by Joan Boswell
“Do you keep records?”
Fatima smiled but said nothing.
Rhona realized she wasn’t going to answer and changed the topic. “Do you have your own list of unwelcome customers?”
“We all use the websites for that.” Fatima smiled. “There are enough lovely men who appreciate bright, pretty women they can take to events, to hotels, or visit here. We don’t need the weirdos.”
“We’d like the names of men who gave you or the other women trouble, particularly if they were Ms. Trepanier’s or Ms. Wuttenee’s clients.”
“Ms. Wuttenee’s?”
“The attack occurred in her apartment. Perhaps the killer intended to murder her,” Rhona said.
Fatima considered their request.
“Give us the leads and we’ll do the rest,” Rhona assured her.
SIX
Jay and her eleven-year-old friend, Crystal Montour, backpacks bouncing, bounded through the Deer Park schoolyard. Jay hugged Barlow and MacTee before greeting Hollis. Crystal trotted after Jay and contented herself with patting the two dogs.
Hollis waited until the crowd of children, nannies, and parents thinned before she stopped.
“Girls, I have something terrible to tell you. I wish I could soften the impact of what I’m about to say.”
Both children waited.
“Sabrina Trepanier, who lived on the fifth floor of our building, was murdered last night,” Hollis said.
Neither child said anything for a moment while they processed the information.
Jay recovered first. “Do we know her?” she said.
When she heard Sabrina’s name, Crystal’s hands had flown to her mouth. “Oh, that’s awful. Awful, awful.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Sabrina is friends with Ginny who also lives on the fifth floor. Is Ginny okay?” Her eyes fixed on Hollis. She lowered her hands. “Ginny’s my friend. She’s an Indian like me and she’s beautiful.”
“She is beautiful, and she’s fine,” Hollis said. “Ginny often stops in the office to play with Barlow.” Hollis didn’t tell them that Ginny had discovered the body or that Sabrina had been killed in Ginny’s apartment.
“My aunt knows Ginny too,” Crystal volunteered.
“What about Sabrina Trepanier? Did you or your aunt know her?”
“She’s the pretty one with the long dark hair. She always looks great and she always says hello. One day she had a box of Tim Hortons Timbits and gave them to me. She said if she kept them she’d eat them all and that wouldn’t be good.”
Jay chimed in. “She likes dogs. Barlow jumped up once and he had muddy paws and made marks on her coat and she laughed and said dogs did that. If it had been me I might have been mad but she wasn’t.”
Crystal nodded. “I don’t think my aunt ever talked to her. She doesn’t have much to do with the people in the building.”
When they turned onto Delisle, they saw TV trucks and a cluster of people in front of their building.
“Are they there because of the murder?” Jay asked.
“They are. The police will be here for at least twenty-four hours, and they’ve strung yellow tape to keep onlookers away. They will interview everyone in the building.”
“My aunt won’t like that,” Crystal said.
“Most people won’t. But if you and your aunt and everybody else tell the police every little thing you can remember about Sabrina and Ginny and anyone or anything different that you saw, it could help them. They need as much information as they can get if they’re going to track down her killer.”
“Ginny’s related to Poundmaker, he was a famous chief,” Crystal said. Her brow furrowed. “Is she in danger? Are we?”
“I don’t think so but we’ll be extra careful.”
Crystal peered at her shoes and mumbled, “Maybe whoever did it meant to kill Ginny. People don’t like us. They wish we’d disappear.”
Jay bent like a pretzel until she stared up at Crystal’s face. “I don’t feel like that. Hollis doesn’t either.”
Crystal lifted her head. “Some people do and have for a long, long time.”
“That’s really sad,” Jay said and seemed at a loss about what she could say to make Crystal feel better.
Barlow and MacTee tugged on their leashes.
“We’d better go in. Because I manage the building, the police will have more questions for me.”
As they moved along, Hollis tried to remember her Canadian history. Poundmaker had been involved in the second Riel Rebellion in Saskatchewan. He must have been a Cree. Poor Crystal, feeling that everyone disliked her because she was an Indian. How awful and how hard to imagine if you didn’t belong to a minority.
On Tuesdays, Crystal’s aunt, Mary Montour, worked a split shift as a waitress, breakfast and dinner with a break for lunch. Not wanting the child spending time in an empty apartment, Hollis had taken to inviting Crystal to have supper and go with them to Barlow’s obedience class. Tonight of all nights she didn’t want the child alone.
“Jay, you and Crystal do your homework while I talk to the police. I’ll make sure it’s okay for us to take Barlow to his class. It will be good to get away from the building,” Hollis said.
At the apartment they found Ginny curled up asleep on the sofa, looking very young and vulnerable. Hollis realized that Ginny couldn’t return to her own apartment. It was a crime scene, as was Sabrina’s.
Ginny stirred when dogs and kids crowded into the apartment. Hollis waited until she saw that Ginny was truly awake.
“Ginny, do you have anywhere to stay?”
“Oh my God. I won’t be able to go back to my place.” Ginny shuddered. “I don’t know if I ever will, but maybe Fatima will rent me Sabrina’s place.”
“Not until the police finish,” Hollis said.
Barlow, tired of being ignored, jumped on the sofa and settled down next to Ginny, who stroked him absentmindedly.
“I guess I don’t have anywhere to go,” Ginny said.
“Why can’t Ginny stay with us? I have a trundle bed,” Jay said.
“So you do. If Ginny wants to do that, she can.”
Ginny’s eyes widened. Clearly the invitation surprised her. “Thanks. That’s nice of you, but now that I think about it, I know that Fatima will take me in,” she said.
A buzz at the door. Hollis answered and found Rhona outside.
“I’d like to talk to Ms. Wuttenee again. May I use your office for the interview?” she asked in a tone that indicated she was merely being polite.
Hollis nodded. “Of course. Tonight is my puppy’s obedience class. Is it okay if we go?”
Rhona considered. “Leave me your cell phone number. We have your records, the security tapes, and are interviewing the tenants. If I need any more information it’ll wait until you get back.”
Rhona led Ginny into Hollis’s office.
“I can’t get Sabrina out of my mind,” Ginny wailed as she settled on one of Hollis’s office chairs. “Who would have killed her? She was only twenty-two. Why? Why would anyone do that? What about me? Will I be next?” Her voice rose after every question until it was a shrill scream. Abruptly she buried her face in her hands.
“Ms. Wuttenee, if we’re going to catch Sabrina’s killer, we need your help.”
Ginny lowered her hands but her downcast eyes, drooping head, and projecting lower lip combined to create a picture of despair. She remained quiet.
“I want you to think back to every conversation you ever had with Sabrina and tell me what you talked about.”
“That won’t help you. We talked about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie and everyone else in Hollywood. We both liked In Style magazine and fashion. Sabrina told me where the best places to shop were. And …” She stopped.
“Work? Clients? Drugs?” Rhona said.
Ginny stared at the floor.
“I’m not trying to trap you. I’m looking for links to the person who killed Ms. Trepanier. Could it have had anything to do with your —” Rhona he
sitated “— landlady? Did you share information about a really bad client? Do you have a source for drugs and could Ms. Trepanier have been in trouble with that person?” She leaned forward and tapped the desk. “That is the kind of information that will help us.”
Ginny continued to stare at the floor?
“Do you want us to find Ms. Trepanier’s killer?” Rhona asked.
Ginny’s head snapped up. Rhona read fear and doubt in her eyes. “Of course, but I’m afraid.”
“Of the killer or of me?” Rhona asked.
“Both,” Ginny admitted.
Rhona leaned back and steepled her fingers as she considered the young woman’s reply.
“I do want to help,” Ginny said.
“Okay. I’m not recording this conversation. It’s strictly off the record. Why don’t I ask questions and you answer? If you volunteer more information, that will be great.”
Ginny fidgeted and glanced at the door as if she’d like to escape. “Okay.”
“Did Sabrina have any trouble with Ms. Nesrallah?”
“No.”
“Did she have clients who treated her badly or frightened her?”
Silence.
Rhona repeated the question.
“Yes, we both had one guy who scared us.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
Ginny pursed her lips. “He said to call him John, and he thought that was very funny.”
“What was it that frightened you? Something he said or something he did?”
“He brought handcuffs with him and promised me extra money if I’d wear them. Sabrina and Fatima had both warned me that that kind of kinky stuff, bondage it’s called, could be dangerous, could get out of hand, but I agreed. As soon as the handcuffs were on he smashed me really hard. His eyes were crazy. I screamed before he could stop me, and that put him off. He was a very scary guy.”
“Do you keep any kind of diary or appointment book? Could you tell me when you saw him?”
Ginny shook her head. “It wasn’t long ago. I don’t keep anything like that, but Sabrina does. It has a pink cover with a photo of a quilt on the front and she keeps it in the kitchen drawer. She writes all kinds of info in it — computer passwords, addresses, and every day she puts in the name or the initials of the clients and what they like.”
Rhona felt a flush of optimism. They’d get this guy. “Why does she do that?”
Ginny shrugged. “If guys like you, they leave a big tip. Sabrina made sure to record what they asked her to do ’cause she wanted to make money. She was saving for something big.”
“What was that?”
“She wanted to start her own business, and she figured this was the best way to get enough money.”
“Anything about friends, family, where she went to school, why she decided to come to Toronto?”
“I never asked.”
“I understand, but did she ever volunteer any information.”
Ginny shook her head. “I’ve only been here for a little while, and we didn’t talk that much.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Do you think the killer is after all of us? Is someone punishing us because of what we do?”
SEVEN
After Ginny left with Rhona, Hollis looked longingly at the studio end of the living room, where a commissioned, half-completed four-foot-high papier-mâché giraffe stood waiting for her attention. Right after the Second World War, her client’s father had brought him or sent him a large plush giraffe named Louis Phillipe from France. Now the man wanted a facsimile to put among the palms and ferns in his solarium.
Not the time to work on it or on her current painting, an abstraction of her Canadian series. Until the police solved the murder she’d have her hands full keeping Jay on even keel and her tenants placated. She could only guess how the over-protective Calum Brownelly would react when he learned that his daughter lived in a building where a woman in the sex trade had been killed.
Dealing with those issues lay in the future. Tonight they’d scarf down a quick supper before obedience class at seven.
Jay and Crystal joined her in the kitchen. Hollis asked them to chop peppers for a stir fry. That task completed and rice steaming in the cooker, Hollis poured herself a glass of wine.
“I think I’ll watch the news. See what they say about what’s happened here. Want to do that?” she asked the girls.
“No. I want you to give me an answer,” Jay said, moving to face Hollis and block her retreat to the living room.
Hollis sighed. She’d hoped to avoid the topic she knew Jay wanted to talk about.
At moments like this she questioned her decision to foster. Had she made a mistake? Was she capable of dealing with a complicated eleven-year-old toting a trunkload of emotional baggage, not to mention a mysterious father?
Wrong, wrong, wrong. She shook her head to expel doubt, as if the idea were water trapped in her ears.
Bringing Jay into her life had been exactly the right thing to do. But at this moment when Jay, arms akimbo and chin thrust out, stood eyeball-to-eyeball, she faced the fact that this might be a bigger test than she’d anticipated. She knew a lot about dogs but not much about girls other than what she’d learned from her own experience. And most of that experience probably didn’t apply.
She’d realized from early childhood as she grew into an almost six-foot-tall, big-boned young woman, that her tiny, perfect mother had expected a carbon copy of herself. After years of dressing Hollis in pink dresses trimmed with lace, her mother finally conceded that the feminine frills she loved looked ridiculous on her daughter.
No, she didn’t want to emulate her mother and she didn’t have any other role models. She’d read the how to books on bringing up children, talked to her friends, and listened to her heart, the best teacher of all, and she prayed that would be enough.
From the moment she’d met Jay, Hollis loved the enthusiastic, wiry, dark-eyed child with the mass of curly brown hair. When Jay was happy, her wide mouth curved into a big smile that made everyone around her respond positively.
Hollis loved Jay’s spirit but, applying dog theory, knew she must establish herself as the alpha dog, the pack leader, the woman who provided love and guidance in equal measure. She had to be up to the task and not allow herself to fail — Jay could not be moved to another foster home.
Standing toe-to-toe, Hollis waited for Jay to tell her why she had her hands on her hips, her chin thrust forward, and her entire body expressing her outrage.
“You don’t trust me,” Jay stormed.
The age-old accusation. If she said she did, she’d be lying. If she said she didn’t, it would confirm Jay’s belief.
“We don’t know each other well enough for me to know whether I do or I don’t,” Hollis said.
“That’s crap. You don’t,” Jay said.
“Tell me why I should?” Hollis answered.
That stopped Jay, but only for a second. “Because I’m a foster kid and no one trusts foster kids. You think we’re all the same. That somebody gave us up because we’re rotten kids and we lie all the time.”
“Do you?”
Jay retracted her chin. A tiny smile curved her lips. “Maybe.” She shrugged. “Maybe not.”
“I’d like, no make that I’d love to trust you, but you’ve only been here for a few weeks. I’m responsible for you. I can’t let you get in trouble.”
Hollis wished this was a private conversation. Heaven knew what Crystal thought as Hollis and Jay battled.
“I only want to go to the Eaton Centre Thursday night to meet my dad. All you have to do is walk me to the subway. That isn’t a big deal,” Jay whined.
Barlow, the puppy, raced into the kitchen dragging a fuchsia woollen hoodie.
Jay grabbed for it as Barlow shot toward the front hall.
Crisis averted for the time being.
Jay reappeared hugging the hoodie to her chest, then extended it and examined it carefully. She thrust it in Hollis’s face.
“The asshole ripped it,” she said.
Hollis ignored the language. She’d pick her battles, and for the moment language wouldn’t be one of them. “Where was the hoodie?”
“In my room.”
“Where in your room?”
“I don’t know.”
“If it had been hanging in the closet or folded in a drawer, he couldn’t have got it. I’m guessing it was on the bedroom floor.”
Jay said nothing as she picked at the hole in the cuff.
Each time the puppy chewed a shoe or clothing, they had this conversation. Cupboard doors had to be shut and clothes put away to prevent Barlow from conducting the search-and-destroy missions he loved.
“I’ll mend it,” Hollis offered and reached for the garment.
“I have to go to the Eaton Centre,” Jay said, extending the hoodie.
The crisis had not been averted.
Hollis checked her watch. “We’ll resolve this issue later. Right now it’s time to haul Barlow off to his dog-training class.”
“Good thing Crystal comes with us. You love our dogs, don’t you, Crystal?” Jay said.
Crystal nodded but added nothing to the conversation
Our dogs. That seemed a good indicator that Jay was settling in and accepting her new situation.
“Let’s hope we all learn a lot tonight. I’ll take Barlow for a quick walk before we go.” For a few minutes Hollis had almost forgotten she was living in the midst of a murder investigation, but in the lobby where residents waited to be interviewed, the crowd jolted her back to reality. She glanced through the large lobby windows and saw parked TV trucks making passage along the narrow street almost impossible. She should have anticipated that the murder would attract journalists and the curious public. After speaking to the policeman at the door, she walked down the drive and ducked under the tape. A mike was pushed into her face.
“Was it a hooker? How was she killed?” A shower of questions rained down on at her.
“No comment,” she muttered and dragged a now reluctant Barlow through the crowd toward Avenue Road. On her return, she again refused to answer questions and sped into the building.
