Cold Mourning

by Brenda Chapman

  Kala looked out the side window. Snow had begun lightly falling and flakes were landing on the glass like confetti. She glanced into the side mirror as they pulled away. The friend, Susan Halliday, stood behind her vehicle watching them. Kala kept herself from turning around to stare.

  “You know what’s odd?” she said to Whelan.

  “What’s that?” He looked over at her.

  “Her friend, that Halliday woman, went for a water bottle but I could see the shape of one inside her jacket.”

  “Maybe she just forgot she already had it.”

  “Maybe,” said Kala. Or maybe she was just trying to avoid talking to us.

  She kept the thought to herself.

  An hour and a half later, Whelan was driving at a snail’s pace the length of the country road for the third time. The snow had picked up speed and was making visibility difficult. Kala squinted toward an opening in the jagged line of snowbanks.

  “This has to be his driveway. I can’t see anything else.”

  “What, is the guy in the witness protection program?” asked Whelan. “Where the hell is his mailbox?”

  He turned the car slowly and started up the unplowed side road, which wound to the right through pine trees and bushes frozen in ice. It was icy, slow going. Half a kilometre on, a black and tan dog the size of a Rottweiler bolted out of the woods and began loping alongside their car. Kala could see its head bobbing up and down outside her window.

  “Careful,” she said to Whelan. “The dog could slip under the tire.”

  Whelan muttered under his breath and scowled but slowed the car to a crawl. Finally, he pulled into a clearing and parked next to a green Cherokee Jeep. A small cabin was set back into the trees. Smoke billowed from the chimney and disappeared skyward into the falling snow.

  “What do you think our chances are with the dog?” asked Whelan, leaning his arms on the steering wheel and turning to face her.

  “Scared?”

  “Let’s say I have a healthy respect.”

  “I’ll go first,” said Kala already opening her door. “Hey boy,” she called. The dog’s tail wagged. “How are you boy? You protecting your property?” She reached down her hand to let him smell before scratching his head. She stepped out of the car and looked back at Whelan. “The danger has been neutralized.”

  She straightened and looked over at the cabin. A man stood in the open doorway holding a cup of coffee. He whistled through his fingers and the dog ran toward him. Kala and Whelan followed at a slower pace. They stopped a few yards away.

  “Hunter Underwood?” asked Kala. She blinked as his eyes stared into hers. His were a riveting deep grey, lined in dark lashes. “We’re with the Ottawa Police. We’ve come to speak with you about your father.”

  “Come in,” he said, turning abruptly and disappearing inside.

  Whelan looked at Kala and shrugged before he led the way up the stairs.

  The living room was sparsely furnished. A battered leather recliner sat near the window with a floor lamp next to it. Bookcases lined two walls. The only other piece was a roll-top desk with a laptop set on top. She followed the men into the kitchen. It was a long, narrow galley with a small table and two chairs at the far end. Tall, lead-paned windows let in greyish light.

  “Have a chair,” said Hunter pointing to the two at the table. “Coffee?”

  The dog padded silently across the floor and flopped down at Kala’s feet. She felt its head rest against her leg and shifted so that there was more room for the dog between her foot and the chair leg. She imagined Taiku’s weight pressed against her and felt an overwhelming longing for home. The cabin resembled her own small place not far from Lake Superior.

  She moved her head to study Hunter as he poured them each a cup. He hadn’t shaved and was dressed in faded jeans and a checked shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked to be five eleven, a hundred and sixty pounds, with wide shoulders, lean physique, and curly brown hair that brushed his collar. After he set the coffee cups and the milk container on the table, he leaned up against the counter and sipped from his cup. He didn’t appear disturbed by their presence. She wondered if his calmness was an act.

  Whelan cleared his throat. “You know who we are I gather?”

  “Since I heard my father is missing, I figure you’ve come to find out if I know anything.”

  “And do you?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen your father recently?”

  “He came by a week ago.”

  Whelan looked down at his notes. “We were informed that you and your father are estranged.”

  “We are, more or less.”

  “Then why the visit?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same thing. He said it was time to mend fences.”

  Kala said, “I imagine you found that odd after ten years of not being on speaking terms.”

  Hunter looked at her and then at his dog lying with its jaw on her boot. “You’ve made friends with Fabio. Not many do.”

  Kala looked down and smiled. She reached a hand to pet the dog’s massive head before looking up at Hunter. He was still watching her, his grey eyes observant, taking in more than she would have liked.

  Whelan cleared his throat again. “So how’d the visit with your father go?”

  “Okay. He came into my shop and we talked while I worked on a painting. He seemed at ease. I got the feeling he just wanted to get away from his life for an hour.”

  “Was something making him unhappy or depressed?”

  “We didn’t talk long enough for me to find out anything personal. He asked if he could visit me again soon. I told him to do as he liked. If I had to say my impression of his state of mind, I’d say regretful.”

  “He didn’t give any indication why?” Whelan asked.

  Hunter grinned as if Whelan had said something funny. “He had lots to regret, let’s just put it that way.”

  “Do you know of anybody who would want to harm your father?”

  “I’m really not part of his world so I couldn’t say. Did you ask my brother-in-law Max Oliver? He’d know more about Dad’s life than I do since they work together.”

  “We’ll be sure to raise it with him.” Whelan jotted in his notebook.

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea where he could have gone,” said Kala.

  “Not a clue.”

  Whelan took his time pulling a card out of his pocket. “If you hear from your dad …”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know,” finished Hunter.

  They stood to leave. The dog followed them out of the kitchen and down the hall.

  Kala stopped near the front door and turned toward Hunter. “You said you were painting. Is that your profession?”

  “I paint portraits on commission, but my main line of work is sculpting.”

  “You must get your art gene from your mother. We were just admiring her paintings.”

  “She taught me when I was young and she still works with inner city kids in the after-school programs. My studio’s out back if you’d like a tour.”

  “We’re due back at the station.”

  “Well, another time.”

  She didn’t respond. There was something about Hunter and the piercing way he looked at her that put her off-balance. His eyes made her want to keep looking back. A family with all that money, and he chose to live like a hermit. His home wasn’t much different than hers, although their lives were separated by culture and financial gaps so wide it was unthinkable that they would have anything in common.

  Kala and Whelan walked back to their car and got in. Whelan turned the key in the ignition and looked over at her.

  “I’m beginning to think Tom Underwood just left to get his head straight. He might have come to see his son because he was planning to leave and wanted to make amends for whatever went on in the past.”

  Kala thought it over. “Maybe.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

 
“He asked if he could come visit again. That doesn’t sound like a man getting ready to leave town.”

  “You could be right.” Whelan backed the car into an opening where he could turn around. “It’s late to go to Underwood’s office now. We wasted a lot of time looking for this guy. We have to fill in our reports on the two interviews and still have a half hour drive to get back to Ottawa.”

  “We could do the reports tomorrow.”

  Whelan shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way. Reports have to be filed the same day. Vermette’s rules. We’ll be at the office half the night if we make another stop. I’m going to head back to the station and we’ll get the paperwork done. We can visit Underwood’s workplace tomorrow. We also have the party tonight and Meghan has that hair appointment.”

  “Okay,” said Kala. She didn’t see the rush to fill in paperwork, but no crime had been committed yet, so they weren’t exactly racing against time.

  7

  Thursday, December 22, 5:10 p.m.

  Rouleau set down his pen and stretched. It had been a day spent in meetings and filling in paperwork. He was ready to go home and watch the Senators hockey game on TV. The Maple Leafs were in town and there was always good rivalry. Then he remembered the Christmas party. It would be impossible to skip it even if he was so inclined. Could Christmas Eve really be just two days away? The years sure spun around the calendar with increasing speed. Christmas morning, he’d travel to Kingston to visit his father and take him to lunch as he did every year. He still hadn’t picked out his father’s gift and the clock was ticking. It would have been a good night to poke around the eclectic shops in the Glebe, if not for the staff party.

  He picked up his pen as Whelan poked his head around the corner while tapping on the door. Whelan was wearing his winter jacket unbuttoned. “We’re about done typing our notes and set to leave unless there’s anything else.”

  “You bringing Stonechild to the party?”

  “I’m going to be a bit late so she said she’d make it on her own.”

  “See you when you get there.”

  Rouleau shut off his computer. He’d go home and have a shower before the evening’s festivities. He rubbed a hand across his chin. A shave was in order too.

  It took him a few minutes to lock up his files and put on his coat. By the time he entered the main office, Stonechild and Whelan were gone. Malik and Grayson had knocked off earlier. He stood motionless in the center of the room and looked at the six desks — only four were occupied. It was all the manpower Vermette would agree to on this special project.

  They were to have been an elite squad that prevented crime before it happened and took over some of the tougher-to-solve cases, giving Major Crimes some much needed support. An upsurge of gang activity and organized crime had all but overwhelmed the Ottawa force. Vermette had scuttled the trial balloon before it got started by insisting on a mountain of paperwork for every hour spent outside the office, and he continually tightened their budget. The team was now doubly weighted down in useless bureaucracy and a lack of resources. Vermette hovered like a buzzard on death watch. Rouleau understood the animosity. He’d turned down Inspector before the job was offered to Vermette. His decision had been made easy by the thought of endless meetings and political games, but considering it had made him feel like he was stagnating in Major Crimes. When the offer came a few months later to lead an elite trouble-shooting team, the challenge had appealed to him. It should have been a satisfying way to end his career. Unfortunately, Vermette found out he’d been second choice for Inspector, which unleashed a vindictive streak longer than the St. Lawrence River. He controlled the work that flowed Rouleau’s way, keeping the team on the outside looking in. Rouleau had selected Stonechild, not because of her experience, but because nobody on the Ottawa force wanted to be part of a unit that was rumoured to be folding by the end of the fiscal.

  Rouleau sighed and headed for the door, flicking off the lights as he walked by.

  The chill hit Rouleau as soon as he stepped inside the house. He kept his coat on and clumped down the basement stairs to look at the oil furnace that was original to the house. It was completely shut down.

  Rouleau returned to the kitchen and called the heating company. The guy who answered promised someone would come by the next morning and have a look. He assured Rouleau that he was lucky to get an appointment so close to Christmas. Rouleau really wanted to believe him.

  He hung up the phone and stood looking around the kitchen, at all the work left to be done. There should have been new gleaming white cupboards and stainless steel appliances, a hardwood floor, track lighting, porcelain backsplash. He and Frances had gotten as far as hiring a designer. They’d laid out what they wanted … well, what Frances had wanted, and he’d been happy to see her face light up as she described her latest idea. But there’d come a day she’d stopped talking about the colour of the walls and the shape of the light fixtures. The plans she’d pored over with such hope were yellowing in a folder in his bedroom.

  Frances. He closed his eyes. What the hell was the point of it all?

  He took a beer glass from the cupboard and poured himself a cold one from the fridge. He’d begun drinking Scotch in the evenings after Frances left. Six months of fitful sleep and hangovers. Six months of mourning. Now, he was down to a couple of beers and often, not even that.

  He climbed the stairs to the second floor, sipping from the glass as he went. A half hour of rest and then a shower and off to the west end. Maybe it was a good night not to be alone with his thoughts after all.

  Kala drove her truck north on Elgin toward Parliament Hill, happy for a few hours to herself. It was her first opportunity to check out the address she’d tracked down three months before. It was nearly four thirty and dusk was already settling in. Stores and restaurants were decked out in twinkling Christmas lights and glitter while snow piled on the sidewalks gave the street a village feel. Pedestrian traffic was light.

  She cruised past the war monument and the Chateau Laurier and followed the swoop of road left onto Sussex into the part of town called the ByWard Market. Spindly trees lined the roadway, weighted down by glowing Christmas lights in blue, red, and green. She passed the Bay department store and a giant Chapters bookstore before turning right into a rabbit’s warren of stores and restaurants that twined down the narrow side streets. People were walking purposefully down the snowy sidewalks and streaming across intersections on their way home from work or to meet friends in one of the many bars or restaurants. At a red light, she watched a man and woman meet and embrace in the middle of the crosswalk, his arms wrapping around her and her face turned up to his. They continued on their way, arms slung around each other, his face nuzzled into the collar of her coat.

  She searched for street names printed on the city map as she drove slowly through the commercial district to low rent apartment buildings on the outskirts. The building she was seeking turned out to be dirty yellow brick with rusted balconies and cheap curtains or sheets hanging in the windows. She cruised the block looking for a parking spot. Two streets over, she lucked into a space in front of a beer store. She locked the truck and trudged down the side of the snowy street back the way she came.

  The apartment building had a small foyer with metal mailboxes lined in a crooked row. A telephone and directory were positioned next to the door, but the lock was broken and she didn’t need to be buzzed in. She scanned the list of names and apartment numbers and frowned at the name next to apartment 301. She prayed the listing was a mistake.

  She took the stairs rather than the claustrophobic elevator with the tarnished metal gate. A smell of stale beer and cigarettes reeked from the carpet in the hallway on the third floor. She surveyed the concrete corridor and counted six apartments. The one she was looking for was between the elevator and the garbage disposal. A faded bouquet of plastic flowers had been nailed on the door beneath the apartment number. Kala took a deep breath and lifted her hand to knock.

 
; Disappointment coursed through her. The woman who peered out from behind the chain was not the person Kala was searching for. This woman was in late her twenties with bleached white hair springing from her head in frizzy coils and eyelashes caked in black mascara. A silk kimono with giant roses that climbed upwards from the hem wrapped around her skinny frame. The fabric gaped open above her waist to display a red bra and skin the colour of talcum powder.

  “Yes?” The woman’s voice was husky from cigarettes; suspicious from living in a Centretown slum high-rise.

  Kala held up her hands to appear non-threatening. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I thought my friend lived here. It’s the last address I have for her. I was hoping to get together over Christmas.”

  “I moved in last month.” The woman’s stance relaxed but she kept the chain on the door. “Don’t know nothing about who lived here before me or where they’ve gone.”

  “Is there anybody who might know?”

  The woman screwed up her face while she thought. “The lady across the hall has been here a long time. She might know.”

  “Thanks, and sorry again to have bothered you.”

  Kala turned and crossed the hallway. She knocked on the door to 302 and waited. She knocked again. She didn’t hear any movement from within.

  The woman from 301 called across to her. “Just remembered. She told me last week she was going away to visit her son.”

  Kala turned. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “Maybe tomorrow?” It came out like a question.

  “I’ll come back then,” said Kala.

  She would have left the woman in 301 with a phone number to call when the neighbour arrived home, but something told her this woman would hang up if she got the police department. Kala wasn’t sure the number of the YWCA and hadn’t had time to get her cellphone number changed to local. It would be better just to follow up herself. She’d waited this long. Another day wouldn’t matter.

  The lobby was quiet when Kala returned to the Y to clean up for the party. The young girl behind the desk had been replaced by a white-haired man reading the Ottawa Citizen. He looked up and smiled as she walked by but didn’t try to engage in conversation. She liked that about him.