Computer people did not make good accountants or office managers.
Gord had recognized that he was lacking in that department almost as soon as he hung up his proverbial shingle. He’d invited a housemate from university, Ahmad Kashani, a business major, to partner in the company.
They’d never looked back.
Ahmad still lived in Victoria, had his fingers in other pies these days, but he kept his eye on the accounts and on the sales and marketing efforts, and he and Gord talked no less than once a week.
Yes, Gord had been lucky. In life, in business. In love.
Now he was getting over the shock of Cathy’s death, he was beginning to consider that he might be lucky in this also. The marriage hadn’t been going well no matter how much they both pretended, and he lay awake some nights worrying Cathy would ask for a divorce. For God’s sake, she couldn’t stop chattering on about some jerk at work. Mark had run a marathon. Mark spent the weekend hiking. Mark had done this and Mark had done that.
Mark, as far as Gord was concerned, was welcome to her.
But Mark was not welcome to a share of Gord’s business. Or to his children.
Unlikely anything was going on between Cathy and this Mark creep. If she were playing games after school, she wouldn’t talk so damn much about him.
Gord had checked her panties a couple of times, looking for traces of drying semen, after she’d come home following a night out with her friends and popped into the shower before bed. He’d pretended to kiss her as she came in the door while sniffing for the scent of sex or stray hairs on her shoulders.
Nothing.
She might have restricted her dalliances to times when Gord was in Victoria, but Gord didn’t give Cathy credit for that much self-control. What Cathy wanted, she wanted now.
No, she wasn’t screwing Mark-the-math-teacher. But if her eye was beginning to wander, who knows where it might have ended up.
If she ever found out about Elizabeth, and the house Gord kept in Victoria, Cathy’d be on the warpath.
This way, Cathy was out of his life. He kept not only all his money, but a life insurance payout would be coming in soon. And he had full custody of his kids. None of this joint-custody nonsense, seeing his daughter every second weekend. Custody of Jocelyn was what mattered. Bradley could hit the streets as far as Gord was concerned.
Elizabeth had heard the news about murder in Trafalgar. She’d phoned his cell, breathless, full of condolences. She knew he was married, knew where he lived. She knew, or thought she knew, that Cathy’s family was very wealthy and she’d threatened to take her children to California, where her parents lived, if Gord ever left her.
That nothing in that story was true, didn’t bother Gord. It kept Elizabeth docile. Kept her content to live in the house he helped pay for. Content to give him a much needed screw whenever he was in town.
Maybe it was all for the best.
He settled behind his desk with a travel mug of coffee his mom had made for him and a couple of his mother-in-law’s muffins, fat with blueberries.
He’d come into work gratefully; he couldn’t stand another minute in that house. Renee and Ann alternately wept and told each other they had to be strong and present a good front for “poor Gord and his poor motherless children.” His father-in-law wandered around looking for loose screws or crooked picture frames and eyed Gord as if wondering if he’d murdered his daughter. Jocelyn was enjoying her grandparents’ attention, but then she’d remember the reason for their visit, and burst into tears.
Bradley either slept or sulked, angry at the world.
The only good thing was all the cooking and baking that was going on.
Gord left the funeral arrangements to Renee and Ann. He trusted them, he said, tear in his eye, to do the best for Cathy.
The door flew open, and Justin, tech support, came in.
“Hey man, surprised to see you here. Sorry about your wife, eh? What do the cops think happened?”
Gord ignored the question. Work, all he wanted was to work. “Any calls yesterday?”
“Nothing important. Big Eddie’s site went down, but I got it back up pretty fast.”
“Morning.” Adrienne, a web designer, sailed into the office. “Gord, I am so sorry. If there’s anything I can do…”
“You can carry on as normal, Adrienne. We’ve promised Granger’s Insurance to have their new web site fully operational by April first. I trust it’s on track.”
“Of course it’s on track,” she said, offended.
“Glad to hear it.”
He pretended not to see the look she exchanged with Justin. Gord turned back to his computer screen. Words and images swam before his eyes.
Who the hell was he trying to kid?
Cathy. He’d loved her so much once. They’d had great times together. It didn’t need to have all gone wrong. If he could have her back, if only he could have another chance, he’d do anything…anything to make her forget Mark-the-math-teacher. He’d gladly give up Elizabeth, if only his phone would ring, and Cathy would be on the line to remind him she and Jocelyn were going skiing. And did he know where Bradley spent last night because he wasn’t in his bed.
He sensed a movement of air at his shoulder. He blinked through tears to see a box of tissues on his desk, Adrienne scurrying back to her own corner.
Gord snatched a tissue and blew his nose.
Work. Time to get to work. What was he doing when he left on Friday afternoon, anyway?
Friday. Cathy had less than twenty-four hours to live. Did she know, did she have any inkling that her time on this earth was almost over? Any regrets for things not done and words never said?
He gave his head a shake. Right, he’d been working on a proposal for a web presence for a vacation condo development. It was going to be a big job and Gord wanted it.
The door opened once again. Instead of one of his employees, it was, Gord was not happy to see, the cops.
“I dropped by your house,” Sergeant Winters said. “Your father-in-law told me you’d come into the office.”
“Work needs to be done.”
“I understand.” Winters had come alone this time. Just as well. Gord didn’t care for the steady, watchful eye of that young constable.
“What can I help you with? Has there been a development? Have you arrested someone?”
“Not at this time. I’d like a word in private. Is there some place we can talk?”
Gord glanced around the open-plan office. A 19th century warehouse, down by the river, converted into an office block. High ceilings with thick wooden cross beams, exposed red-brick walls, wide-planked, scarred floors, large windows. Justin and Adrienne were at their desks doing a poor job of pretending they weren’t listening.
Gord got to his feet, feeling slow and heavy. “We can talk in the conference room.”
***
The conference room of Lindsay Internet Consulting had a spectacular view across the park and over the river. When the clouds weren’t so low they obscured anything further than the far side of the street. A long wooden table, gleaming with polish, and twelve accompanying chairs filled most of the space. A credenza held an empty coffee maker and stacks of mugs. No pictures hung on the walls, no flowers or plants on the surfaces. A place in which to conduct business. And only business.
“Tell me,” Winters said, once he settled into the comfortable swivel chair. “About Elizabeth Moorehouse.”
Gord simply shrugged. “You work fast.”
Winters said nothing.
“I figured you’d find out about that. My marriage to Cathy is…was…a good one. Solid. But it happens that people, men anyway, over the years, start to need a bit of variety. You know what I mean? Spice up a middle-aged life.”
Lindsay paused, no doubt waiting for Winters to say he understood. Between us guys, nudge nudge, wink wink. He did not. Silence stretched between them. The building was quiet. These old warehouse walls had been built strong and thick.
&
nbsp; “Half of my business is in Victoria, where it began. My business partner lives in Victoria. I spend a lot of time there.”
“What’s your partner’s name?”
“Ahmad Kashani. He’s been with me since the beginning. He’s not a full partner any more, but still supervises the accounts, the legal aspect of the business, that sort of thing.” Gord hadn’t even thought to contact Ahmad about Cathy’s death. The man might not have heard. He rarely read anything other than the financial papers and international news.
“Tell me about Ms. Moorehouse. How long have you been seeing her?”
“Three years, give or take a few months. I go to Victoria regularly, as I said. I was getting tired of hotels, so suggested I help her out with the expenses on a house not far from the office.”
“In exchange for?”
“You know full well in exchange for what. Sex of course. Elizabeth is what once might have been called my mistress. She owns a nice house in a respectable area. I pay a substantial portion of her bills. I sleep in her bed. I assume you got her name from that damned police report. I didn’t want her to call the cops. I didn’t want it on record that I’d been there, but when I was upstairs checking to see what else they’d taken, the bastards, she called 911.”
“Did Cathy know about this arrangement?”
“She did not. Look, Sergeant Winters, you’re barking up the wrong tree here. That I have a girlfriend in Victoria has nothing to do with Cathy’s death. Instead of prying into my sex life, you’d be better spending your time checking into who was up there, on that path, that day.”
“Rest assured, we’re exploring all possible avenues, Mr. Lindsay.”
Winters didn’t think Gord Lindsay had killed his wife. He’d been in the house with his daughter when Cathy died. Sure, the girl couldn’t account for all of her father’s whereabouts, but he certainly didn’t have time to get his shotgun, head off to the woods, wait for Cathy and her dog to come by, fire off a shot, pack up the weapon, walk down the hill to the church, collect his car, and drive back home.
He could have hired someone to do it. The killing had all the marks of an expensive hired hit.
But why? There seemed to be no big money in the family, on either side. Divorce and custody of children could get vicious—Winters had seen the fallout of that many times—but people tended to go into a divorce expecting it would all go well. Only when the lawyers got involved, the fees got expensive, and accusations and threats got flying, did the parties get angry enough to kill.
Winters studied the man sitting across the table from him. Gord Lindsay was overweight, balding and not trying to hide it. He chewed his fingernails when nervous (as he was now). His clothes were bought off the rack and didn’t fit his expanding girth all that well. He had five employees in Trafalgar, four in Victoria. A moderately profitable business by all accounts, adequate to provide for a family in which the wife worked as a high school teacher. Not a company that generated the sort of excess funds that could pay for the hire of a professional killer. Unless money was coming in from somewhere else.
Did Lindsay have other business in Victoria, which was after all a major Pacific port, which the computer company might be a front for?
Had Cathy discovered something about that business? Had she found out about Elizabeth Moorehouse and threatened Gord if he didn’t give the woman up?
Winters doubted it. He was pretty sure Gord Lindsay was exactly the middle-class family man, fooling around on his wife, which he appeared to be. But it was worth following up. Another reason for a quick trip to Victoria.
He glanced outside. The clouds might have lifted, just a tiny bit.
“I know you have to look into everything.” Gord stood and walked to the window. He spoke to the glass. “Everyone and everything. I know that. But I didn’t kill Cathy, Sergeant Winters. And I genuinely do not have the slightest idea why anyone would.”
And that, Winters thought, was precisely the problem.
Chapter Eighteen
Eliza spent her morning on the computer, studying the business news, manipulating her portfolio. Sell a bit of this, buy some of that. Move money around. This was her happy place, the place where she’d sought refuge through the stifling, boring years she’d worked as a model.
That she made buckets of money from her investments was icing on the cake. And why she could afford to own two art galleries which were not simply failing to make a profit but bleeding money.
She ate a quick lunch of vegetable soup at her desk and then shut down the computer and got ready for work. She showered quickly, dried her hair and applied a light coat of makeup and a touch of pale-pink lipstick. She chose casual cream wool pants and a crisp white silk blouse accented with a scarlet scarf and earrings of dangling squares of red glass.
She studied herself in the mirror. Understated but fashionable. Well-heeled but not bragging about it.
She’d been modeling since she was sixteen years old, both on the catwalk and for magazines. She’d acted in TV commercials. She’d learned long ago how to play the part. How to pretend. Today she would play the businesswoman of excellent taste and independent means. The only role Eliza never played was cop’s wife. She suspected some of the other wives didn’t like her much. They thought she was stuck up and cold. She thought they were narrow-minded and provincial. She avoided police functions whenever she could.
The move to Trafalgar had been good for John. In the city, he’d been burning out, fast. Drinking heavily, hanging out in bars with cops after work. He was haunted, she knew, by some of his past cases. Some of the things he’d seen. Then the Blakely case, the worst of them all, a twelve-year-old girl, raped and murdered, by her own father as it turned out. The family prominent, rich; press attention relentless. She didn’t know the details, but she knew John had almost made a mistake, almost arrested the wrong man. She heard him in the night, either pacing or wrestling with nightmares in his sleep.
So they’d moved to quiet, peaceful Trafalgar. He’d stopped drinking too much, didn’t go out with the guys much, slept through the night, warm and safe beside her.
Eliza smiled at herself in the mirror and went to work.
She stood on the street and studied the window display of the Mountain in Winter Art Gallery. One of Alan Khan’s sketches was gone, leaving a rather prominent gap in the display.
Next week it would all come down, and they’d set up for a fresh one-woman show. Which reminded her that she needed to check with the artist about the guest list for the opening reception.
“I see you sold a Khan in the window,” she said to Margo as she took off her coat. “To Mr. Westfield?”
“No,” Margo said with a small frown. “He hasn’t been back. I wish he’d come in again. I saw him yesterday at Adventure Vacations, but he hurried away before I got a chance to speak to him. I was thinking…your husband’s a police officer.”
Eliza didn’t care for that turn in the conversation. “We never discuss police matters.” Not entirely true, but none of Margo’s business. She hurried into the small washroom in the back to check her hair and face. Margo pounced when Eliza came out. “How do you go about finding someone’s address or phone number?”
“The phone book? Canada411.com?”
“I tried those things. He’s not listed.”
“That would be because he doesn’t want anyone to know where he lives, Margo.”
“Maybe you could ask your husband.”
“Certainly not. Even if I wanted to, it wouldn’t be ethical for him to provide that information.”
“Do you think he’ll come in again?”
Eliza pretended not to understand. “John drops by sometimes to take me to lunch if he has time.”
“I mean William Westfield. He’s good-looking, isn’t he? Although dreadfully thin. I wonder if he’s married. I can’t wait to meet his wife and children.”
At that moment the door flew open and a smiling couple brought in a gust of cold air. Eliza gratefully r
etreated to her desk to work on the invitations for the opening.
Business was brisk throughout the afternoon, although a good many more browsers than buyers.
At five o’clock, Margo flipped the sign on the door to closed, and Eliza shut down the office computer.
“I was hoping he’d come in,” Margo said.
“Who?” Eliza asked, fearing she knew the answer.
“William Westfield. He was interested in the Khan sketches. Perhaps he doesn’t know we’ll be taking them down next week. If you had his phone number, I could call and let him know.”
Eliza Winters was not entirely an uncaring person, but she was a private one, and as she never shared confidences with anyone other than her husband (save the occasional weep on her agent and closest friend Barney’s shoulder after a couple of martinis), she did not expect nor want people to confide in her.
A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) Page 13
