by Alice Walsh
They made their way from one end of the street to the other. None of the people they talked with had witnessed anything unusual.
“Milly Rodden lives here,” Lauren said, stopping in front of a two-storey brick house across the street from Bram and Claire’s. “Her husband, Walter, is a retired engineer who teaches part-time at St. Bridget’s.”
“I’ve met them briefly,” Emma said, “at a Christmas party not long after they moved here from St. John’s.”
“They’re good friends with Bram and Claire. In fact, it was Walter who let the paramedics into the house the day Ariel died,” Lauren explained. “And Milly was working at the clinic when Claire called.” Lauren pressed the doorbell. “Hopefully, they can help shed some light on the situation.”
Milly greeted them like long-lost relatives. “Come in. Come in,” she said. “Good to see you.” She was a short, small-boned woman with white hair. “Ah, don’t bother with your shoes,” she told Lauren. “I’ll wash the floor later. Give me something to do, sure.” She led them into a gleaming kitchen where a large window looked out on the street. An array of copper pots and pans were arranged on the wall. Canisters shaped like cows stood on the counter. “Let me put the kettle on,” she said, turning on a burner.
“Oh, don’t go to any bother,” Emma protested. “We just finished lunch, sure.”
“No bother, my love. With Walter gone, I got all kinds of free time.”
“Walter’s away?” Lauren couldn’t hide her disappointment. “I was hoping to speak with him.”
“He went duck hunting with Cal Parsons.” Milly dropped two teabags into a rooster-shaped teapot and gestured to a breakfast nook by the window. “Have a seat.”
They made small talk while the tea steeped, Milly filling them in on all the latest gossip.
“So you were at the clinic the day Claire called,” Lauren said after Milly had poured the tea and had a chance to sit down.
“Yes, m’dear. I took the call. Claire was that upset I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I handed the phone to Dr. Kaminsky, who’d just come on duty.”
Lauren took a sip of tea. She’d read in the police report that the call came in around three. Anya had left the clinic shortly afterwards.
“Dr. Kaminsky barely had a chance to take her coat off before she was out the door again.” Milly said. “Never seen a doctor so dedicated.”
“It must have been upsetting for you, Claire being a close neighbour and all.”
“I couldn’t concentrate on my work,” Milly admitted. “I kept making mistakes. We have a key to Dr. Warren’s house, and I didn’t know if the door was open or not.”
“You called Walter,” Lauren said.
“Well, m’dear, I tried to call him. I wanted to let him know the ambulance was coming. Walter was on the phone for the best part of an hour. Tilley Sampson called to tell him her granddaughter had a baby. Seven pounds, fourteen ounces. Tilley belongs to our seniors’ club. She’s right excited about being a great-grandmother.” Milly shook her head. “That Tilley. Talk the leg off an iron pot, that one. Sure, she—”
“But you did get Walter eventually,” Lauren cut in. “He was at the house when the paramedics arrived.”
Milly nodded. “Soon as he saw the ambulance pull into Bram’s driveway, Walter got off the phone and went across the road to see what was going on. Good thing too, because the place was locked. When Claire didn’t answer the door, Walter let the emergency team in.”
“Did Walter see Patrick Shaw arrive earlier that day?” Lauren asked.
“No, he was in his study out back.” Milly looked across the table at Lauren and Emma. “Never seen that woman arrive either.”
“Woman? You mean Dr. Kaminsky?”
“Oh no, my dear. The woman who came to the door before the doctor.”
Emma and Lauren exchanged puzzled glances.
“Guess you haven’t heard, then. Flo Spencer”—Milly gestured toward the window—“lives up on Mountain Road in back of Dr. Warren. She claims a woman came to the door not long after Patrick left.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Lauren said.
“Flo and Herb left early the next morning for their cottage out near Bull Moose Pond,” Milly continued. “Of course, they didn’t know about the youngster’s death then. Didn’t learn about that ’til after they got home.” Milly took a sip of tea and put down her cup. “Soon as they found out about little Ariel, they contacted the RCMP.”
Emma stared at Milly. “Who was she…the woman who came to the door?”
“Nobody knows. Flo says she’d never seen her before and that she was…well…kind of strange. But maybe you should talk to Flo about that.”
“Yes,” Lauren agreed, “we’ll go see Mrs. Spencer after we leave here.” She met Milly’s gaze. “How’s Walter?”
Milly shook her head. “Oh, my dear. Right shook up, he was. Says he can’t get the memory of the paramedics forcing the dead baby from Claire’s arms out of his mind…. It still haunts him.”
“I can only imagine,” Lauren sympathized. She glanced at Emma. “We should be going,” she said.
“Already? You got lots of time, sure,” said Milly.
Emma pulled her chair away from the table. “We really need to get going, but thank you for the tea, Mrs. Rodden. You’ve been very helpful.”
Lauren handed Milly her card. “If you think of anything else, please call.”
Nodding, Milly walked them to the door. “Good luck with the investigation,” she said. “And come back anytime. You don’t need a reason to visit, sure.”
—
The Spencers’ Cape Cod looked as if it had been pressed into the side of the hill. The upper half of the house was above ground, while part of the lower half was embedded in the earth. Smoke rose from a brick chimney and the air was fragrant with burning wood. Taking a moment to look down the hill, Lauren realized the Spencers had an unobstructed view of Claire and Bram’s house. From where she stood, she could see both the front and side doors.
Flo was a tall, serious-looking woman, not as friendly as Milly Rodden, but she invited them inside and politely answered their questions. She was a public relations consultant who ran a business from her home, she told them. She had been designing a logo the day Ariel died, and spent most of the day in her office.
“Did you see anyone else arrive at the Warren-Ste Denis house that day?”
“Well, like I told the Mounties, young Shaw came to the door around lunchtime.”
“What time, exactly?”
“Must’ve been about ten past twelve.”
“And what time did he leave?”
Flo shook her head. “That I can’t tell you. It was a busy day for me. I happened to go out on the patio at twelve—it must’ve been around twelve-thirty when I saw a grey car pull into Claire’s driveway. A woman got out and knocked at the door.”
“Can you describe her?” Lauren asked.
“She’s not someone I’m likely to forget,” Flo said. “She was nearly six feet with platinum blond hair. She was wearing a red coat with white fur on the collar.”
Lauren wracked her brain.
“When no one answered the door,” Flo continued, “the woman went around back to the patio doors and peeked in. I thought it was kind of strange.”
“And you have no idea who she is?”
“Never saw her before in my life,” Flo said. “I don’t think she was from around here.”
“I don’t know anyone around here who fits that description,” Emma said.
“How long did she stay?” Lauren asked.
Flo shook her head. “I really don’t know. I came back inside. I was busy getting ready for my trip, and I still had a lot of work to do.”
“Did you notice the kind of car the woman drove?”
“It was grey. Tha
t’s all I know. I don’t know anything about makes and models.”
“Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Spencer.” Lauren handed Flo her card. “If you remember anything else, please call.”
“Of course,” she said, seeing them to the door.
“Well, what do you think of that?” Emma asked as they walked to the car.
Lauren shrugged. Although they’d come away with more information than she’d hoped to gain, there were still more questions than answers. “I know one thing,” she said, opening the car door, “we need to find this mysterious platinum lady.”
Chapter 11
What are you doing? Daniel chided himself. Why are you driving so far out of your way to see a woman who walked out of your life four years ago? He was on his way to New Wexford, Newfoundland, to help a friend celebrate his twenty-year ordination. From the time he rented a car at the airport in St. John’s, he’d debated whether or not to stop at Paddy’s Arm. No harm in stopping to see an old friend, he reasoned. Ever since he’d seen Lauren on the news three weeks before, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He kept seeing her wide, expressive brown eyes. He recalled the confident way she spoke into the microphone. At night, alone in his bed, he thought of her, missed her warm body beside him. You’re a selfish bastard, he berated himself. You know you can never give up the church. Why then was he running to her now, when common sense told him to get back on the highway to New Wexford?
Distracted, Daniel almost drove past the Bay Wop Inn, a two-storey building set back from the main road. After a quick online search it had seemed the perfect spot, and he’d called immediately to book a room. He drove into the lot, parked his car, and got his duffel bag from the trunk.
“You must be Daniel Kerry,” said the pleasant, heavyset woman who met him at the door. She had greying hair and spoke with a strong accent. “I’m Mae Buckle.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Daniel said, offering his hand.
“Come with me,” Mae said. “I’ll show yeh where yer room is to.” She led him up a mahogany staircase. “The Bay Wop is listed as one of the finest inns in Newfoundland. Sure, we even gets movie stars staying here. A bunch of ’em came last summer to shoot a film over in Butler’s Cove.”
“Impressive,” said Daniel. “May I ask, though, why it’s called the Bay Wop?”
Mae chuckled. “My son, everyone who comes here asks that question. All I knows is that a bay wop is someone from the outports and bays. Sets us apart from the townies in St. John’s, I s’pose.”
“Interesting,” Daniel said. On his way to the inn he’d stopped at a diner that offered a cheeseburger called the Bay Wopper.
“I knows some people who was born in the city but won’t admit to being townies,” Mae continued. “Sure, even Joey Smallwood would never own up to being one. He was born in Gambo, but I don’t think he ever lived in an outport.” She laughed. “One year, during a drive for heart disease, Joey walked nearly thirty miles just to ‘show them townies what an outport boy could do.’”
“Really?” Daniel asked, amused.
They walked down a carpeted hallway past numbered doors. At the end of the hall, Mae opened the door to a bright room painted a sunny yellow. The four-poster brass bed had a bedspread that matched the curtains and lampshades. “We calls this the Harbour Room,” she said, drawing open the curtains.
Daniel put his bag on the floor and looked out the window. “Magnificent,” he said, taking in the unobstructed view of the harbour.
“My son, everyone who comes here just loves it,” Mae said.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” Daniel stood for a few moments, taking in the long wharves that stretched over the water. A mountainous iceberg gleamed in the distance. There were fish stages piled high with lobster traps.
Mae switched on a light. “In here’s the bathroom.” The white-tiled floor was spotless. She pulled open a door to a large closet. “Towels, facecloths, and blankets is all in here. Breakfast is from seven ’til eleven, but if you like, I can have tea and scones ready in a few minutes.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Daniel said. “I’ll come eat after I shower.”
“What do you do?” Mae asked.
The unexpected question caught Daniel off guard. Usually, he would say he was a salesman or an engineer. But he couldn’t seem to lie to this woman.
“I’m a Catholic priest,” he told her. “I’m on my way to New Wexford to a friend’s ordination anniversary.”
Mae stared at him. “I never would’ve took you for a priest, my son.”
Daniel looked down at his faded jeans and scuffed running shoes. He suddenly saw himself as Mae must see him: scruffy, dirty, and badly in need of a shave. He wore a T-shirt that said Life is too short to drink bad wine. His blond hair came down to his shoulders. Father Pierre and Father Luc were always telling him he needed a haircut. Daniel knew he was popular among his young parishioners. The older people in the parish didn’t seem to mind either—at least the ladies. They brought him enough cakes and cookies to open a bakery.
“Why did you stop here?” Mae asked. “’Tis a bit out of the way.”
“I dropped by to see a friend,” Daniel said, “Lauren LaVallee.”
“I knows Lauren well. She teaches at the college with my daughter, Emma.”
“I didn’t know Lauren taught,” said Daniel. He immediately regretted telling her so much.
“Teaches law, my dear. Since they enlarged the college, we gets people coming from everywheres. Met a young girl the other day from Boston of all places. Come here to take acting lessons, she told me.”
“How long has Lauren been teaching?”
“A few years now. But ’tis only part-time. She works at a law firm here in town.” Mae gave him a curious look. “How do yeh know Lauren?”
“I met her in Montreal—at a fundraiser for a children’s hospital.”
Mae eyed him critically. “Must be a really good friend if you went this far out of your way to see her.”
“Yes,” Daniel said. “I haven’t seen her in a long time, but we were good friends.”
“Lauren’s been in the news a lot lately,” Mae said.
“The Warren case,” Daniel said, grimly.
“Oh, my son, I gets right heartsick every time I thinks about it. That poor innocent baby.”
“Is her mother still detained?”
“Yes, my dear, but Claire’s innocent. She would never harm her youngster. I’m willing to bet everything I owns on that.” She turned to face Daniel. “I prays every night that Lauren will get her off.”
“Lauren’s a great lawyer,” Daniel said. He recalled when she had worked as a public defender. She would fret and worry about her clients, making sure they got the best defense. Sometimes when she was working on a case he would hardly see her. “I’m sure she’ll do everything she can.”
That’s what Emma keeps telling me. “ Mae smiled at Daniel. “Well, Father, I hope you enjoys your visit in Newfoundland. Do yeh plan to stay long?”
“A week.” A cloud of sadness passed over Daniel’s face. “Phil...um Father Noland, the priest who is celebrating his ordination, won’t be with us long, unfortunately. He has stage-four cancer and the doctors gave him about six months. I want to spend some time with him before he passes.”
“Oh, the poor soul,” Mae said. “God bless him. Are you close?” Daniel nodded, thinking of how Phillip counselled him during his first couple of years in the priesthood. “We worked together at St. Theresa’s Parish in Ottawa a number of years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Father.” Mae shook her head. “What a terrible disease that is. It takes so many of our friends.”
—
“Stephen Coleman is on the line,” Paula, the receptionist, told Lauren.
“Coleman? Isn’t he that reporter with the Daily News?”
“It�
��s The Hawk all right,” Paula confirmed. It was a nickname Coleman had earned because of his ruthlessness and determination to get a story. Since Ariel’s death, Lauren was used to reporters calling her at home and the office, but this was the first time she’d heard from Coleman. “Put him through, Paula,” she said.
“How are you, Ms. LaVallee?” he asked when he came on the line.
“How can I help you, Mr. Coleman?” Lauren replied curtly.
“Well, actually…I need you to confirm a story. It’s been brought to my attention that your friend and client Claire Ste Denis was adopted.”
How is that a story? Lauren wondered, but she waited for him to continue.
“Not only did we learn that Claire was adopted, but that she’d been physically abused and neglected in her formative years.”
Lauren drew in her breath. How had Coleman managed to dig that up? It wasn’t something many people knew about. Claire was a very private person.
“My sources tell me she was adopted at age three,” Coleman continued, “taken away from abusive parents.”
Lauren didn’t know how to reply.
“Are you still there, Ms. LaVallee?”
“What is your point, Mr. Coleman?” Lauren asked, although it was clear where he was going with this. If her mother was abusive, there was a chance Claire might also be abusive.
“Claire was suffering from a mental illness,” Coleman went on. “I learned from students and faculty at St. Bridget’s that she neglected her child.”
“Claire suffered from postpartum depression. She has never neglected Ariel. She was a good mother. She would never have done anything to harm her child or put her in danger.” Lauren knew she should stop talking, but she was enraged.
“Is it also true that she was drugged out of her mind the day her baby died?”
“I have nothing more to say, Mr. Coleman.”
Lauren hung up the phone with shaking hands. This was all poor Claire needed. She looked at her watch. Bram would be here any minute now for an appointment. She would have to tell him what Coleman was up to.
