painful for you. We’re sorry to have to ask you more questions.” Stonechild’s voice was kind and Catherine reacted with a loosening of her shoulders and the tight line of her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.