Turning Secrets

by Brenda Chapman

  “We’re gearing up to do a renovation on the hospital, and we’re building a new school in the east end this summer. A few other minor projects as well.”

  “You’re busy.”

  “Can never have enough work in the construction business. You need to get ahead so you’ll be able to make it through leaner times. Everything slows down in the winter, as you can imagine.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you.” She started walking past them to get a better look at the site, but Lapointe called to her.

  “You’ll need someone to accompany you, and you’ll have to wear a hard hat, vest, and workboots if you plan to go any farther.”

  She stopped and reconsidered. “I’ve got what I came for,” she said, taking a last look at the shell of the hotel, now alive with construction workers moving around like ants inside on the slab. She wasn’t sure why she’d been drawn back, except that she wanted to fix the location in her mind and to drive around the surrounding area.

  Nadia might have come willingly to this location with someone. She would have believed she was safe as she’d climbed the concrete steps. It might have been a moonlit lark or a dare. Kala imagined them crawling through the opening in the back fence, swinging a bottle of wine and laughing their way through the darkness. The overdose might have been an accident, and whoever she was with might have panicked and rolled her off the ledge.

  Kala imagined a darker scenario; that Nadia was brought here by force. Led up the stairs in the dark, frightened out of her mind — someone’s rough hands pushing her forward. Had she spent her last moments begging for her life before being held down and forced to ingest a large amount of drugs? Or had her lifeless body been carried up the stairs and thrown over the edge to hide evidence of murder? In every scenario, somebody removed all her identification and tried to cover up what had happened.

  Kala turned from the site and started back toward her truck. She knew the three men were watching her go and she didn’t hurry. They were hiding something, she could feel it. Whatever it was might not have anything to do with Nadia’s death, but then again, it just might. She reached her truck and looked over her shoulder. They were still staring in her direction. She lifted her hand in a wave before climbing into the driver’s seat. She took her time backing down the driveway, hoping her slow exit onto the highway would give them pause.

  At the station, she picked up a coffee and a cheese sandwich from the cafeteria to eat at her desk. Before sitting down, she wrote the names of the three men on the whiteboard for further consideration when the team next gathered, although she had to admit that it was counterintuitive to believe that Harold Mortimer would carry out a murder on his own construction site. She removed their names from the suspect list and rewrote them under the category Possible Witnesses. A stretch, perhaps, but she couldn’t ignore the feeling she got around these three; it was a cross between dislike and distrust.

  She was alone in the office and remembered that Rouleau was at City Hall for the media briefing. The others were carrying out their investigations. She opened the police search engine and typed in Murray Simmons. Two hits. Six years earlier, he’d been arrested and charged with assault. He’d gotten a suspended sentence and been ordered to attend anger management classes. Two years ago, he’d been pulled over for drunk driving and had his driver’s licence lifted for six months. The second offence had netted him three months’ worth of weekends in detention. Another search of his business assets revealed that he owned two low-rise apartment buildings and worked for Mortimer Construction. Kala raised her head and considered the significance.

  She typed in Jeff Simmons. No social media presence. She returned to the police database and typed in his name and his mother’s address. They lived in a home on McDonald Avenue. She brought the property up on Google Maps. The house was an older two-storey on a corner lot with a detached garage. Elm trees encircled the house. The second floor was an addition, taller than the main floor, giving the white-sided house a top-heavy appearance. She did a final check of news articles dating back five years. One hit. She opened the article and scanned the story before going back to reread it carefully.

  Jeff Simmons had been charged for stalking a fourteen-year-old girl and touching her inappropriately at the city pool. Never convicted because the girl had withdrawn the charges. A slightly blurry photo of Jeff had been taken from a distance. A quote from his mother: “My boy would never have hurt her. He just doesn’t know how to go about asking for a date.”

  Kala copied the link and forwarded the story to Rouleau and the team.

  There’ll be no living with Woodhouse, she thought, once he finds out there was something behind his snap judgment.

  Marci was on her way to Brockville when she got word of the press conference at noon. She checked the clock on the dashboard and pulled into the show-off lane. If she hurried, she’d have an hour to track down and interview Lorraine and Peter Billings. Scotty hadn’t signed off on the overnight in Ottawa so her plans wouldn’t have to change much. It was early enough that the church crowd were safely in their pews and not on the highway. The transport trucks were another story but they stayed in the slower lanes. She arrived at the off-ramp at 9:10. Her GPS guided her to a residential street with bungalows set back on inclines and long grassy lots stretching down to the road. A property like this would go for a few million in Toronto, more in Manhattan but under three hundred thousand here. It truly was all about location, location, location.

  She parked behind the car angled halfway up the driveway and got out, filling her lungs with country-fresh air — the intangible that money couldn’t buy, no matter the size of the mortgage. The sky went on forever here outside the city. The early morning haze had cleared and the blue sky overhead, along with the sunshine warming her face, gave her a rare sense of contentment. Knowing Rouleau was stopping by for supper tonight didn’t hurt her mood either. They hadn’t spoken in a few days but he’d accepted her texted invitation the night before. She hadn’t planned to want him around as much as she did. The idea of needing him in her life scared her, but she liked the happy flutter in her chest when she thought of him.

  She saw a curtain twitch in the front window and started walking toward the house. She’d found that the best approach with victims’ families was empathy with a shared outrage for the life lost. She didn’t have to feign either of these but still found her own calculated approach to these interviews distasteful. Simply having an agenda meant that she was playing with their emotions.

  The man who answered the door had espresso-brown eyes soft as velvet. Marci’s breath caught in her throat for an instant. She forced herself to look past him at the woman in the hallway. “Sorry to bother you so early this morning. My name is Marci Stokes and I’m a reporter with the Whig-Standard. I’m working on a story about Nadia and I want to make sure I portray her the way her family would want her to be remembered. I called yesterday and left a message.” That nobody returned.

  “You want to talk to this lady?” the man asked the woman behind him without taking his eyes off Marci. His peepers should be registered as weapons. A girl could drown in them without giving a thought to her own survival.

  “Let her in.” The voice was resigned rather than welcoming but Marci was happy to get a foot in the door anyway.

  They led her into a back sunroom filled with light and hanging plants. Marci chose the seat facing the couch, which the couple sat on together. She pulled a small tape recorder out of her handbag. “With your permission, I’ll record the conversation to ensure accuracy later.” Lorraine nodded, so Marci turned it on and set it beside her on the chair where they’d forget it was running.

  “Lorraine, tell me about your sister,” she said. “How would you want people to remember Nadia?”

  “Not as a victim, that’s for sure,” said Lorraine. “Nadia loved her little boy and was turning her life around to care for him. That’s what I want people to know about her. She had rough teen years but had a good life ahead.�
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  “Can you tell me about her teen years? I won’t include the information in my story, but I should know everything about her life so that I don’t make any false references by accident.” Marci winced inwardly at the lame explanation but Lorraine seemed to buy it.

  “Nadia had a lot of spirit. She was rebellious and hated being told what to do. She moved out of my parents’ house when she was fifteen and took care of herself.”

  “She lived on the street?”

  “With friends.”

  “Do you have the names of any friends I could follow up with?”

  “No. I never met them. She’d broken away from all those people before she had her son, Hugo. She doted on him.”

  “I hate to ask this, but there are rumours that your sister was involved in something that might have gone bad. Do you know anything about what that could be?”

  Lorraine looked puzzled. “You mean when she lived in Ottawa? I know she was into drugs a bit but she stopped all that when she got pregnant. Do you really have to write about that in your article?”

  “It won’t be the focus. Her relationship with her son is the angle I see as the lead … and how she’d turned her life around.”

  “I have a nice photo of Nadia with Hugo that you can use. I can send it to you.”

  “Perfect.” Marci glanced at Peter, who was slumped back into the couch, staring past her out the window. So far, he hadn’t uttered a word. Marci looked back at Lorraine. “Why did Nadia move to Kingston?”

  “My sister decided it was time to stand on her own two feet. She got a waitressing job and was getting ready to go back to school. She was excited about the future.”

  “What did she intend to study?”

  “Well, first she had to graduate high school. She mentioned getting a business diploma. Did she say anything to you, Peter?”

  “Nope.”

  Lorraine shifted in her seat to look at him. “Why don’t I go find that photo and send it to you now?” she asked, turning back to Marci. “Otherwise, I’ll forget.”

  “Here’s a card with my email address,” said Marci. “I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble.”

  Marci waited until she heard Lorraine’s footsteps going upstairs. She leaned forward and after a few moments Peter’s eyes focused in on her gaze. “Do you have any stories to tell me about Nadia?”

  “None that you can use in your article.”

  “You don’t seem as convinced as your wife about Nadia’s rebirth.”

  “I have no comment.”

  “Was it difficult having her and Hugo live with you?”

  An odd look crossed his face and he abruptly stood up. “I have nothing to add to your article. I’ve got work to do in the garage.”

  No one had been this eager to get away from her in quite some time. “Where’s the fire, Mr. Billings?” she said under her breath, but she refrained from chasing after him. A few seconds passed. She could hear the angry timbre of his voice mixing with Lorraine’s placating one in the other room and knew her time had run out.

  Lorraine reappeared, face flushed and eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to leave, Ms. Stokes. I forgot that we’re meeting with the pastor about Nadia’s funeral in fifteen minutes. Peter just reminded me.”

  “No problem. I have enough to get started on the story.”

  “I told Peter you’d understand.”

  Marci gathered up her things and left the Billings house with the photo emailed to her phone and Lorraine’s glowing portrayal of her sister. This wasn’t enough to counter her deep curiosity about the truths Peter was hiding about his sister-in-law. She knew there was no way he’d spill them to her since her job was to share them with the public, but she had a good idea who might be able to pull the information out of him.

  She got into her car and tapped on her phone.

  May as well get the follow-up ball rolling, she thought. Plus, it never hurts to keep on the good side of Kala Stonechild.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Woodhouse squinted at Bennett’s pretty-boy face and scowled. He didn’t know why the guy bothered him so much, except that men like Bennett had it soft, using their good looks and charm to get through life. They didn’t know what it was like to be bullied at school or at home. Bennett was everything Woodhouse had envied throughout his miserable childhood. Every time he looked at Bennett’s face, he relived his anger and resentment. But he was in charge now.

  “What do you mean she wouldn’t answer? You heard her in there, right?”

  “I thought I heard her moving around but she never came to the door.”

  “Well, we need to interview her so think of something.” Woodhouse ran a silent play-by-play through his head and let his eyes travel around the Bellevue Towers lobby.

  Pretty-boy brow’s all wrinkled in concentration. Do we have an idea? Going once … going twice …”

  “Maybe the super could get her to open up.”

  And we have a winner.

  “Now you’re using the brain God gave you. Go get him and I’ll meet you on the third.”

  That sullen look returned to Bennett’s face. “I can interview her alone. My only issue is getting inside.”

  “Let’s say her reluctance to answer the door has me curious. It might take two of us to persuade her to talk.” He only just kept himself from saying, in case your pretty-boy face doesn’t do it for her. Luckily, his brain took a few seconds to operate his mouth.

  Woodhouse took the elevator to the third floor and checked his phone messages while he waited in the hall. Two from Marci Stokes that he deleted after reading. She was tight with Rouleau and could be setting him up now that she was sleeping with an even better source of information. Maybe she’d screw him over by letting Rouleau read his message to her “by accident.” He wouldn’t put it past her.

  The elevator rumbled to a stop and Bennett got off with a reluctant-looking Jeff Simmons trailing a few steps behind. They met outside the door across the hall from the victim’s apartment.

  “I can’t let you into her apartment. Murray told me under no circumstances could I go into someone’s apartment when they’re home unless they invite me.” Jeff had his head down, bangs in his eyes, looking at the floor.

  Woodhouse asked, “Did your brother tell you to listen to the police too?”

  Jeff nodded and kicked the toe of his boot into the carpet.

  “Well, I’m telling you to knock at her door and call her name. Maybe she’ll answer to you and we won’t have to use the key to get in.”

  “I’m not supposed —”

  “Let’s try knocking,” Bennett interrupted, putting himself between Jeff and Woodhouse. He rested his hand on Jeff’s forearm. “She might come to the door for you.”

  Jeff lifted his head. “I won’t get into trouble?”

  “I’ll make sure you don’t.”

  “Okay,” Jeff said, and shuffled over to the door. He knocked and called, “Mrs. Greenboro. It’s Jeff Simmons. I need to talk to you. Can you open the door, Mrs. Greenboro?”

  “Louder,” barked Woodhouse.

  Jeff’s head jerked back but he called out her name again, louder this time.

  Bennett knocked on the door and stood still, listening. He motioned for Woodhouse to step back out of view of the peephole. “I hear her coming down the hall.”

  The chain rattled and the door finally swung open. Woodhouse and Bennett both dropped their eyes. The woman in front of them had to be at least ninety and she stood about four foot ten. Strands of snow-white hair partially hid a pink scalp and her face was blotched with brown age spots. Her blackcurrant eyes looked them over and appeared unimpressed with what she saw.

  “You can’t come in. Only reason I opened the door was so you’d leave this poor young man alone. You should be ashamed of yourselves, using him like this to get to me.”

  Woodhouse wanted to reach down and throttle the woman but Bennett was intent on handling the i
nterview.

  “We apologize,” Bennett said, “but we’re investigating the death of your neighbour Nadia Armstrong. Did you interact with her at all, ma’am?”

  “I saw her coming and going with her baby. Called him Hugo.”

  “Did you speak with her?”

  “Now what in blazes would we have to talk about?” Her fingers grabbed onto the door frame and the door began to swing shut.

  Bennett spoke quickly. “Did you see her Tuesday evening?”

  The door stopped moving. “The girl went out after I ate my supper at five o’clock. I never saw her come home.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you.”

  The door slammed shut and the chain scraped into place.

  Jeff said, “Mrs. Greenboro’s not much for talking.”

  Woodhouse snorted, but before he could say anything, Bennett cut in. “Have you remembered anything that could help us find out what happened to Nadia, Jeff?”

  “No.”

  “Well, thanks for your help,” said Woodhouse. He was quite certain Simmons wouldn’t catch the sarcasm, and the expression on his face bore this out. He watched Jeff hightail it over to the stairwell and disappear through the door. Woodhouse glared at Bennett. “I feel like we’ve entered the loony bin. This has been one wasted Sunday we’ll never get back.”

  Bennett said, “I don’t know. I thought she was kind of cute.”

  “Nothing cute about that wizened bag of bones. Jeff Simmons ought to have his head examined too.”

  Bennett’s face reddened. “You’re one foul piece of work, you know that, Woodhouse? Some day, all the nastiness you send out into the world is going to come back to you in spades. I guarantee it.”

  Woodhouse laughed. “Don’t hold your breath, little grasshopper. I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you, Bennett, and I can assure you that nice guys do not finish first. You might want to think about that next time you bend over to take a poker in the ass.”

  “At least I’ll be able to look at myself in the mirror and not shudder in disgust.”