Cold Mourning

by Brenda Chapman

  Rouleau glanced in the rearview mirror. “What’s odd? Should I go back?”

  She glanced at him. “I’ve seen that Jeep recently.” She ran scenes through her mind. “Hunter Underwood. Why wouldn’t he park in Laurel’s driveway if he came to visit her?”

  “And what would make him visit her in the first place?” asked Rouleau. “If he really has come to see her, he’s parked three blocks away. Most curious. You have keen eyes, Stonechild.”

  “Thanks.”

  Rouleau turned the corner onto Winding Way. A black Mercedes was parked half-way up her driveway. A thin layer of snow coated the roof and windows. He pulled in behind it and turned off the engine. “I don’t think we’ll be breaking the news of her husband’s death if Hunter got here first. By the look of her car, she’s been home a while.”

  “Too bad,” said Stonechild. “I wanted to watch her reaction.”

  She and Rouleau followed a set of men’s footsteps toward the front door. “Her company hasn’t been here long though,” observed Rouleau. “Snow would have filled in these prints. It started up again an hour ago.”

  He rang the doorbell and stepped back.

  Laurel opened the door with the chimes still reverberating down the hallway. She was dressed completely in black, her red hair curled in long tendrils to her shoulders and her violet eyes red from weeping. Hunter stood next to her in the hallway, his duffle coat buttoned and gloves on his hands. He looked past Rouleau and found Kala’s eyes. His were apologetic.

  Laurel took a step closer to be directly in front of Rouleau. “How could you not have told me?” Her voice choked with anger. Kala thought the suffering in her face genuine. “I said if anything came up. Anything! I think my husband’s murder would have been a no-brainer. All you had to do was call me. I was just a phone call away. You just had to call.” Her voice trailed away to a whimper. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Hunter laid a hand on her back. She turned and collapsed against him, but only for a moment. When she turned to face them, her face was resigned. “I suppose if we need to talk, we can do it in the kitchen.” She started down the hallway, not waiting for Rouleau to respond.

  “Would you like me to stay?” asked Hunter.

  Rouleau nodded before he bent down to slip off his boots. “I think that would be best.” He started after Laurel while Hunter remained behind.

  Kala looked up at him from where she’d leaned against the wall to pull off a boot. “Do you stop by often?” she asked quietly.

  Red diffused upward from his collar. “No, but I’ve been checking because somebody had to tell her. Nobody else in the family would have made the call. I thought it would be a kindness if she heard about her husband’s murder in person.”

  “Your sister wouldn’t tell her?”

  “Geraldine? Not bloody likely.” His voice was as low as hers. The conversation felt too close and intimate. His eyes burned into hers as if he was trying to convince her that he was telling the truth. She swayed and he reached out and steadied her as she wobbled on one foot. His touch was unexpected. She pulled her arm away but not before his eyes looked hard into her own. She averted her eyes from his and took a step backward. She was uncomfortably aware of his closeness. He smelled of the outdoors and wood smoke.

  She followed him into the kitchen. Two glasses were on the table, one empty and one newly filled with amber liquid. Laurel lifted it to her lips. “Cheers,” she said to nobody in particular. Hunter put the empty glass on the counter and sat in the chair closest to Laurel. He rested a hand on her wrist as if to calm her.

  Rouleau glanced up at Kala and then back to Laurel. “Unfortunately, your messages went through to the voicemail of an officer who’s been on sick leave,” he said. “We’ve been by your home and called your phone numbers several times. We didn’t find out until now that you’d left another number. We had no idea where you’d gone.”

  “But I phoned twice. Both times the officer who answered sent me through to the voicemail. I thought … I thought my husband might join us if I was where we were supposed to be. We’d booked the chalet and I was hoping he would come to me. If he was in trouble, he would reach me there.”

  “Where is the chalet?”

  “Mount Tremblant. Several hours from here.”

  “Didn’t you have your cellphone with you?” asked Kala. “You gave us the number when we were last here. We called numerous times but it was turned off.”

  Laurel nodded. “After I left the number at the chalet, I turned off my phone. Charlotte and I only left the chalet to go for walks and I thought you would call me at the number I left twice on that voicemail.”

  “For which we sincerely apologize,” said Rouleau.

  Laurel turned toward Hunter, who had sat without moving through the exchange. “I just can’t believe it. Who would kill Tom?”

  “So you hadn’t heard from your husband since you reported him missing,” said Rouleau. It was a statement, not a question. “Do you have any idea at all who would have wanted to harm him?”

  Laurel shook her head. Her eyes were closed and tears seeped from under her eyelids.

  Hunter slid his hand down to cover one of her hands with his own. He turned to look at Rouleau. “I couldn’t say either.”

  “What time did you arrive today?” Rouleau asked Hunter.

  “A half hour or so before you.”

  “How did you know Laurel would be home?”

  Hunter shrugged. “It was a guess. I was in town anyway and decided to take a chance. Nothing more covert, I’m afraid.”

  “But you parked three blocks away,” said Kala. “Why?”

  Hunter turned his gaze back to her. His half-smile revealed nothing. “I felt like a walk in the snow. I’d been sitting a long time and wanted some exercise.”

  Laurel hit the table with the palm of her hand and they all looked at her. “All these intrusive questions when you should be out looking for who murdered my husband. Hunter had nothing to do with it and neither did I. I demand that you stop harassing us and find the person who did this!”

  Kala glanced at Rouleau. He looked regretful but unmoved at the same time. She imagined it was an expression that served him well in other investigations. When he spoke, his tone was measured.

  “We’re only doing our job, madam. I’m sorry if you find the questions objectionable, but don’t forget that your answers can serve to remove you as suspects. We only go where the evidence leads us, but to do that we must ask questions. I know your husband’s death has come as a shock, but I assure you that we are doing everything possible to bring whoever is responsible to justice, including asking questions of everyone who knew him.”

  Laurel’s shoulders slumped and she lowered her head so that a tumble of red hair covered her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just feel so … devastated.”

  Kala studied her. Her submissive reaction struck a false note, but if Rouleau felt the same way, she couldn’t tell.

  He stood. We’d like to search your husband’s home office and bedroom if you would be so kind. I have officers who will be looking for anything at all that will let us know who your husband was meeting the morning he disappeared.

  Laurel raised her eyes. “I looked everywhere when he didn’t come home but didn’t find anything. I don’t think you’ll find anything either.”

  “But we will look. The team will be here within the half hour. We’ll leave no stone unturned. Of this you can be assured.” He motioned to Kala. “Perhaps you could show Officer Stonechild the library while she waits for the other officers to arrive.”

  Kala watched Laurel look at Hunter through the veil of hair that shielded her face. Whatever passed between them must have satisfied her because she nodded her head in his direction before standing.

  “I’ll do all it takes, to punish Tom’s killer,” she said. “If you need to camp out in our house and go through every goddamn piece of paper, you’re welcome to it.”

  17

  Monday, December 26
, 11:35 a.m.

  Geraldine spent Boxing Day morning rattling around her empty house. When they’d gotten out of bed around seven, Max had made scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast for breakfast before saying that he’d put in a few hours at the office and be home mid-afternoon. She hadn’t argued with him. In fact, she was glad to be alone.

  All morning she’d tried to push away the grief and ignore the bottles of wine hidden in the upstairs cupboard — bottles that had started out as symbols of her inner strength that could quickly become her downfall. The baby was restless inside her, rolling and shifting position, trying to get comfortable, as if commiserating with her anguish. She’d spent an hour in the nursery rocking in the old oak rocker that had been her grandmother’s. She’d been surprised to feel dampness on her collar, not aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks. At noon, she remembered that she hadn’t eaten much of the breakfast Max made. She’d felt nauseous for the first time in ages when she first got out of bed, and the smell of frying bacon had made it worse. But now she was hungry.

  She made her way into the kitchen and stood leaning into the fridge, feeling her stomach roll at the sight of bottles of gherkin pickles, mayonnaise, and defrosting chicken, pooling pinkish blood on a white dinner plate. Her eyes skimmed over the containers of yogourt and cottage cheese, apples and carrots. Healthy food that Max insisted she eat. He’d cleaned out the ice cream and Fudgsicles from the freezer. There was no point even opening that door. Nothing in the fridge appealed to her. She was ready to give up and check out the pantry when she spied an unopened brick of cheese under the carton of eggs. Cheese was something she might be able to keep down.

  She cut thick slabs of bread and slathered butter on both sides. Then she sliced off wide pieces of cheese that she carefully arranged to cover the bread without overlapping. She set the sandwich into the melted butter in a frying pan she’d set on medium heat. When the bread was golden brown and the cheese oozing out the sides, she flipped the sandwich onto her plate and sat at the kitchen table, taking small bites and sipping on a glass of milk while she looked out the patio door.

  The lilac trees were dressed in a coating of snow that sparkled in the brilliant sunshine. Two chickadees played on the railing of the deck, landing and taking off and sending sprays of snow into the air. She didn’t know when blue sky had replaced the grey clouds, but the sudden brightness was a welcome relief. It felt like the snow had been coming down forever.

  She set the second half of her sandwich onto the plate and pushed it away. She thought about taking a nap, but a nap would take her upstairs to the bottles she’d hidden in the cupboard. So far she’d managed not to give in to the need for a drink, but today she felt closer to the edge than ever before. She closed her eyes and imagined unscrewing one of the bottles and lifting it to her lips. The wine would be sunshine warm but tart like apples and sweet like peaches. She circled her tongue across her lips as if licking stray drops. What could it hurt, really? The baby was nearly formed. She’d allow herself one swallow … just one little taste to slack her thirst … and that was when she opened her eyes and cut off the daydream. The truth was that she would never stop at one swallow, or even one bottle. The urge to drink and drink until she filled the gaping hole inside of herself was like a monster begging to be fed. Once she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop. She knew this with the certainty of her whole being. She looked down and patted her stomach. “You owe me big time, little one,” she said. “Let’s get our big ugly coat on and go visit Grandma.”

  Her mother was unexpectedly home. Pauline hugged Geraldine and helped her out of her winter coat, then sat her in a chair while she bent down to pull off her boots. She looked up at her daughter from where she knelt on the rug.

  “Your feet are swollen. I hope you’ve been resting enough.”

  “I do nothing but rest. A month to go and it feels like an eternity.”

  “Enjoy these last days to yourself. It’ll change very soon. Come, prop yourself up on the couch and I’ll brew a pot of decaffeinated coffee. Are you hungry?”

  “Not really, unless you have cake.” Geraldine imagined Max’s disapproving face and added, “With ice cream would be nice.” She was tough all right, defying Max when he was nowhere in sight. “I’m okay to sit at the kitchen table.” She followed her mom and gingerly lowered her bulk onto a chair while Pauline brewed coffee and cut a thick slice of gingerbread.

  “I hope this cake and chocolate ice cream will do. It’s all I have left from Christmas dinner.” Pauline set the plate in front of Geraldine. “Cream in your coffee?”

  “Mmm,” said Geraldine.

  Pauline returned with two mugs and sat down across from her. “Aren’t you eating?” asked Geraldine.

  Pauline shook her head and sipped from her mug. “I … ate earlier.” She avoided meeting Geraldine’s eyes.

  Geraldine looked more closely at her mother. She’d turned into the workout queen in recent years but had appeared to be keeping her exercise sessions under control. If she’d gone off food again, they’d have to convince her to go talk to somebody. After their dad left, she’d been diagnosed as obsessive compulsive and had been in counselling up until a few years ago. Before that, she’d spent most of the day cleaning the house, but when that ended she had declared herself cured. Her cheeks were looking more gaunt than normal. Geraldine didn’t remember her mother eating much at Christmas. She sighed. One more thing to worry about.

  Geraldine ate the dessert slowly while she thought about how to bring up the subject of her father. Her mother hadn’t said anything at all about his death, and that wasn’t healthy. In fact, it was damn strange. She tuned in to her mother’s monologue.

  “So, I spent yesterday afternoon at Holt Renfrew looking for something decent to wear for New Year’s. I finally found the perfect pant suit. It’s silk and a winter white with silver beading. They’re taking in the sleeves and waist. I pick it up tomorrow.” Pauline turned her head toward the front door. “Was that the doorbell?”

  “Yes,” said Geraldine. “Were you expecting company?”

  “No.” Pauline stood but made no move toward the door.

  “Should I get it?” asked Geraldine.

  “If you wouldn’t mind. I have to go to the washroom.”

  Geraldine pushed away her plate and got to her feet. So much for the motherly concern about her swollen ankles. She reached the door as someone banged the knocker hard three times. When she pushed the door open, Susan Halliday was standing on the landing. Without saying a word, Susan took Geraldine into her arms and hugged her gently before stepping inside. Susan linked her arm through Geraldine’s as they started back toward the kitchen.

  “I hope you aren’t missing your dad too much,” Susan said.

  “I’m okay. You look tired though.”

  “I’ve had the flu but am definitely on the mend.” Susan’s voice was drained of energy and Geraldine wondered if she really was better.

  “Mom’s just gone upstairs for a minute. I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “You sit,” said Susan. “I can get my own cup.”

  Susan slid into the seat next to Geraldine after filling a mug from the cupboard. “This has been such a sad time with your father’s death. How are you doing really?”

  “Not so good.” Geraldine took a deep breath. “I just can’t believe he’s gone, and what makes it worse is that Mom’s acting like nothing happened. She won’t even mention his name.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Susan. “It sounds like she’s taking it hard.”

  “Really? It seems to me that she’s put it out of her mind completely.”

  “Your mother has a difficult time with loss. She’s grieving in her own way.”

  “You’re probably right. My only experience was when Dad left, and that was horrible. She pretended like he’d never existed, hosting parties and happy all the time. We didn’t dare mention his name or let on that we missed him.”

  “She was trying to keep everything nor
mal for you. It was very draining for her to put up that front.”

  “I guess. Maybe I should be more understanding. Has Clinton gone back to the base?”

  “Yes. He left at lunchtime. He’ll be back before New Year’s.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “He’ll have the whole week off.”

  “Are you going to the same party as Mom?”

  “At the Hunt Club, yes, with the same old crowd. I’m not in a party mood, but Clinton insists I keep busy.”

  “He’s probably right.”

  Susan covered Geraldine’s hand with her own. “I really am sorry about your dad. We’ll miss him.”

  “Mom was happier lately … you know, before this happened. She told me last week that Dad would probably be leaving Laurel soon and she seemed … hopeful. I think she believed they stood a chance of getting back together. You’re probably right about her grieving, but maybe she’s just in denial. I’m worried about when she crashes.”

  Susan stood and turned to look out the window. When she turned back, her eyes were wet. “Don’t worry, Geraldine. I’ll be here for your mom. We’ve been friends a long, long time, and I won’t let her go through this alone. I’m here for you too.”

  Geraldine stood and they hugged. She stepped back and said, “I wonder who told Laurel about Dad. I keep thinking that she won’t be all that devastated by his death.”

  “Probably the police. She’ll be planning his funeral I expect.”

  “The funeral. Damn. Will you go?”

  “Of course. We should all go.”

  Geraldine glanced toward the door. “I’m not sure about my mother. It’ll be awkward.”

  Susan lowered her voice. “Do you have any idea who could have murdered your father?”

  Geraldine shook her head. “My first ugly thought was Laurel, but that might just be because I never liked her. Although I have to say, that for Laurel, killing Dad might have been easier than divorcing him.”

  Her first guilty thought had actually been Laurel and Hunter, but she pushed that idea as deep into her subconscious as she could. The Hunter she knew would not be capable. It was lunacy to even think it.