Unreasonable Doubt

by Vicki Delany

  “Were you and your sister close?”

  “We were five years apart. A lifetime at that age. She was a great girl. I really looked up to her.” Tony’s eyes were dry, but he plucked a tissue out of the box on the coffee table. He twisted it between his fingers.

  “At the time she died, she had a boyfriend, an Australian by the name of Leonard Fitzpatrick, right?”

  “So they said.”

  “Said? You didn’t meet him?”

  Tony shrugged. “Like I told you, big age difference.”

  Winters knew the D’Angelos had claimed their daughter didn’t have a boyfriend, whereas she did. He’d wondered why she’d kept him a secret from her family. It seemed as though it was even more of a secret than he’d assumed. “Fitzpatrick was never considered a person of interest in the original police investigation. I’d like to talk to him, but a lot of years have passed and it’s going to be difficult to track him down. You can’t tell me anything about him?”

  “Never even heard of the guy until Soph died…was murdered.” The tissue was in shreds now.

  “Was she seeing anyone else at the same time?”

  “Why would I know? I mean, I was just a kid, right? She was a grown woman. Worlds apart. Not that we weren’t close, though,” he added quickly. The sweat was running freely down his face. He grabbed another tissue.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Tony?”

  “Next you’ll be saying Soph had it coming.”

  “I won’t ever be saying anything of the sort.”

  “She was a nice girl. She was a good sister. She was!”

  “Tony, I am…”

  “I’ve had enough of this. I’m leaving.”

  He struggled to get out of the comfortable chair and then headed for the door. Winters could do nothing but follow.

  He stood at the window, watching Tony D’Angelo hurry down the hill toward town. Despite the heat and his weight, he was almost running.

  Running, Winters thought, from what?

  He had learned far more from what was unsaid than anything Tony had to tell him. Tony was consumed by guilt about something. That something might not have anything to do with the murder of his sister, but he’d been carrying it around all these years. Secrets, always secrets. And in a twenty-five-year-old case, secrets had a lot of time to fester. Kibbens had interviewed Tony’s basketball coach. The coach said Tony had been at practice between four and five that day, and the boy couldn’t have left for so much as a bathroom break without him noticing.

  Winters suck his head in Barb’s office. “Ready?”

  She pushed back her chair. “Ready.”

  They studied the grimy, dust-covered box on Winters’ desk. “Looks like it hasn’t been disturbed,” Barb said.

  “Let’s see what was important to him.” Winters touched the yellowing tape and it came away with little more than a gentle tug. He opened the box and began taking out the contents. Three framed photographs of groups of men displaying their catch were on the top. Two had been taken on the lakes or rivers around Trafalgar and one in what was probably a charter boat in the Caribbean. Only one man appeared in all three pictures.

  “He was a keen fisherman,” Barb said. “I’d forgotten that. He would have gotten on well with Paul.”

  Kibbens had been a carrying more weight than he probably liked. He was average height with thinning hair. He wore sunglasses in all the pictures, and he was not smiling. Winters looked down through the years and studied the man’s face. He could read no secrets hidden there. “You recognize any of the guys with him?”

  Barb tapped one of the shots with mountains in the background. “Pete Hill. A really nice guy. He died of cancer before the D’Angelo case, very sad. Here’s Jack McMillan.”

  Winters picked up the picture. Hard to believe this was the same man now living up on the mountain, drinking and smoking his days away, with nothing to do and no one but two dogs for company. “He was a good-looking guy, back in the day.”

  “Oh, yes. Jack was popular with the ladies. Until they got to know him better. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Barb, sorting through a man’s effects.”

  “Doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

  “It’s got to be done. Sophia D’Angelo deserves as much.”

  He put the photos to one side. Next was a small desk calendar, a month per page, illustrated with photographs of fish. A few of the white squares had notes jotted in them. January 16, the day after Doug died, said, 1:00 Dentist.

  “This is all personal stuff, looks like. I don’t see any court dates.”

  “He might have kept a separate calendar. If so, it would have gone to the law clerk so she could sort out what was supposed to have been his schedule.”

  Winters quickly read three months’ bank statements. Normal amounts of money going in and coming out, leaving a small but consistent balance at the end of every month. He flicked through the cancelled checks. Nothing made out to anyone more interesting than the electric or phone companies or a menswear store with an address in Trafalgar but a name he didn’t recognize.

  “Funny to think how things have changed,” Barb said. “I haven’t had a letter from my bank in years. I do everything online now.”

  There wasn’t much else in the box. An old copy of a fishing magazine. Some notices from the union and memos about the day-to-day running of the police department. An invitation to a retirement party.

  Before long the box was empty except for a plain white envelope with nothing written on the outside. Winters picked it up. It had no bulk, so anything inside wouldn’t be more than a piece of paper or two. It was sealed, but the glue had weakened. He slipped the envelope open and took out the contents. One photograph and a small white slip of paper. He studied the slip first. A gas station receipt. The ink was faded, and he handed it to Barb while he searched for his reading glasses.

  “I remember this place,” she said. “Near Winlaw. We used to stop for gas there sometimes when we went to visit my sister in New Denver. It closed down a long time ago.”

  “What’s the date on it?”

  “September 12, 1991.”

  Eight months after the murder of Sophia D’Angelo and four months before the death of Doug Kibbens. One single gas station receipt kept in an envelope in the bottom of a desk drawer. Winters turned over the photograph. He put on his glasses and Barb leaned closer to see better.

  “What do you suppose that is?” Barb said. “Looks like a bracelet.”

  It was a bracelet. A slim gold bracelet inset with fake diamonds. He sucked in a breath. This could only be a picture of Sophia’s missing bracelet. The one that had never been found. Not on Walt Desmond, not in the house where the woman had died or in the Desmond car or home. The one her work colleague admired the day Sophia died; the one the police insisted Desmond had taken off her body and thrown away in a panic before his arrest. The bracelet in the picture was lying on a forest floor among a mound of decaying leaves, small broken twigs, a scattering of pine cones.

  A hand lay on the ground beside it, the wrist stretching beyond the edge of the picture so Winters couldn’t tell if it was attached to an arm or not. The hand was palm up, the fingers curling inward. It was white, a man’s hand almost certainly, the palm square, the fingers thick and short. The grooves were lined with dirt, the nails broken, the pads of the fingers rough with callouses. No rings and no indentations that Winters could see. The tip of the index finger was missing down to the first joint, but the injury had been old, fully healed, when the photo was taken.

  “What does all this mean, John?” Barb said.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” he replied. “But I’ll venture to say it means a heck of a lot.”

  Chapter Thirty

  She had not enjoyed the afternoon at work. As soon as the elderly cou
ple left—without buying anything—Margo had fussed over Eliza until she snapped at her to stop. And then she had to apologize, and explain she was perhaps still a bit under the weather, but nothing to worry about. And Margo began fussing again. Did Eliza want to sit down? Was she sure she was okay to be in the store alone this afternoon? Did she want a glass of water, or maybe a coffee? Eliza had smiled and said, “No, thank you. Don’t let me keep you.”

  She’d been relieved the moment the door shut behind Margo. And then, a moment later, she’d had to stop herself from running into the street begging Margo not to leave her all alone.

  For the rest of the day, Eliza jumped every time the chimes over the door sounded. She’d not dared to answer a knock at the alley door, and the delivery man had to come all the way around to the front to drop off a parcel. She hadn’t wanted go to the bathroom, afraid of being trapped in there if someone came after her.

  One of her busybody neighbors had come in earlier, under the pretext of wanting to talk about the end-of-summer sidewalk sale. She studied Eliza’s face, while trying not to, looking for signs of the attack, and made cloying remarks such as, “You must have been so frightened.” She dug for details with questions like, “Does your husband have any suspects, dear?” Eliza had gritted her teeth as long as she was able and finally asked the woman to leave because she had a shop to run. The woman had pointedly looked around, noticing the total absence of customers, and left. Not that Eliza cared what her fellow shop owners thought of her. Most of them didn’t like her much anyway.

  Thank heavens it was Monday. She closed at six on Monday. She needed a bath, a long hot bath. And then she’d wrap herself in a heavy robe, heedless of the weather, and crawl into bed. She’d be okay in her own bed in her house high up the mountainside. She’d be safe there.

  It was almost five o’clock, and she was counting the minutes until she could close. It was her gallery, she could go home whenever she wanted, but she was determined to wait until six.

  The chimes over the door tinkled merrily and a man came in. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and thin, with light brown hair, three-day stubble on his jaw, and a bobbing Adam’s apple. “Hi. I saw that painting in the window and want to ask about it. I’m looking for something for my mom’s retirement gift. Uh…are you okay, Ma’am?”

  Eliza ran behind the counter. Her chest heaved, and her breathing was coming in sharp gasps. “I’m…we’re closed.”

  “Oh, okay. Can I come back tomorrow?”

  “No. I mean, yes, fine. Tomorrow.”

  “Do you need help, Ma’am? I can call someone, if you like.”

  “No. Just leave. Please. Now.”

  He almost ran out the door. She flew across the room and turned the lock. Her legs collapsed beneath her, and she lay on the floor weeping.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  It had been a great week. Even better than Carolanne had expected. She stole a peek at Walter, relaxing and reading a book in a comfortable armchair on the far side of the room. As though he felt her eyes on him, he looked up. He smiled.

  She smiled back.

  They’d had their final race earlier today, a five hundred-meter, against longtime rivals from Kamloops. Carolanne’s team won by a large, highly satisfying margin, making the perfect ending to the week.

  Tomorrow they were off for home. The women back to their jobs and families and lives and more training for the big race in Italy in September.

  Walt? He hadn’t said what he was going to do. Carolanne knew he had nowhere to go. She hoped he wouldn’t stay in Trafalgar, not on his own.

  She’d seen the article in the paper this morning. They all had. Mrs. Carmine had made a point of laying it out on the buffet next to the coffee and yogurt and fresh fruit. The headline said, “A Brother Remembers,” and letters almost as big on the top of the sidebar said, “Desmond Returns to Trafalgar.”

  Carolanne had pointedly ignored it. She stirred her coffee and poked at her eggs Benedict while her stomach churned. Darlene picked up the paper and glanced at the article. When she heard the tread of a man’s feet on the stairs, she stuffed the paper into the trash. “No need for gossip disguised as news.”

  Later, after the breakfast dishes had been cleared away, when Walt had gone back to his room and the women were either sitting in the garden reading or had gone for a walk, Carolanne slipped downstairs to the breakfast room. She pulled the paper out of the garbage and read it. To her infinite relief, the article didn’t accuse Walt of anything. It just said that after many years in prison he’d been exonerated and released from prison when new evidence had come to light. The piece on the dead girl, Sophia, had been touching. Her brother painted a picture of an older sister he adored and who he still missed every day. Carolanne thought back to meeting the brother. That fat, angry man. The vile things he’d said.

  Still, she couldn’t really blame him. The family believed Walter had killed his sister, Sophia. The police and the courts had said so. It must be a heck of a lot to deal with, now that Walt was back in town and found not to have done it. The article quoted the chief of police as saying the investigation into the murder had been reopened. A lot of time had passed. For everyone’s sake, Carolanne hoped the truth would finally be uncovered. She put the paper back into the garbage and slipped upstairs to her room.

  Now, they were resting in the common room after dinner. Tomorrow would be their last breakfast here. Carolanne and her friends would say good-bye to Walt. Would he want her phone number or her e-mail address? If he didn’t ask, should she ask if she could contact him?

  Did she want to see him again? He had a complicated life right now, and a lot of issues to deal with. Yes, she thought when he smiled at her, she did.

  Darlene came into the room, hiking shoes on and a light sweater tied around her waist. “I’m going for a walk. Anyone want to join me?”

  “Not me,” Carolanne said. The other women murmured no and Darlene left. They heard the door slam behind her.

  Walter closed his book. “I’m going up. I hope I’ll see everyone at breakfast before you leave.”

  “Sure,” the others said.

  “Good night then,” he said. “Good night, Carolanne.”

  She watched him walk out of the room, heard his footsteps climbing the stairs. She fought back a sense of disappointment. Surely, she hadn’t been hoping he’d make some sign or gesture asking if he could visit her in her room later?

  What a silly idea. He was just a nice man, terribly lonely and in need of a friend. That was all. They’d go their separate ways in the morning, and she’d never give him another thought.

  She was ready to turn in herself, but didn’t want to go upstairs immediately after Walter. That might look like she was hoping for a nocturnal rendezvous. She stared at her own book for about five minutes, before deciding enough time had passed. “I’m off. Night all.”

  “Sleep well, Carolanne.”

  ***

  Loud banging on her door woke her. She opened sleepy eyes, thinking she must have overslept. The team planned to get up early, have breakfast, and be on the road by eight. She blinked and realized it was still dark. “What?”

  “It’s Nancy. Open up.”

  Carolanne threw off the covers, switched on the bedside light, and stumbled to the door. She hadn’t locked it. Maybe she had been subconsciously hoping for a nighttime visitor.

  Nancy was in cotton summer pajamas, her short gray hair sticking up all over the place. “Is Darlene here?”

  “What? No, of course not. What would she be doing in my room? What time is it?”

  “It’s past three. I woke up to go to the bathroom and saw that her bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  “She went out for a walk earlier. Did she come back?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. I went to bed right after you. I left the bedside light on for her and fell asleep. The light’
s still on.”

  “Have you tried calling her?”

  Nancy held up her phone. “No answer. It rings a couple of times before going to voice mail. I’m worried.”

  “Maybe she stopped in at a bar, ran into one of the other teams and they asked her to join them.”

  “It’s three-thirty, Carolanne. The bars are long closed and you know as well as I do that our crowd aren’t the sort, or the age, to stay up this late.”

  “Have you checked to see if her car’s still here? Maybe she got a call about an emergency at home.”

  “That might be it,” Nancy said, “although I can’t imagine she wouldn’t phone me from the road. I’m going to get the others up. You ask Walt if he’s seen her and then run down and check on the car, will you?”

  “Why do you think Walt would know anything?” Carolanne protested.

  “Maybe I should have asked him before waking everyone up. You know Darlene’s having a hard time in her marriage these days, don’t you?”

  “She wouldn’t… I mean, Walt wouldn’t…”

  “Gee, Carolanne. The guy’s been in prison for twenty-five years. He must be desperate for sex. With a woman, I mean.”

  “You can’t say that!”

  “Check on the car. I’ll ask him.” Nancy ran down the hall and hammered on Walt’s door.

  Carolanne snatched her iPhone off the bedside table and headed downstairs at a rapid clip. If Darlene was with Walt, she didn’t want to see them together, flushed and embarrassed at having been caught. She threw open the door and stepped outside. A light breeze on the night air, still warm with the heat of the day, carried the soft scent of the surrounding woods. She didn’t have a light, but she didn’t need one. Streetlamps illuminated the pathway. The parking lot was at the back of the house.

  In her haste Carolanne hadn’t bothered to search for her shoes, and sharp stones dug into the bottoms of her feet. She skipped across the gravel to the grass and rounded the house. A strong light shone over the back door, shining onto the group of neatly parked cars. All were where they should be. She pushed down a touch of panic. There was no conceivable reason for Darlene to be out so late.