Bleeding Darkness

by Brenda Chapman

  She pushed back against her chair. “Well, thank the good lord above for that. You’ve made my day and conscience a lot easier. Hold on a moment.” She pulled out her cellphone and typed furiously with her thumbs. “A message to my editor. That ought to put the article to bed,” she said. “Why don’t you drink up and we can go over to my place and I’ll cook us some omelettes and introduce you to the cat. You can help me give it a name.”

  He thought about her offer. His father was out for the evening and he wasn’t looking forward to his own dreary company. “Did you bring your car?”

  “I did but you can follow me over.” She turned to look out the window. “The snow is holding off. You’ll be able to park on the street.”

  He picked up his glass. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Rouleau entered Marci’s limestone half double and was pleased to see that the interior was as warmly decorated and down to earth as the woman he’d come to know. She likely didn’t consider herself either of these qualities, but he’d seen beneath her tenacious, tough exterior. He liked that she didn’t fuss with her appearance or put much thought into how others saw her. In his mind, this made her more attractive, not less.

  She took his coat and invited him to sit on a stool at the island with a pint of craft beer while she whipped up eggs and chopped onions, peppers, and mushrooms. “I used to be a good cook when I put my mind to it,” she said. “Now I eat out or come up with something simple.”

  The cat had shot out of the house when they’d arrived but returned to sit on the window ledge outside the kitchen and was now indoors, licking its paws at Rouleau’s feet. Grey and undernourished, it had watchful green eyes that studied Rouleau fixedly as it began to wash its face. It jumped as if dodging a kick when Rouleau shifted positions on the chair.

  “Is the cat male or female?” he asked.

  “I assumed male but can’t say I looked that closely.”

  “We can eat here if you like.” She set a plate of eggs and toast in front of him and began work on the second omelette. When it finished cooking, she poured them each a glass of red wine and sat on the stool next to him. They clinked glasses and ate without talking. She was comfortable in silence, as Frances had been.

  “You haven’t asked about the McKenna case,” he said when he’d had the last bite and set down his fork.

  “I’m taking a break for the evening.” She sipped her wine. “But I wouldn’t be averse to you chatting about it if you feel the need.” Her eyes sparkled above the wineglass.

  “Nothing new to report, sadly.”

  She set down her glass and pushed her plate away, resting her elbow on the counter and cupping her chin in her hand. “It’s looking like the husband, isn’t it? I’ve reported on a few husbands who killed their pregnant wives. The American Scott Peterson for one. Remember he was at a vigil for his missing wife Laci and called his unwitting girlfriend to say he was in Paris? Her family and the couple’s friends said he would never have murdered his wife, and they fervently believed in his innocence until the girlfriend came forward to expose his lies. Now, he’s on death row.”

  “The motives were rising debt and a desire to be single as I recall.”

  “He was a callous piece of work. Have you found any girlfriends circling around Vivian’s husband?”

  “None that we’ve located, but Kala Stonechild is in Edmonton now carrying out interviews.”

  “Good. If anyone can suss out the tangled relationships, it will be her. I truly am sorry about that article that we printed on her time living on the street. I wrote it but had asked that it not be issued until I had her okay. She didn’t deserve to be broadsided like that.”

  “No, she didn’t. I’ve often wondered why you even thought to dig into her life before she became a cop.”

  Marci blinked and stood in one quick motion, picking up their plates as she talked. “A routine search. I was interested in learning more about your team.” She put the plates into the sink and picked up the kettle. She asked without turning completely around to face him, “Cup of tea to end the meal?”

  He checked his watch. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I need to get going because I have a few calls to make before it gets too late. Rain check?”

  “Of course.” The smile had returned to her face along with an easing of the tension in her shoulders.

  Rouleau knew somebody had fed her the story and he had a strong suspicion who, but he wouldn’t press. She’d be conflicted but wasn’t in a position to tell him because of her code to protect the anonymity of sources, and he wasn’t in a position at the moment to accuse Woodhouse without proof.

  At the front door, he took a last look around the cozy living room: the plaid easy chair with an empty mug resting on a folded newspaper on the table next to it, the worn purple velvet couch, the soft yellow glow from a standing lamp with an antique glass shade. Marci held his coat while he put on his boots. He straightened and took it from her and their hands touched.

  “Thank you for your company and an enjoyable meal,” he said. “We never did get around to naming the cat or figuring out its gender.”

  “Another time.” She was standing close and her tawny eyes were watching him. Her scent was light and pleasing: coconut and rose petals. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek and then her mouth was on his, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. When they broke apart some time later, she took a step back and looked up at him. “Dammit, Rouleau. If we’re not careful, this could turn into a thing.”

  He pushed back a stray lock of her hair that had fallen into her eyes. He’d always been attracted to her intelligence and quick wit but hadn’t imagined this feeling would become physical. Looking at her now, he realized that there’d been something more between them all along.

  “I’m game to see what kind of thing this turns into if you are,” he said, smiling, and she nodded.

  “I think we should.”

  He opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air. He was reluctant to leave but knew this was not the time to take things further. “Sleep well, Marci. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  She stooped to pick up the cat circling around her legs. “What’s his or her name and I will be waiting for your call.”

  chapter thirty

  Lauren rose before everyone else Tuesday morning — unusual, she knew — but the health of Antonia Orlov was playing on her mind and kept waking her up from an already restless sleep. After her interview with Officer Woodhouse the afternoon before, she’d gone in search of Tristan to go with her to the Orlovs’ as they’d planned. He’d agreed to distract Boris while she snuck upstairs to check on Antonia. Unfortunately, Tristan had been in no condition to talk coherently to the dog, let alone Boris. He’d coped with the latest round of police questioning by smoking joints all afternoon and listening to music on his iPhone. Lauren had then herself coped by taking a cab to the Duke and getting hammered on vodka cocktails, some of which had been bought for her by a bearded man with the words love and hate tattooed on the knuckles of his hands. She’d stopped short of leaving with him but not because of any moral high ground. She’d been in the ladies’ room throwing up when he’d gotten tired of waiting and gone home without her.

  She tossed back two Advil with a glass of water and put on a pot of coffee, climbing back upstairs for a shower while it brewed. She pulled on faded jeans and selected a red sweater to distract from the redness in her eyes, then returned to the kitchen for her first cup of coffee. The rich smell of java turned her stomach but she closed her eyes and breathed in and out deeply until she got her queasiness under control.

  What the hell am I doing? she thought. Is this as good as it’s ever going to get?

  She took her coffee into the dining room, where she stood at the window looking out toward the Orlov house. A light was on in the kitchen and a flicker of hope eased her aching head. Perhaps Antonia was up making breakfast and back on her cleaning schedule. Lauren imagined that she’d be over to drink tea and trail a
fter Evelyn this afternoon.

  The sky was lead grey with the wind bending tree boughs and skimming snow into swaths of filigree that danced across the white lawn. While she stood sipping from her cup, trying to keep the coffee from coming back up, snowflakes started falling from the bloated clouds, a sprinkle at first, quickly turning into a tempest driving hard against the window pane.

  She returned to the kitchen and turned on the radio. Evelyn had it dialed to the CBC and Gord Downie was belting out “New Orleans Is Sinking” in his powerful voice that never failed to make her feel like dancing, protesting, loving somebody. She sang along with his words telling her that she had to do what she felt was real.

  She slumped against the counter. But how do I know what’s real?

  The pounding drum and squealing guitar brought another round of nausea and she turned down the volume. On a better morning, she’d be cranking it up. She rubbed her fingers back and forth across her forehead. The song ended and the announcer began reading the news at the top of the hour. She waited until he started on the weather report and spun the volume back up.

  Expect snow to end by eleven with a second system moving in late this afternoon, bringing strong winds and freezing rain turning to snow overnight all along Lake Ontario. There’ll be ten centimetres of new snow on the ground when you wake up tomorrow so get your shopping done early today and hunker down. For those flying out of Toronto this evening or tomorrow morning, check that your flight hasn’t been cancelled before setting out to the airport.

  “That’s just great,” grumbled Lauren out loud to the empty room. “Even if Tristan is ready to leave, we’re stuck here another day.”

  She sat back down at the table with a full cup of coffee and took small sips while slumping in the chair with her eyes closed. She heard Clemmie’s nails clicking down the hallway toward the kitchen and then her mother’s footsteps. She straightened and tried to appear less ill than she felt as Evelyn stopped in the doorway and stared at her.

  “My goodness, Lauren. You look as if you’re one step away from skid row.”

  “Thanks, Mother. You always know what to say to make me feel better about myself.”

  “You’re not a child, Lauren, although you often act like one. All I want is for you to pull yourself together and —”

  “Find a husband, give you some grandkids, and settle down to a life of servitude as you have. Not happening, Mother.” She stretched her fingers to the ceiling and yawned, feigning indifference while inside, her stomach was churning, and not only from the hangover.

  “Is this coffee fresh?” Her mother held up the pot.

  “Half an hour old.”

  “I’ll make another pot.” She dumped what was left into the sink and reached for the coffee filters.

  “The snow should taper off by lunch but there’s a larger storm moving in later this afternoon,” said Lauren, deciding it wouldn’t kill her to be civil. “I expect we’ll all make plans to leave tomorrow. Will you be coming to Edmonton for Vivian’s burial?”

  “I already told Tristan that I’m not up for the trip.” Evelyn sat down at the end of the table to wait for the coffee to brew. “I’ll go in a month or so once everything’s settled here.” She paused. “Thank you for going with him.”

  “Of course.”

  Her mother’s face had aged since her dad’s death and for the first time, Lauren wondered how she was going to cope with him gone. He’d been the one to pay the bills and handle the upkeep of the house and yard. He’d been the one to call Lauren on Sunday mornings, always carefully timed for the hour when Evelyn was grocery shopping. “She’ll be sorry to have missed you,” he’d say at the end of every conversation.

  Her mother was looking at her, head tilted to one side. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “No, sorry. I was daydreaming.”

  “I’m going to sell the house and move west to be closer to your brothers. Mona raised the idea and says there’s some nice townhouses nearby. Adam told me that he’ll be happier knowing I’m in the neighbourhood to help with Simon while he’s away.”

  Lauren’s first thought was with Dad barely cold in the ground, but she bit back the words. Of course, Evelyn would sell this place as fast as she could. She wouldn’t care if she saw her husband in the tulips and daffodils that he planted every fall or in the roof he’d replaced the year before or the new tile in the kitchen that he’d laid with such care. Her mother had never felt the poetry of another’s existence. “You’ll be able to see more of Tristan too, help them all through this tough time,” she said and could see that her response satisfied her mother. Lauren wouldn’t put up a fuss or say she was moving too fast, and her mother could relocate closer to the sons she’d always adored.

  “Well then,” Evelyn stood as the coffee finished dripping into the carafe. “Would you like some French toast and bacon? I’ll be making enough for everyone.”

  “I’ll set the table.”

  As she was taking the plates down from the cupboard, Lauren looked across at her mother and said, “It’s odd that Antonia hasn’t been over to visit.”

  “She comes and goes as she pleases.” Evelyn tied an apron around her waist. She looked out the kitchen window. “Although I’d have thought she’d be over to see how I’m doing by now. Maybe she thinks I’m looked after with the house full.”

  “We could walk over and check on her after breakfast.”

  “I don’t like to go out in this snow and ice with my bad knee. You could go offer to shovel their drive when this storm passes, through. Boris will be struggling with one arm.”

  “I’ll do that and I’ll drag Tristan along to help.”

  chapter thirty-one

  Officer Gaudette picked Kala up at 6:30 Tuesday morning and they beat the worst of the morning traffic, cutting east across the downtown to Cloverdale, a small Edmonton neighbourhood situated immediately south of the North Saskatchewan River. The McKennas owned a two-bedroom condo in Waterside Estates, a stone and stucco low-rise surrounded by trees and adjacent to Muttart Conservatory, a spectacular array of glass pyramids housing botanical gardens that Gaudette said Stonechild should visit if time allowed as she pulled into visitor parking. She hoped today would be more productive than Monday. The stream of interviews hadn’t elicited any new information to further the case.

  “I’m catching a flight as soon as we finish here and at the retirement home,” said Kala. “Maybe next time. How much do you figure these condos go for?”

  “Three to four hundred thousand. Nice family area near the river. My partner and I looked at a place here last year but ended up in Century Park in the south end.”

  The super was waiting for them and let them into the McKennas’ third-floor corner apartment after checking the warrant. “You’ll find the woman across the hall in 303 is home and I told her you might want to talk to her.”

  “Thanks.” Gaudette entered the apartment ahead of Kala and walked over to look out the balcony window. She turned and said, “Forensics just arrived. They’ll go through the electronics and will help with the search.”

  Kala nodded. “May as well get started. I’ll have a look in their bedroom.”

  “We’ll begin in the second bedroom, which I see they’ve made into a den-slash-office.”

  Kala started with the bedside tables and worked her way methodically through the two chests of drawers and the closets. Vivian had large collections of makeup, costume jewellery, and shoes. Her clothing was good quality and expensive from what Kala could tell. She must have had a store discount although her wardrobe would still have cost a pretty penny. Tristan’s clothes were on the worn, comfortable side: jeans and sweaters with several shirts, mainly white, and leather jackets.

  She found a datebook for the past year tucked away on the top shelf of Vivian’s closet. Jackpot, she thought, but set it aside while she finished her search of the room.

  Gaudette met her in the living room a half hour later. “We’re taking the home computer an
d a laptop we found on the kitchen table. No home phone and their cellphones are with them, I’m guessing. He keeps a datebook but must have tossed last year’s. Not much in this one yet.”

  “Maybe he kept an electronic calendar.”

  “We’ll look for one.”

  Kala waved the datebook. “I found this in Vivian’s closet and it’s for last year. I’d like to make a copy to take back with me.”

  “There’s a photocopier in his office. We can print it off now.”

  Kala left Gaudette and the team to finish searching the rest of the apartment and crossed the hall to speak with the tenant in 303. Wendy Ferris was a retired grade two teacher who used a cane to lead Kala into her living room.

  “Devastating news about Vivian. I’m still reeling. Just push Snowball off the chair and sit yourself down.”

  Snowball wasn’t keen on moving, so Kala picked the cat up and set it on her lap. “How well do you know the McKennas?”

  “Well, Tristan works from home and liked to come by for tea in the afternoons around three. We talked politics and books and I have to say that I looked forward to our chats.”

  “Did he ever speak about Vivian or his marriage?”

  “Not often. He appeared unhappy last year and said that he and Vivian were working a few things out. He joked that she’d thought she married a wealthy author only to find out he was mortal. He was struggling to find a publisher for his second book and talked about self-publishing. He’d started on a third manuscript, which he said was a departure.”

  She looked uncomfortable and Kala prompted her to continue. “Anything you say could help us to find out why Vivian died.”

  “I’m not one for gossip and I certainly don’t want to say anything to hurt Tristan because he has been awfully good to me. Do you know he replaced the taps in my bathroom last month? The super was away for Christmas.” She stopped what she was about to say and smiled. “But perhaps you don’t want to hear me ramble on.”