Unreasonable Doubt

by Vicki Delany

  Nancy tried to phone Darlene and no one had answered, but Carolanne thought it might be worth another try. She held her breath while the call went to wherever phone signals go. She heard a ring on the other end. Three rings and then Darlene’s cheerful voice said, “Hi! It’s Darlene. I hope I’m having too much fun to answer my phone right now. Leave a message and I’ll call you back. Bye.”

  Carolanne hung up. She turned to go back to the house, not knowing what she feared most: that Darlene had been found safely tucked up in bed with Walt, or that her friend was still unaccounted for. She stopped, held her breath, and listened to the night. A car drove past. A dog barked. All fell silent.

  She phoned again. This time she hung up in in the middle of the third ring and strained her ears to listen. There it was: a faint sound that lingered in her ears. Opera music. A soprano, wailing her heart out to the accompanying crescendo of a full orchestra.

  Carolanne wasn’t a classical music fan, and she didn’t know the name of the singer or the piece, but she recognized it as Darlene’s ringtone. The music was cut off mid-note.

  She dialed again, and this time she held her own phone away from her. The music started, faint but recognizable. From somewhere in the trees a phone was replying. The bright bulb above the back door cast a pool of yellow light. Bugs swarmed around it, and beyond its reach all was dark. Carolanne fumbled for the flashlight app on her phone and switched it on. She played the beam across the yard. Beyond the gravel parking area, the lawn stretched to the patch of thick dark woods surrounding the property. Darlene must have dropped her phone when she was out for her walk. That, however, didn’t explain why she hadn’t come back.

  Carolanne focused the beam of her flashlight on the ground in front of her and pressed redial on her own phone. She headed toward the music in the distance, getting louder as she approached. Now, the beam from her iPhone was the only light.

  Brown hiking shoes. Bare legs. Black biking shorts. A body, lying on the ground.

  Carolanne screamed.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “Some people’s idea of fun,” Molly Smith mumbled.

  “Weren’t you young once?” Dave Evans replied.

  “I was young. I am still young. I was never that stupid.” She might have added that she’d never been a boy, but that didn’t seem like a good idea at the time. Monday night and she’d pulled another double shift. She’d been about to head home, when Sergeant Peterson called her and said that not only was one officer still off sick, but Brad Noseworthy had phoned to say he’d been throwing up all afternoon. Smith grumbled, but agreed to stay on. Adam was working tonight so she had nothing to go home to (except for some much-needed sleep) and it didn’t hurt to stay on Peterson’s good side. Besides, she could always use the overtime money. She and Adam had one night in Toronto before their flight home, after the canoe trip with the kids. She’d started checking into luxury hotels.

  They’d needed two cars and three officers to break up the fight in the Potato Famine. A pack of barely legal boys had been drinking steadily all night and decided they didn’t want to leave at closing time. The bouncers tried to show them the door, punches were exchanged, a full brawl broke out, and the police were called.

  The four worst miscreants had been escorted to the police station to sleep it off in the city’s finest jail cells. They’d be up before a judge in the morning. It had been a bad fight: one of the bouncers had broken his arm, and a waitress who’d gotten in the way of a flying bottle might require stitches to her hand.

  When the young men were locked up and processed, Smith headed upstairs to make herself a cup of tea and check if anything remained in the box of homemade cookies the law clerk had brought in earlier. Evans followed her and tossed coins into the pop machine.

  Their radios crackled. “Two-Four and Five-One.”

  “Here,” Smith said. “As in right here, in the lunchroom.”

  “A 911 call from 1894 Victoria Street. Suspected sexual assault on a female. Ambulance has been notified.”

  Smith and Evans exchanged a glance.

  “Whatdaya know? The Glacier Chalet,” Evans said. “Walt Desmond.”

  “You don’t know anything about it,” she said.

  “Then let’s go and find out.” Homemade cookies, cans of pop, and boiling kettles forgotten, they ran through the station and out the back. Smith had the keys to the truck, and she jumped into the driver’s seat. She slapped on lights and sirens and they tore out of the parking lot and through the sleeping streets.

  The Glacier Chalet again. Smith would think another riled-up citizen had attacked Desmond, except that dispatch had said a woman. That might be a mistake, and it was also possible for women to be vigilantes. But what if it wasn’t? Desmond had done time for a horrific sex crime as well as a murder. Could he possibly be stupid enough to return to the scene of his crime and attack again? Within weeks of being released?

  She’d learned her first week on the job that no one was ever too stupid.

  All the lights were on in the B&B and the front door stood open. Smith pulled to a stop half on the sidewalk and jumped out. Mrs. Carmine stood on the porch, wrapped in a dressing gown. Walt Desmond was on the sidewalk, waiting for them. “This way,” he called. “She’s back here.”

  Smith and Evans switched on flashlights and followed Desmond around the house and across the lawn. A group of women formed a circle at the edge of the woods. Flashlight apps threw a maze of beams across the scene. A woman lay on the ground in the circle of light. Carolanne was crouched beside her, rubbing her hand.

  The watching women stepped back as Smith and Evans reached them. “She’s okay. She’s okay,” Carolanne said. She was dressed, as they all were, in an assortment of nightclothes. Everything from a frilly satin and lace gown to shorty cotton pajamas with yellow cartoon figures.

  Evans shone his flashlight directly into the face of the woman lying on the ground. Darlene blinked and groaned. She struggled to sit up.

  Smith dropped to her haunches. She put her hand lightly on Darlene’s chest and said, “Lie still. An ambulance is coming.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “No, you are not. That’s quite a cut you have there.” Drying blood matted Darlene’s hairline and fresh blood dripped down the side of her face. Her bottom lip was cut and her mouth was swelling.

  “She was unconscious when I got here,” Carolanne said. “I called 911. When I touched Darlene, she began to wake up.” She started to cry. “I thought she was dead.”

  Walt Desmond took a step toward her. Dave Evans thrust his arm out. “Don’t make a move, buddy.” Walt glared at the younger man, but said nothing.

  Darlene’s tee-shirt was pulled up to her shoulders, her sports bra along with it. Her bike shorts were twisted down past her buttocks, but her panties seemed to still be in place. Carolanne saw Smith looking, and tugged at her friend’s shirt.

  They heard a shout as the paramedics arrived. Carolanne got to her feet to give them room to work.

  “What happened here, Darlene?” Smith asked. “Do you remember?”

  “I went for a walk. Coming back. I…” her eyes rolled back, her head slumped.

  “We’ll take it from here, Constable,” the paramedic said. “Out of the way, please.”

  Smith stood up. She pressed the button on her radio. “Five-one. We need a detective here.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “The forensic unit as well.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Evans stepped into Walt’s space. He poked the man in the chest with one finger. “Wanna tell us what went down here, Walt?”

  Walt blinked. He looked, Smith thought, terrified. He made no move to step back. The circle of women turned away from the activities of the paramedics to watch the men. Walt looked at them. He glanced at Smith, then his eyes passed over her and settled on Carolanne. “I d
idn’t…” he said.

  “You can tell us down at the station,” Evans grabbed Walt’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  “What the hell?”

  The women whispered to each other. Mrs. Carmine had followed the ambulance crew. She gasped and lifted her hands to her mouth.

  Carolanne stepped in front of Evans, hands on hips, eyes blazing. “That’s crazy. Walter didn’t do this. Let him go.”

  “Please don’t interfere, Ma’am,” Evans said, very politely.

  “He… he was with me. In my room. For the past hours. Isn’t that right, Walt?”

  Smith swung her flashlight toward him. For the first time Walt showed a flicker of emotion, and his eyes filled. Then he blinked and the tears dried.

  Although, she thought, it might have only seemed to have been tears in the harsh white glare of her Maglite.

  “It’s all right, Carolanne,” he said. “Don’t worry about me. Please.”

  Evans pulled his handcuffs off his belt. The watching women gasped.

  “Can I have a word, Constable Evans?” Smith said.

  “Later,” he said.

  “Now. Mr. Desmond, can I trust you to remain here?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said. “You can.”

  Smith walked a few yards into the deep shadows of the woods. Evans followed. “Are you outta your freakin’ mind?” she said, trying to keep her voice low.

  “What’s your problem, Smith? The guy’s a sex offender. A sex crime’s been committed here. Or at least attempted. I’m taking him in.”

  “According to the law of the land, as of right now, he has no criminal record. I’ll remind you of that, Dave. For God’s sake. Maybe he did it, maybe he didn’t. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did. You can at least wait for Winters or Lopez to get here. Desmond’s not about to attack anyone while we’re watching.”

  “I am following procedure, Smith.” She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the handcuffs swinging in his hand. His words were clipped with anger. This, she realized, was personal. Nothing to do with Walter Desmond or even Darlene and the dragon boat women. It was all about Dave Evans and Molly Smith, and it had been coming for a long time.

  She glanced back at the circle of activity. The paramedics were loading Darlene onto their stretcher. One of the women held Darlene’s hand. Walt Desmond had put his arm around Carolanne’s shoulders. A tall figure was tiptoeing toward them across the lawn, watching her footing in the dark.

  “Are you aware that Walt’s suing the Province of British Columbia and the Trafalgar City Police for five million dollars?” Smith said.

  “What?”

  “A CBC crew came into the station this afternoon to interview the chief. They asked him for his reaction. He said he had no comment except that Walter Desmond is free to enjoy the hospitality of Trafalgar, the same as any other visitor. What do you think the chief’s gonna say when you arrest Desmond without cause, and over my objections? You think he doesn’t have a heck of a high-powered lawyer behind him to have mounted a claim like that? I can see the suit going up, substantially, if they can now claim harassment. The town will take it outta your hide, Dave.”

  Evans hesitated.

  “Do what you think you have to do,” she said. “I see Meredith Morgenstern has arrived. She’ll be wanting some good pictures.”

  Evan snapped the cuffs onto his belt. He marched across the lawn, walked past Walt without stopping, and went to greet Ron Gavin, the RCMP forensic officer who was lugging his bags of equipment toward them.

  Ellie Carmine approached Smith. She clutched a tattered dressing gown, faded pink cloth and ragged hem, around her although the night was warm. “Moonlight?”

  “What?” Smith almost snapped. “I mean, yes Mrs. Carmine, how can I help you?”

  “I can’t have him here anymore.”

  “Who, Mrs. Carmine?” Although Smith knew full well.

  “That Walt Desmond. I…it’s not safe. Look what’s happened here. I can scarcely believe it. We might all have been attacked.”

  “Do you know who did this, Mrs. Carmine?”

  “Well, I mean, isn’t it obvious?”

  “It’s not obvious to me, Mrs. Carmine. Are you wishing to make a formal statement? If you know something, I’ll call Detective Lopez.”

  “Can’t you arrest him, Moonlight? Without making a fuss, I mean. That newspaper girl is here. I don’t want it mentioned in the papers that the Glacier Chalet is the sort of place that attracts guests of…that sort.”

  “Mrs. Carmine, if you are uncomfortable having Mr. Desmond in your home and business, you are allowed to ask him to leave. But please, don’t be making accusations you can’t support. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Carolanne and Walt had moved into the shadows. They were standing close together, alone under a red cedar, watching the activity. Meredith spotted them and headed their way. Time for Smith to intervene.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Ray Lopez looked up from his computer when John Winters came into the office.

  “You look like you’ve been up all night,” Winters said, noticing the red eyes, mussed hair, and trace of stubble.

  “Pretty much. A woman was attacked at the Glacier Chalet last night.”

  “She okay?”

  “She will be. She regained consciousness at the hospital, and I was able to talk to her.”

  “Happen inside or outside?”

  “Outside. You know what that property’s like. Plenty of space between the house and the one next door. That patch of woods at the back. The woman, one Darlene Michaels, a guest at the B&B, says she went for a walk before turning in. She was coming back around ten, when she saw what she thought might have been a fox running around side of the house. She was curious, went to have a look. She was hit from behind, pushed to the ground. She says she was knocked unconscious, which is probably the case as she appears to have fallen hard and hit her head on a rock. One of her friends found her hours later.”

  “Sexual assault?”

  “An attempt, but no more. Her clothes had been interfered with, but that’s about all. I suspect when he realized she’d passed out, he thought he’d killed her, panicked and took off.”

  “Did she see him?”

  Lopez shook his head. “Not a glimpse. A total sucker punch. The doctor who examined her found a very large bruise on her lower back.”

  Winters sipped his coffee. “Same guy who went after Eliza?”

  “At a guess, yeah. Can’t see there being two of them acting separately. Same MO. Come up behind them, no hesitation in using his fists to subdue them.”

  “You getting anywhere with it?” Winters’ gut churned. He tried not to let it show. Eliza had phoned him from the store yesterday, crying so hard he could barely make out the words. He thought she’d been attacked again, but when he said he was sending an officer, she said no. She was having a difficult day, she wanted to go home.

  He went to the gallery, found the door locked, her red-faced and weeping. He wrapped her in his arms and held her for a long time. Then he half-carried her into the small restroom where he splashed water on her face and her wrists. When the crying finally stopped, and she tried to force out a weak smile, he took her to his car and drove them home. A hot bath, and into bed with a cup of tea, plenty of sugar added, and a piece of buttered toast. When she was resting comfortably, he went downstairs and made a couple of phone calls. Victim Services first, and then Margo. Margo was willing to put in extra hours at the gallery as needed, and Eliza had an appointment with a counselor this morning.

  He blamed himself for the breakdown. Eliza was nothing if not stoic and unemotional. He’d allowed himself to forget that a lack of emotion on the outside didn’t mean suffering was not happening on the inside.

  “Eliza,” Lopez said.

  Winters blinked.
“What? Sorry, Ray, I missed that.”

  “Everything okay at home?”

  “It will be. Last night Eliza realized she needs help dealing with the trauma of what happened to her. I’ve set up some appointments for her.”

  “If she needs anything, Madeline would be happy to help.”

  “Thanks,” Winters said. “I’ll keep that in mind. What were you saying?”

  “Still no sign of Anderson, the guy whose fingerprints were on Eliza’s car. We have a watch on his house, and the landlady’s a longtime Trafalgar resident. She won’t give him a heads-up that we’ve been around. I collected some hairs from last night’s victim’s clothes and they’re on their way to the lab. No chance of fingerprints, though. It all happened outside, in the trees and on the grass.”

  “Last night’s attack was at the Glacier Chalet. Isn’t Walt Desmond staying there?”

  “Yup. And isn’t that exactly what we need? Meredith Morgenstern showed up. When I find out who called her, I’ll have his guts decorating my coatrack.”

  “Probably some kid listening to the police radio,” Winters said. “It’s no secret Desmond’s staying there.”

  “He’s not anymore. He went to a motel. Ellie Carmine was flapping about, making a heck of a scene, all while saying she didn’t want a scene. She pretty much accused Desmond of the assault and demanded he be arrested. Desmond wisely said he didn’t want to cause any trouble. One of the women guests waited while he got his stuff and drove him to the Mountain View.”

  “All while Meredith was watching, no doubt.”

  “And making copious notes. Mrs. Carmine did say one interesting thing to me. She demanded to know why, and I quote, that young man hadn’t taken Desmond away after arresting him.”