Long Gone Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  “Well, that would be a great shame,” Wilmot said.

  Duncan turned on her blinker, although there was no one else in the fog to see.

  Fourteen

  Sgt. Louis Wilmot more than lived up to Singer’s dreams of a movie-style Mountie. In his late forties, he was slim and elegantly dressed in pressed slacks, a gray turtleneck sweater, and a black leather jacket. With hair graying at the temples and clear, blue eyes, his pleasant face and slight smile said, “Trust me, I’m really a nice man.”

  Singer and Lauren softened their stances and relaxed. His smile widened.

  Standing behind him, Corporal Duncan also had blue eyes but hers looked as if they had broken off a glacier. Nothing about her gave off the friendly air of her superior officer.

  Duncan removed her peaked cap. Her blond hair had been cut short to control the curls. Her hair looks exactly like a cap made from the remains of Grandma’s Persian lamb, Singer thought. Her grandmother had worn that old-fashioned coat to church every Sunday.

  Duncan put on plastic gloves and took the gun from Singer without offering any comment, while Wilmot pointed to the room across the hall from the foyer. “Please wait in there while we check on your husband.”

  “Can’t we go back to the kitchen?” Lauren asked. “It’s warmer there.”

  “Of course.” He smiled and waited until the door closed softly behind them.

  Wilmot’s fingers felt for a pulse at the neck, although he knew it had ceased long ago. Worms of blood that had seeped from the head were already dried on the floor. “Shot in the forehead.”

  Duncan moved in closer, checking the black residue on the skin, and said, “So suicide is possible.”

  Wilmot didn’t keep his irritation out of his voice. “We’ll need the coroner’s report to know if it’s suicide.”

  Duncan said, “I’ll call Victoria now, but the coroner may not be able to get out until the fog lifts.”

  “Yes,” Wilmot agreed. “And that presents another problem. In this fog we can’t very well ask those two women to leave the house and drive down that mountain.”

  Duncan said, “Since I’m the officer on duty, perhaps you could drive them down.”

  He glanced sharply up at her. “They’ve already been all over the crime scene. They might as well stay in the house, but we’ll restrict them to their bedrooms until we get the evidence collected.” Wilmot wiped his fingers delicately on the leg of his trousers. “After you make that call, take those women to their rooms and get their statements. I’ll get the kit from the car and start collecting forensic evidence.”

  “But—” She looked into his granite face and bit back her objection. “Yes, Sgt. Wilmot.” She got to her feet and left the room without closing the door.

  Wilmot went to the door and gently closed it behind her. He wanted time alone in the room to get a sense of the man. He had an almost superstitious belief that the belongings of the dead could speak.

  Lauren was filling a coffee carafe with water when Corporal Duncan entered the kitchen. Duncan, still wearing disposable gloves, carried an evidence bag. “Have either of you tampered with this weapon?” Her eyes went from Lauren to Singer, while they looked at each other in confusion.

  “Tampered with it?” Singer asked. “What do you mean?”

  “For instance,” Duncan said, “did you reload it?”

  They both shook their heads.

  With a brief knock at the door, Corporal Duncan entered the office again. Silently she held out the evidence bag to Wilmot.

  He frowned when he saw what it contained. Then Duncan held out her right hand. Six bullets lay in her palm.

  “What?” he asked, although he already knew. He reached for the gun.

  Duncan said, “The gun was fully loaded.”

  Wilmot pulled disposable gloves from his pocket and put them on before taking the gun from Duncan. He removed the revolver from the evidence bag and turned it over in his hands, then opened the cylinder. He looked down the barrel, trying to see any residue. He sniffed at the barrel. “All I can smell is oil. It will take an examination in a lab to tell if it’s been fired recently, but I’m betting it hasn’t.” He looked up at Duncan, “Did the women reload it?”

  “They say they didn’t.”

  “It’s not the weapon that killed him then.”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “So it’s murder.” Wilmot smiled. “Call in the others. We need to find the murder weapon. Put Eagon in charge of the search. We have to go over the whole house.”

  “I called the coroner. There’s no way she can get here from Victoria until the fog lifts. Nothing’s moving, not even a police launch. She said to go ahead and photograph the scene and start gathering evidence. She’ll get here as soon as the weather clears.”

  “Right, let’s get started.”

  But Duncan didn’t move. “We now have a huge crime scene. Perhaps we should call Victoria . . . get some help.”

  “They won’t be able to move in this weather either. For now we’re on our own.” He handed the weapon back to her. “Wake up Eagon. And while we’re waiting for him and the others to arrive, get statements from those women.”

  “Got anything stronger than coffee, Lauren?”

  “No.” The answer was quick and final.

  Singer raised her eyes from the small flame of the match. She thinks I’m a drunk. She lit the cigarette, noticing the slight tremor in her hand. Wouldn’t be far wrong, but I could still use a jolt.

  Lauren added, “We’ve got a long night. Coffee will see us through better.”

  Singer waved out the match and said, “Well, a drink would make this enchilada a whole lot easier to take.”

  Lauren opened the fridge door, stared inside, and then closed the door without removing anything.

  “But coffee would be great,” Singer said.

  Lauren spun around and quickly opened the cupboard to get mugs, setting them down on the counter beside the ones she’d already put there. She frowned.

  “It’s the waiting,” Singer said. “It does your head in.”

  Lauren poured the coffee, letting the drops from the still-brewing liquid turn to steam on the heating element. She set a mug in front of Singer.

  Singer said, “If I’m awake until dawn I expect you to keep me company.” The truth was Singer could sleep right where she sat.

  “Thought you had plans for another type of company,” Lauren said, pushing a bowl of sugar closer. “Can’t say I’d blame you.”

  A brief madness set them giggling before Singer’s laughter turned into a fit of coughing.

  “Those cigarettes are going to kill you.”

  “Well,” Singer said, “I’m certain something will.” Thoughts of Johnny Vibes lying on the floor with a bullet hole in his head stole the last threads of lightness from the moment.

  Lauren took a long, deep breath in and let it out slowly. “How long will this take?”

  “It’ll take as long as it does. Don’t go getting antsy.”

  Lauren looked at her. “That sounds an awful lot like the voice of experience, but just what kind of experience is the question.”

  “Girl, I didn’t get this face singing in the choir.”

  Giddy laughter overtook them again.

  Long after their statements had been taken, Wilmot came to the kitchen and told Lauren and Singer they could go to bed.

  “We’ll stay here,” Lauren said.

  Wilmot smiled. “We have some work to do in here. You’ll be more comfortable in the bedroom.”

  Lauren picked up Missy, but before she could leave Wilmot said, “Just a question or two before you go, Mrs. Vibald, if you don’t mind. Ms. Brown, you are free to go.”

  Singer said, “Of course.” Then she stood, giving Lauren a long look.

  Wilmo
t was aware of the exchange and saw the little nod Lauren gave in response. Two women who had only met a few hours before and already they shared a secret.

  He sat at the long, pine table with Lauren Vibald, taking her around and around the basic statement Corporal Duncan had gotten. Lauren’s answers didn’t vary from her first account.

  Wary but assured when talking about finding her husband’s body, only when the question turned to Singer Brown did Lauren Vibald show any unease. Wilmot wanted to know why Lauren was worried about Singer Brown but quickly decided that unless he had some way of shaking her from her story, he was wasting his time. “This is very helpful, Mrs. Vibald, thank you. You may go, but would you send Ms. Brown back in?”

  She bit down on her bottom lip and moved uneasily on her chair. She planted her palms flat on the table and opened her mouth to say something but closed it without speaking and started to rise from the table.

  “Is there something you wish to add?”

  She shook her head in denial. “No, no, it’s fine.”

  “There is one other thing,” he said and watched her freeze, half turned away from him.

  She turned warily back to him. “What is it?”

  “Just this.” Her face relaxed when she saw that he was holding a credit card towards her. “Best you take care of this. It was in your husband’s desk drawer.”

  Relief flooded her face and she reached out for the card. “I’ll send Singer in.”

  Fifteen

  He watched Singer Brown saunter into the room, stroll to the table, and pull out a captain’s chair like she was about to attend a boring meeting about company statistics. He studied her for a moment. Not one flicker of fear or apprehension showed on her face. “Tell me . . .” Sgt. Wilmot consulted his notes. “Ms. Brown, have I got that right? It is Ms. Brown, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Ms. Brown.” She exaggerated the Ms. and didn’t hide her smile.

  “I understand from Corporal Duncan that you have no identification.”

  “Yeah, it was stolen.” And then, when he seemed to expect more, she added, “In Vancouver.”

  “And did you report the theft?”

  It was easy to laugh. “Fat lot of good it would’ve done.”

  “That’s what the police are for.”

  “Oh, find a lot of purses do you?” Her right arm went over the back of her chair while her left arm stretched along the table.

  Wilmot said, “Tell me again what brings you here.”

  “I heard Johnny was out here and thought I’d look him up.” She got up from the table and strolled to the bar, lit a cigarette, and returned to the table with the ashtray.

  “Did you hear this from a friend?” He turned his palm up. “Someone who knew Mr. Vibald?”

  She drew deeply on her cigarette and pondered the question. “Actually, come to think of it, I think it was some television show about Glenphiddie Island and all the famous people living here. Not that Johnny was really famous. He only had one big hit, ‘Long Gone Man.’ Do you know that song?”

  “Yes,” the sergeant said.

  Singer closed her eyes and hummed the melody, smoke from her cigarette rising in front of her.

  “Ms. Brown.”

  Her eyes popped open and she said, “Everything else they did was shit.”

  He nodded, as if she’d just made perfectly clear something that he’d been wondering about. “How did you know Mr. Vibald?”

  “I sang with the band back in the seventies.”

  He waited, but Singer just took another long drag, relaxing back against the chair.

  “When was the last time you saw him before you arrived this evening?” Wilmot’s voice was calm, his manner unhurried, as if they were just passing time in idle conversation, as if it wasn’t the middle of the night and there wasn’t a body in a room down the hall still waiting to be picked up because the driver of the hearse refused to come up the mountain until the fog lifted, as if every room in the house wasn’t being searched. “Tell me the approximate date.”

  Singer Brown crossed one leg over the other and swung her foot. With a soft shrug she said, “Don’t know exactly, must be twenty years now.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “What year was this?”

  She gave it some thought, twirling a hunk of hair around her forefinger. “Probably about 1974 or ’75, but I’d have to think about it. Things back then are kind of garbled in my brain.” She smiled. “A little too much of the good times, if you know what I mean.”

  “And where was this?”

  She raised an eyebrow and asked, “The good times?”

  “When you last saw Mr. Vibald, where was that?”

  “Down in New Mexico.”

  “That you remember clearly, do you? It was New Mexico?”

  She nodded. “Oh yeah.”

  “Why get in touch with Mr. Vibald now?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, I’m a bit down on my luck, thought I might wring a bit out of him for old times’ sake.”

  “And how did that work out?”

  “Didn’t get the chance to ask, did I? I was thinking, come morning, he’d give me a few bucks and say goodbye.” She grinned. “No problem. At least I got a bed out of it for the night. Maybe longer if Beastie needs fixing.”

  “Beastie?”

  “My lovely yellow van, a great big beast of a thing.”

  She had already told Corporal Duncan about the van going off the road. He’d need to get someone to confirm it at first light.

  He studied her. Dressed in garish colors, like a theatrical gypsy costume for an early Halloween, she was unconcerned about being questioned by the police. Most people, even innocent people, were uneasy and tried to impress their questioner. Not Singer Brown. She treated it like an everyday occurrence, almost as if she enjoyed it. Wilmot pressed harder and asked more questions. After a half hour she no longer looked amused. Her air of playfulness had faded and she answered questions mechanically. She was exhausted, but his next question brought her suddenly alive.

  “Did you kill John Vibald?”

  She laughed, neither worried nor threatened by his question, her eyes shining with sudden interest. This was the question she had been waiting for. “Nope.”

  “Did you have reason to kill John Vibald?”

  “Hadn’t seen him in twenty years.”

  He let it go and made a few more probes, but she’d fallen back into disinterest. Wilmot understood he’d fallen short in this interview, knew there was something he was missing, some query that would lead to the real truth. Singer Brown hadn’t for a minute been concerned he’d discover her secret. It rankled.

  Nothing she’d told him added to what Corporal Duncan had written down. The first place to start was always with discrepancies in the statements of witnesses but there were none. He considered her, trying to think of a way to attack that would give him an edge.

  She gave a gigantic yawn.

  He bit back his annoyance. Singer Brown could wait. But there was something; it was just a matter of finding it. He wanted to know more about her before he tackled her again.

  “Don’t leave the island. I want you to come to the office tomorrow and make a more complete statement.”

  Without replying, she reached forward and stubbed out her cigarette, then climbed to her feet.

  He had the strangest feeling he should clap for a great performer leaving a stage. But what had the play been about? He had no idea what he’d just witnessed. Perhaps a murderess hiding her crime, but he’d feel much easier if he could discover a reason for her to have shot John Vibald. Love, lust, money, hate, and even revenge were the normal motives to kill, but twenty years was a long time for any of those emotions to remain strong enough for murder and she didn’t seem to have anything to gain from John Vibald’s death.

  “Don�
�t leave the island, Ms. Brown.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She sauntered from the room. He watched her regal exit and wondered.

  Sixteen

  What the hell is going on? Wilmot looked around the empty room as if he might find the answer there. Lauren Vibald showed anger and perhaps a little fear but no sense of loss. Uptight and wary, it was as if she was waiting for the next shock to arrive, waiting for something even worse than her husband’s murder. And even though she told the same story as Singer Brown, there was something she was leaving out, some secret the two women shared.

  If he knew that secret, he’d know everything. Should he take her over her story again, while she was tired? She was vulnerable now, exhausted and anxious, liable to let things slip. The trouble was he had no new ideas to tackle her with except to let her think that Singer Brown had given her up, but he’d already lost that advantage when he let Singer out of the room.

  “Damn.”

  Singer Brown was his real adversary and she’d be out there reassuring John Vibald’s wife that everything was just fine. And there were still the other people, members of the band that he must talk to. Best to leave Lauren Vibald until the morning. He looked at his watch and realized it was already morning. For now, he’d concentrate on the physical evidence and get that right; later he could play divide and conquer with his chief witnesses.

  Lauren was waiting in Singer’s bedroom and bounced to her feet as the door opened. “What did he ask you?”

  Singer closed the door.

  Lauren rushed forward to meet her. “Does he think it’s murder?” Lauren followed Singer as she crossed the room. “Does he suspect us?”

  Singer pulled her blouse over her head and let it fall to the floor. Exhaustion had taken away what little modesty was left after a life on the road. “Didn’t say.”

  “What happens now?”

  Singer shrugged and undid the string tied in a bow at her waist that held the paisley skirt on her hips. She let the skirt slide to the floor and stood in limp underpants, a bra with failing elastic, and broken down canvas shoes and started to laugh. Head back and hands on her hips, Singer threw back her head and let the deep roar of amusement rise from her core.