The Opposite of Dark chm-1

by Debra Purdy Kong

  Casey grabbed a teddy bear from her shelf and threw it across the room. Rhonda used to say it was better to lash out at stuffed animals than people. Soon all the bears were bouncing off the sofa, thumping against walls, or skidding along the floor. Adrenalin pumped with the ferocity that only criminals and her mother could bring on.

  Casey’s vision blurred and the throbbing in her head escalated. Damn. A migraine was coming. She didn’t get them often, but the symptoms could be harsh. Casey closed her eyes a moment. The only remedy for it was to take a painkiller and sleep.

  Casey shuffled to the bathroom, popped a couple of pills, and then slid under her comforter. The last thought she had before dozing off was that she’d have to pick up all those bears.

  Six

  BY THE TIME Casey had finished another uneventful shift, grabbed some food, then talked to Dad’s Marine Drive neighbors, it was dark. No one admitted to having known Dad. Few had even seen him, and most didn’t want to discuss the night of the murder because the police had already asked enough questions.

  “Marine Drive’s a busy street,” an elderly neighbor said, “with cars speeding along all the time. Some passenger in a vehicle could have spotted a car in your dad’s driveway, or saw someone entering the house. I did see a couple of people walking their dogs that night. One of them is a tall lady with short red hair who lives down the street. Didn’t recognize the other young fella.”

  Casey had spoken with a woman who’d been walking her dog, but the lady had been back home by seven-thirty and hadn’t noticed anything. Casey had also tried to reach Dad’s lawyer, but the guy’s number was out of service, nor was he listed anywhere. The only good news was that her migraine had gone away and her nap had dredged up a useful memory: an easier way to enter the house than lock picks would be.

  On the chance that Lalonde’s people hadn’t finished with the crime scene, Casey put on the gloves from her first aid kit. She removed a flashlight from the glove box and then a tire iron from the trunk, should a weapon be needed.

  Standing by her car, she studied the house. Crime scene tape still stretched along the property, but there were no signs of police anywhere. Despite Lalonde’s warning to stay away, the temptation to unravel Dad’s secrets had drawn her here like an enormous magnet. She needed to walk through those rooms, needed to try to make sense out of everything she’d learned.

  She’d seen enough this morning to know that floodlights were everywhere. Motion sensors would probably light up the yard the second she stepped onto the property, which was why she’d told the neighbors, including Gil, that she’d be here tonight, so they wouldn’t worry about activity at the house.

  Casey checked to ensure her cell phone and lock picks were tucked inside her jacket pockets. Taking a deep breath, she ducked under the tape and stepped in front of a tall bush. Two narrow windows flanked each side of the double doors. As expected, no lights were on in the house. Her flashlight scanned each side of the door in search of a potted plant. At their old place, Dad had kept a spare key buried in the pot. She’d often badgered him to buy a fake plant with sand so she wouldn’t have to stick her hand in dirt to pull out the little bag with the key. Dad had refused. Said she’d learn not to forget her key this way. He’d been right. But there were no potted plants here, not even a hanging basket.

  The second Casey stepped forward, the floodlights and porch lights came on. She stopped and looked around. Okay, fine. Nothing to worry about. Glancing at the damaged alarm system by the front door, she marched across the yard and down the right side of the property, noting the fence between this and Gil’s place. She reached the only door along the exterior, the one Gil would have seen from his garden. The broken window looked boarded up tight, and more crime scene tape was fastened across the door.

  The floodlights allowed Casey to see the single lock without the flashlight. Studying the deadbolt lock, she smiled. Dad never had liked big fancy locks. Still, it took Casey some time before the tools did their job. Pinpricks of sweat dampened the back of her shirt. She recalled Lalonde’s warning and feared what she might find, but she couldn’t walk away. There’d be no peace until she understood what had motivated Dad to create a new life. Face the fear, she told herself. It’s what he’d taught her. Casey opened the door.

  Inside, her flashlight exposed a computer monitor, banker’s lamp, and phone on a teak desk. She checked the phone. Still in service. Her flashlight beam swept past a pair of French doors opening onto the living room. Left of the doors, bookshelves built into the wall stretched to more French doors at the far end of the room. Those doors appeared to lead to the foyer. To Casey’s left, three tall windows overlooked the front yard.

  Aside from a few office supplies, the partially open drawers were empty. In the credenza behind the desk were a half-dozen liquor bottles and glasses. A printer sat on top of the credenza, the CPU, minus the hard drive, beside it.

  Casey stepped farther into the room, stopping at the edge of a rug. Dad’s body had been found here. She saw what looked like light-colored dirt on the navy rug and possibly darker splotches, though it was hard to tell the color. A pale blue and coral upholstered chair, however, revealed a few blood spatters. She swept her flashlight to the right and spotted four indentations where another chair must have sat, the chair Dad had been using when attacked. Probably taken by the forensics team. Beyond the rug, a trail of dry blood droplets led to the foyer. As far as she knew, Lalonde hadn’t yet found the murder weapon. Maybe the killer took the cleaver with him.

  Casey stepped back and leaned against the desk. The room’s smell was a strange combination of metal, chemicals, sweat, and possibly blood. She could almost picture Dad sitting with his legs outstretched and eyes closed like he always did, unaware that someone was creeping toward him with the cleaver raised.

  Casey stood straight to banish the image. Who was capable of such brutality? Not anyone she knew, surely. Why dwell on suspects anyway? Lalonde could deal with that. She entered the living room, where an elaborate entertainment center filled the wall to her right. A smoked-glass coffee table and more chairs were placed before a long sofa facing the full-length windows. Moonlight exposed a rippling, silver-laced ocean.

  As Casey tiptoed down the room and into a small nook off the main living area, the yard’s motion sensor lights switched off, darkening the interior too. She found her way into a dining room where a crystal chandelier glistened in moonlight from the windows.

  In the foyer, a suit of armor stood by the staircase. Dad had always wanted one, who knew why. Her flashlight zeroed in on another door just beyond the armor. This had to be the kitchen. To build one in the center of a house was so like Dad.

  Casey reached for the door handle, then spotted traces of blood and hesitated. If this was Dad’s blood, how had it gotten this far? She’d never thought about who cleaned up after the police were done with a crime scene. Was it up to the victim’s family?

  Opening the door slowly, Casey stepped inside. A rectangular island dominated the room. She thought she smelled onions. More blood splotched the floor and cupboard below the sink. She stared at the stains. Had the killer come in here to wash up before leaving? With that many strikes to the scalp, a fair amount of blood must have splattered him or her. There was no sign of a dishcloth, soap, or towel, or even dirty dishes. Placing the tire iron on the island, she knelt to examine a slightly squiggly pattern. Made by coarse material? A corduroy trouser leg maybe?

  Casey strolled around the kitchen. Had Dad left clues about his life somewhere? She walked around the room twice until she remembered the shelf paper. When Mother still lived with them, Dad used to hide money and his itinerary from her under the lining paper at the back of the cutlery drawer. He’d wanted Casey to know where he’d be, told her that Mother had enjoyed too many wild shopping sprees to be trusted. Casey later learned the real reason for Mother’s desperate need to keep tabs on his itinerary was so she could plan her trysts. Casey had lost count of the times Mother ha
d tried to trick or bully information from her.

  She never did learn when Dad had first suspected Mother’s infidelity. But when he caught her in the act with Rhonda’s husband, he wasted no time ending things. “Acknowledge the problem and act quickly,” that was his motto. Having been on the receiving end of this method in her teens, Casey had learned to use the strategy well.

  Dad wouldn’t have needed that sort of hiding spot in this house unless he’d planned for her to be here at some point. On the other hand, he had lived with plenty of secrets and maybe hiding notes beneath lining paper was merely the habit of a paranoid man. Casey started on the drawers nearest her. When she reached the cutlery drawer, a tiny bit of one corner felt slightly loose. She removed the plastic cutlery tray, pried the corner up with her fingernail and then peeled it back. She hadn’t gone far when she felt a slip of paper.

  Casey slid the paper out and found herself looking at a grocery receipt. The receipt wasn’t large: eight items bought, nothing unusual, but Dad had bought these items about a month before his death in France. On the back, the name “Simone Archambault” had been written in Dad’s familiar scrawl, along with a telephone number. So, they had known each other before that night at Alvin’s All-Canadian Café. Vincent said Dad had intended to tell her about the house. Why had he wanted her to find Simone’s name this way? She stuffed the receipt in her pocket and put the shelf paper and tray back in place. Picking up her tire iron, Casey left the room and climbed the spiral staircase.

  At the top of the stairs, the darkness dissipated slightly and she caught a whiff of damp soil. Casey pointed the flashlight on a small atrium in the center of the floor. Six trees dominated the area, two of which nearly reached the glass ceiling. Entwined branches created a collage of leaves. Smaller plants sat on tabletops.

  Casey started forward when something struck her shoulder. A second strike on her back forced her to her knees. With the third strike Casey’s forehead smacked the tiled floor. She dropped the tire iron. Someone kicked it away.

  With both hands on the flashlight, she swung it against her attacker’s leg so hard the batteries rattled and the light died. A deep voice grunted. She thought of the ponytailed guy. The light blinked back on and she struck again. Her attacker yelled. Casey tried to scramble away but a kick to her ribs made her collapse. She rolled onto her back, dropping the flashlight.

  The man lunged for the light, but she grabbed it and scuttled backward along the tiles. All she could see was a dark sweatshirt with a hood pulled so low that it covered most of the face.

  He tried to stomp her foot and missed. Casey kept moving but couldn’t gain any ground. He grabbed her ankles, pulled her toward him and knelt down, straddling her hips. The flashlight darted over his jeans, the floor, table legs. His thighs squeezed her body. Hot, bony fingers gripped her neck until Casey rammed the flashlight into his crotch. He groaned in agony and collapsed onto his side.

  Casey bolted for the staircase. She took the steps two at a time, leaping over the last three. Gasping for air, she turned the deadbolt, yanked the door open, and raced outside.

  Seven

  THE WELT ON Casey’s left shoulder throbbed the next morning and her arm felt heavy, as if encased in iron. Her bruised lower back was stiff and sore, but it could have been worse. If the man had had a gun, if he’d followed her home . . . She was fairly certain he hadn’t. She’d checked the rearview mirror a thousand times. On the other hand, if her attacker had been the ponytailed guy, Theodore Ziegler, he knew where she lived anyway. She wished she’d had the presence of mind to aim her flashlight on her assailant’s face instead of acting like a bloody amateur.

  When she had returned home last night, she’d called Simone Archambault first, then Stan to update him on events and ask for today off to go to Victoria.

  “You know you can call anytime and I’ll do what I can do help you out,” he’d replied, “but it sounds like you’re getting in over your head, Casey. Are you sure Victoria’s a good idea?”

  “I don’t have much choice. Simone Archambault is the best lead I have to Dad’s past, and she won’t tell me anything until I prove who I am. Apparently, Dad showed her a photo of me once, so she insists on meeting in person.”

  Stan didn’t say much after that, except to say that they still hadn’t found the individual who’d vandalized the lockers.

  Casey left her apartment and headed downstairs into Rhonda’s kitchen.

  “You’re early again,” Rhonda said, nibbling on a piece of toast. “Going back to the house?”

  “No, I have another assignment,” one involving a forty-minute drive to the Tsawwassen terminal, a ninety-minute ferry ride to Swartz Bay, and another half-hour drive to Victoria. Hardly a quick jaunt, but it had to be done. She felt guilty for not telling Rhonda about Simone, but if Rhonda found out she’d want to tag along, and Casey wanted to talk to the woman alone.

  “Tell Summer her bike tire will be fixed tomorrow.” Casey headed for the back door.

  “Sure.” Rhonda took another small bite of toast. “Want to have supper with us tonight?”

  “Actually, it could be a long day, so don’t worry about me.”

  “Then you don’t know when you’ll be back?”

  “Gee, Mom, I’m not sure.”

  “Okay, backing off.” Rhonda put the toast down and raised her hands. “But just one more question, totally off topic. What did Detective Lalonde come to see you about last night?”

  Uh-oh. “You knew?”

  “I was in the tub when I heard voices outside. Thought it might have been Lou, but when I got out a bit later and heard it again, I peeked out the window and saw Lalonde walking away.”

  Rhonda’s en suite bathroom and bedroom windows were at the front of the house above the porch. Casey had been on the phone with Stan when her buzzer rang, and she brought Lalonde up to her apartment so they could talk privately. Afraid to lose what little cooperation the detective had given her, Casey hadn’t told him about her visit to the house. Hiding the pain to her shoulder had been tough.

  “He wanted to know, among other things, how long you’d been engaged to Dad.”

  Rhonda plugged in the kettle. “Why? And why wouldn’t he ask me?”

  “The great detective wouldn’t say.”

  She didn’t want to tell her that Mother had called Lalonde from Geneva, Switzerland, of all places, to ask if she could claim Dad’s body. It seemed she felt it only right to remove the “burden” of funeral arrangements off her “poor daughter” and make them herself. Poor daughter. The words burned like bile in Casey’s throat. Lalonde also said that Mother hadn’t approved of Rhonda’s engagement to Dad, but he didn’t give a reason. He had made a point of saying that he’d found Mother candid and cooperative. At that point Casey realized Mother had totally conned him.

  Mother came from a family of con artists who associated with criminals, and the whole clan disliked cops. She hadn’t introduced Casey to many of her relatives, but she had talked about working in an uncle’s pharmacy when she was sixteen. Her job was to change the expiry dates on pill bottles and packaging to sell as new meds. Casey figured the family had a lot of heart attacks and unwanted pregnancies to answer for, among other things.

  Even if she knew who the killer was, Casey doubted Mother would tell the authorities if it compromised her interests. That Mother was in Geneva, the same city where Theodore Ziegler had another address, had made her wonder exactly what Mother’s interest was in all this. She’d asked Lalonde about it, but his response was to remind her that this was a police investigation.

  “The great detective can’t locate Dad’s dental records. Do you know who his dentist was? Because I don’t remember.”

  “I don’t either.” Rhonda removed a jar of instant coffee from the cupboard.

  “Lalonde might have a DNA test performed on the body, but results could take time.”

  “What for? You identified your father.”

  “It sure looked like h
im, yeah. But now that there are two deceased Marcus Hollands, DNA testing could be necessary for at least one of them, if not both. I think they’ll want to compare their analysis with DNA they know is Dad’s.”

  “What’s wrong with fingerprints?”

  “That’s also why he was here,” Casey answered. “I gave him the birthday cards I got from Dad, and do you still have his comb? They’ll need hair samples for testing.”

  Rhonda nodded. “I never cleaned them or his razor and toothbrush.”

  After the funeral, Rhonda had asked for all of Dad’s personal items, including his clothes. As far as Casey knew, she’d kept everything.

  “Whatever Marcus was up to,” Rhonda said, “he kept it secret to protect us. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know anything right now.”

  “He loved you, Casey. He would have done anything to keep you from harm. After Marcus kicked Lillian out, he hired a private detective to watch over you in case Lillian’s family tried to kidnap you.”

  “He never told me that.” But then Dad apparently hadn’t told her lots of things. “Gran and Gramps wouldn’t have taken me.”

  “Your aunts and uncles would have, if Lillian told them to. Those people had connections. Could have had you out of the country in two hours.”

  Casey believed her. “I should go.”

  “Have you started funeral arrangements?” Rhonda asked.

  “Yep.” She hesitated. “It seems that Mother wants to claim his body.”

  Rhonda snorted. “I always knew Lillian wanted him back, but his corpse? That’s sick.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s not getting it, and I’ll tell her so myself if I have to.”

  Last night, Lalonde handed her a message from Mother, asking Casey to call her collect at the Geneva number. Undecided about what to do, she’d shoved the message in her jeans pocket, the same jeans she was wearing now.

  Rhonda poured a teaspoon of sugar into a mug. “You said Lalonde called Lillian when he found Marcus’s body.”