Indefensible

by Pamela Callow

  Ethan arched a brow. “You say that your mother hated your dad.” He decided to fish a little. “How did she react when she saw him?”

  A very faint sheen of perspiration marked the boy’s upper lip. “She got mad at him.”

  “Why?”

  Nick blew out air heavily between his lips. “Because he got mad at me. He wanted me to go sailing with him.”

  “On his boat?”

  “Yacht,” Nick corrected. “My dad owns a yacht.”

  “And he wanted you to go sailing on it.”

  “There was no way I was going to spend a week alone with him.”

  Ethan couldn’t blame him. “So did you tell him that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did he react?”

  “He got angry.”

  Did Nick realize how this was sounding? Ethan wondered. “What did he do?”

  “He yelled at me and my mum.”

  “She was trying to defend your decision?”

  Nick looked away. “Yeah,” he said softly.

  “Did he get violent? You know, hit you or your mum?”

  Nick tensed. “No.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He got in his fancy new car and left.”

  “Was that the last you saw of him?”

  Nick stared straight ahead, his expression wooden again. “Yeah.”

  Ethan opened the door to the patrol car. The night air rushed in, cool and holding the breath of fog.

  “Do you think your dad could be on his yacht right now?”

  Nick shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

  Nick shrugged. “Don’t bother on my account.”

  Ethan stepped out of the car. “We’ll talk to your grandmother about coming to the station tomorrow. We need to take a more detailed statement.”

  “But I already told you and some other officer everything I know.”

  “A good night’s sleep might help you remember things. We need to piece together what happened to your mum.”

  Ethan left the door open and walked over to Penelope Barrett’s red Beetle. Lucy and her grandmother leaned against the hood of the car. Lucy clutched a blanket around her shoulders. As Ethan got closer he could see she was trembling. “Mrs. Barrett, we are going to send patrol over to your son’s house, his office and his yacht.”

  “His yacht! Of course, I should have thought of that.” Relief warmed Penelope Barrett’s voice. “He keeps it at the Armdale Yacht Club. It’s white. It’s called Ex Parte.”

  “Can you think of any other places he might be? Does he have a cottage? Or a friend he visits regularly?”

  Ethan used the euphemism for Lucy’s sake. Her grandmother didn’t miss the nuance. “No. He doesn’t have either a cottage or a place he goes to regularly.” Penelope Barrett smoothed Lucy’s hair, which Ethan realized looked just like her dead mother’s. She gave Ethan a warning glance. “I need to get Lucy and her brother home. They’re in shock.”

  “Just give the patrol officer at the end of the driveway your address and a number to reach you tomorrow. We’ll need to get their statements at the police station.”

  Lucy closed her eyes as if the thought was too much for her. Penelope Barrett nodded brusquely. “I understand.”

  Nat drove slowly down Point Pleasant Drive. It was easy to find the house in question: several patrol cars sat in the driveway.

  She raised her brows at the sight of the FIS van. A murder? When she’d heard the original call over her new scanner, patrol had said a woman appeared to have fallen off a balcony on the north side of the house. The watch commander hadn’t given any more details.

  She’d grabbed her satchel. A woman had died. Fallen to her death. And in an area of the city known for its wealth, not for its crime. That would be attention-grabbing. Everyone loved to read how the wealthy had fallen—literally.

  Sounded like a story worth checking out.

  Nat parked her car across from the house and gave a low whistle. The house wasn’t one of Halifax’s Victorian grande dames, but it was still impressive. She glanced at her iPhone directory. The house was owned by Catherine Feldman, associate professor at Hollis University Law School. The law school’s website announced that she was currently a visiting professor at the University of Auckland law faculty in New Zealand. She must have hired someone to take care of the place, be cause the lawn had been recently mowed—although not weeded—and the garden looked as if it was getting regular watering.

  Who had fallen off the balcony? A caretaker? A family member?

  There was a small cluster of onlookers, a couple in bathrobes, a few others in T-shirts and shorts. Looked like neighbors, attracted by the police cars and FIS detectives combing the property. Perfect. Hopefully someone had been interviewed by the police and could give her the lowdown. She had loved weekends when she covered the crime beat in Ottawa, but Halifax was proving to be much more fertile ground than the staid nation’s capital. Take that, Bryce.

  She grabbed her notepad and hopped out of her car. There was surely someone in that crowd with a story to tell. As she neared the group, she realized they were all watching a scene unfold twenty feet away. A silver-haired woman was ushering two kids into a red Beetle. The hairs on the back of Nat’s neck tingled. This was the victim’s family, she was sure of it. She whipped her camera out of her satchel, taking a picture of the three head-on before they realized what was happening.

  The grandmother hurried the kids into the car, glaring at Nat as she sped away.

  “Bad luck,” a man murmured, nodding his head toward the crime scene tape. He edged closer to Nat. “She’d only just arrived, I think.”

  With that opener, Nat got her story.

  As she left the scene of Elise Vanderzell’s death, she should have felt satisfied with her night’s work. But she didn’t.

  The look on those kids’ faces had been so desolate.

  Some days she hated her job.

  15

  Saturday, 3:54 a.m.

  Ethan stood in the doorway of the master suite in which Elise Vanderzell had not even had one full night’s sleep. It had originally been a large bedroom in the center of the house that had been doubled by removing the wall from the east-facing bedroom. A walk-in closet sprawled over one wall. Half of the back wall boasted a sliding patio door that opened onto a narrow balcony.

  The balcony from which Elise Vanderzell fell.

  An FIS technician photographed the bedside table. There was nothing remarkable about it. The clock radio, lamp and travel magazines had the air of a still life. But there was no dust on them. Ethan guessed that the room had been recently cleaned in anticipation of Elise’s stay.

  Even the matching cherrywood king-size four-poster bed with pale blue and cream bedding appeared barely inhabited. The duvet had been pulled back on one side, revealing only slightly rumpled sheets. The pillow cradled the faint imprint of a lone head. The other side of the massive bed was neatly made. It would appear that Elise Vanderzell had slept alone tonight.

  Had she been so alone, so desolate that she threw herself over the balcony?

  A large framed picture of a beach dotted with shells hung over the bed. The master suite had been decorated by a romantic, it seemed. Ethan wondered how much trace evidence they’d have to eliminate because someone else normally occupied the room.

  He looked down at the floor. Hardwood. Wouldn’t give much in the way of footwear impressions, but it was a perfect trap for blood spatters. A large pale blue Persian rug lay on the floor by the bed.

  “Get any impressions from the rug?” Ethan asked the FIS technician.

  The technician shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Have you taped any of the floor yet?” FIS technicians use clear tape to pick up fibers and hairs from the floor.

  The technician shook his head.

  “I’ll be careful.” Fortunately, the bathroom door was ajar, so he slid sideways through the doorway, stoppin
g on the threshold. The blue-and-cream theme had been extended to the matching bath, with gold faucets and gold-speckled tile adding a touch of luxury. Nautilus-themed hand towels hung from a gold towel bar. The carefully decorated interior was in striking contrast to the indifferently shabby exterior.

  But Ethan wasn’t here to admire the decorating job. What he was looking for sat on the gold-flecked vanity, right next to the shell-shaped sink.

  A bottle of pills.

  He snapped on latex gloves and picked up the bottle.

  The label confirmed his suspicions. Prescription sleeping pills. But his eyebrows rose at the brand. Delteze.

  There’d been a lot of press about those pills. Originally touted as one of the best treatments for insomnia, reports surfaced of strange side effects: people driving their cars at night, binge eating and sleepwalking—with no memory of it.

  He shook the pills onto his palm and began counting. The prescription was a month old. If Elise Vanderzell had followed the prescribed dose, there should be thirty pills missing, max.

  There were exactly fourteen pills unaccounted for.

  Had she taken them all and OD’d?

  Or had she taken one pill and sleepwalked to her death?

  “We’ve found the husband,” Sue announced in the doorway. “Or should I say, ex-husband.”

  Ethan spun around. He’d been standing on the balcony outside the master suite, surveying the surrounding buildings. He couldn’t see much through the foliage. He’d hoped that there might have been late-night party-goers taking advantage of the long weekend who might have witnessed something—but he doubted anyone could see through the hedges or trees. Still, you never knew.

  “Where was he?” Ethan retraced his steps through the bedroom. He’d seen enough. There was no obvious sign of struggle. Nothing to suggest Elise Vanderzell had met a violent death. It was now up to the FIS technicians to reveal what could be concealed to the naked eye.

  Sue’s mouth twisted. “You’re gonna love this one. The harbor patrol found him.”

  “The harbor patrol? He was out on his yacht?”

  “Yup. He was heading down the Arm when they flagged him down. Drunk as a skunk.”

  “Where was Barrett going?” Ethan asked.

  “He says he was going on the trip he was supposed to take with his son.” Sue arched a brow.

  “Why couldn’t anyone reach him on the phone?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “He says he’d turned his phones off. Wanted some time for reflection.”

  Ethan frowned. The guy was an act-first-and-ask-forgiveness-later type of guy. And Ethan knew from personal experience that he rarely did the latter.

  “Is he down at the station?”

  Sue shook her head. “He asked to be taken to his kids.”

  Fair enough. Randall wasn’t charged with anything—yet.

  What the hell had happened between Barrett and his ex-wife? The woman had only arrived and now was dead.

  Ethan knew that this situation presented him with two options. He’d either end up pitying Barrett. Which he was loath to do.

  Or charging him with murder.

  16

  Saturday, 5:44 a.m.

  A cab drove Randall Barrett down the hill that led to the small fishing community of Prospect. The forty-minute drive had been interminable. He longed to be alone. But he was still riding out the alcohol he’d consumed last night. He didn’t dare risk driving—especially since the police were now on his case. The cabbie had been eager to chat, but after a few monosyllabic responses from his withdrawn passenger, he gave up.

  Now, Prospect Bay lay below them, fierce and beautiful. The early morning tide lapped the dark rocks that made this bay’s shoals notorious for shipwrecks. If there were ever a place that could make a man feel humble, Prospect was it. Houses perched on stony edges, anchored there with God knew what. Private fishing wharves poked out from the shore, swaybacked and stilted. From a distance they resembled weathered gray fingers, testing the water. Never quite belonging. Because this bay could not be tamed.

  The signs of the community’s lifeblood casually dotted the yards of the village houses: fishing traps, buoys, dories with their bleached hulls facing the sun, a few rusty anchors. But it was a totally different sign warning drivers to reduce their speed that made Randall’s cabdriver bark with laughter. “Look over there.” He pointed to a reddish-brown shack with a white wooden sign nailed to the wall. “It says, SLOW—Don’t Be a Bonehead.”

  Randall managed a grunt. His head ached in a way he couldn’t imagine. But he’d never imagined his heart could hurt like this, either.

  “Take the next right,” he said.

  “Whoa.” The cabbie braked sharply. The road to Penelope’s house was a rutted track. A sign warned them there was no turning. The cabbie threw a glance over his shoulder. “I don’t want to back down. I’ve got neck problems.”

  “Just stop here.” Randall pulled out his wallet and shoved a fifty dollar bill at the driver. He climbed out of the car, the fresh tang of air hitting his nose. Until now, he hadn’t realized how stale everything smelled. How stale he smelled.

  The track was wide enough for a single car. Someone had added a folk art flare near the bottom: on his left, a trio of propane gas tanks painted to resemble pigs smiled at him under a cheeky Piggy’s Cove sign—a play on the international tourist attraction Peggy’s Cove, just fifteen minutes away. It only served to remind him what little right he had to smile anymore.

  Five minutes later, he’d climbed to the top of the track. His chest strained, the alcohol he’d drunk hours earlier threatening to expel. He swallowed. His mother’s house sat on the right, the final dwelling before the broad heather tract that reached the ancient granite cliffs overlooking the bay.

  Randall cleared his throat and opened the gate that extended to Penelope’s front door. It was unlocked, as usual. Even if it had been her habit to lock it, he suspected she would have left it open, knowing he would come here looking for his children.

  He dropped his jacket on a chair. The house was silent. It was the silence of wakefulness, not slumber.

  He was so tired he could barely think. Yet his mind raced mercilessly. Twelve hours ago he had left his office, thinking he would be setting sail this morning with his son, hoping to mend a rift that was growing by the day.

  But he’d had no idea that the rift was, in fact, an abyss. So deep and so wide that a sailing trip would never to able to breach it.

  How could he have been so oblivious?

  The force of his son’s resentment had been as strong as a blow. He’d been unprepared for it.

  He’d been even more unprepared for Elise. Everything about her had shaken him. Her haunted, exhausted eyes. The extra curves to her body. The defensive hunch she adopted when she saw him. Like an animal that had been shown no kindness and only expected the worst.

  But then she’d gone on the attack and his disappointment, his pain at his son’s hostile rejection of him—and, he could finally admit, his shame at how he’d treated Elise—flared an anger that had been suppressed for years, he realized now. Being made a cuckold by his beautiful wife. Being the subject of gossip and innuendo. Being blamed for his son’s problems. The list went on.

  He doubted she’d planned to blurt out her pregnancy to him. Certainly not in public. But she’d been driven to the point of no return.

  Had he driven her to that?

  I’ll never forgive you for this. Those were the last words she’d said to him face-to-face. And one of the last things he could remember until the harbor patrol found him early this morning.

  His teeth ground against each other.

  Her blood was on his hands.

  “You’re up,” his mother said. She stood in the doorway to the living room, clothed for the day. Just as he was. Except his clothes were put on yesterday.

  “Couldn’t sleep.” He didn’t want to talk to his mother. To anyone, for that matter. He couldn’t.

 
; His guilt was overwhelming.

  “Neither could I.” She’d changed her clothes into more businesslike attire, a holdover from her days managing a bank, a reminder of what the day would bring: the interviews at the police station.

  She stepped toward him. He stiffened. He did not want her to come too close. She would smell his guilt.

  “Why did you go out on your boat last night?” Her voice was low, as if asking the question too loudly would give it an inquisitorial edge.

  He shrugged. He didn’t want to tell her he had no frigging idea. The double scotches he’d consumed after his fight with Elise had wiped out that part of the evening. So he said what he guessed his intoxicated brain had been thinking: “I decided to leave early. Nick and I were supposed to go this morning, remember?”

  “He told me that he decided not to go.”

  “That’s right. He decided to go to a camp instead.”

  Penelope placed her hand on his arm. Her fingers were cool, steady.

  He wanted to throw them off, but he couldn’t do that to her. He stared at a point in the horizon that had the faintest lightening of blue. The juncture where sea and sky met.

  When the harbor patrol stopped him, he’d been sailing toward that juncture. If they hadn’t intercepted him, he could have lasted for days out on the ocean. He’d stocked Ex Parte thinking that a teenage boy would be on board.

  No matter what Elise said, he still believed she’d played a role in Nick’s decision to not go sailing with him. It was the kind of revenge she liked to exact on him.

  And given what she’d blamed him for, she probably thought it was completely justified.

  How could she not have told him?

  How could she just throw that bombshell at him in the driveway of a stranger’s house?

  He’d gone home, then to a bar downtown, drinking until the sight of all those people enjoying themselves turned the booze in his stomach.