Beautiful Lie the Dead (11 page)

* * *

When Sue Peters came out the front door of the Longstreet house, Detective Bob Gibbs was leaning against her car with his arms folded. She could tell he was trying to look fierce, but he couldn't hide the delight in his eyes. He had pulled his hat down low and turned the collar of his parka up over his ears, but even so he looked frozen. Adorably so.

That was the trouble with Bob. She wanted to be mad at him for checking up on her and not believing she could do anything by herself. For hovering like a mom on the first day of kindergarten. She'd even gone so far as to wonder, during their pricklier moments, if he really wanted her to get well. But then she'd see his goofy face at moments like this one, and she knew he just plain loved her and was terrified to let her out of his sight. Terrified she'd discover a life without him, or terrified someone would jump out of a dark alley and beat her up again, this time for good.

She knew he was watching her as she negotiated the slippery path to the road. Watching for a limp or a slight stumble that would betray her fatigue. She drew herself rigidly upright and summoned every ounce of will to force her muscles to obey. The truth was, she was dead on her feet. She'd felt it during the interview, when she could barely persuade her fingers to write and her brain to form words. She'd been at work more than seven hours now, much of it in the field. She'd forgotten lunch and had had no time for a ten-minute power nap to refresh her.

She smiled up at him as he welcomed her into his arms. “You weren't supposed to do this,” he said.

Ignoring his attempt to look fierce, she punched him playfully.

“We have a lead.”

He kissed her. She loved his kisses. They weren't very smooth, but they were all quivery with passion he didn't know what to do with. Who needed slick when you had real?

“You're bad,” he whispered when they came up for air. He headed towards his own car, an identical beige Impala parked behind hers.

“You can tell me all about it while I drive you home.”

“No, you don't. What about my car?” She wasn't sure she even had the strength to turn the key, but he wasn't to know that. “What about the Kennedys? We have to ask them about Montreal. And about the ATM.”

He opened his passenger door. “Someone can pick up your car. And I'll handle the Kennedys.”

She sank into the seat, finally letting her muscles go and feeling the last vestige of energy drain from them. She opened one eye. “Only if you let me come with you, so I can tell you what questions to ask.”

“But Inspector Green—”

“Inspector Green knows. And he didn't exactly say no, did he.” He sighed as he navigated the snowy street, and after a while he glanced over at her. “You learned something useful?”

She smiled inwardly. She felt too tired to make sense of the nagging suspicion in her brain, but there
was
something... If the person I loved went missing, she thought, I'd be excited to learn about the trip to Montreal. It signalled hope, a possibility that the person had gone off on some secret quest. Why had Brandon seemed determined to downplay the importance of the whole thing?

The Kennedys displayed no such ambivalence. Norah Kennedy came alive as soon as the Montreal trip was mentioned.

For the first time, Sue Peters saw a hint of warmth in the woman's haggard face.

“That means she's alive!” she exclaimed. “Maybe she realized it would never work if she married into that family. Brandon's a lovely boy, I'm not saying he's not, but she'd be taking on that mother too. He's all she's got and don't think she wants to share him, no matter what she says. I bet she said something to Meredith to scare her off.”

“Like what?” Sue leaned forward. She'd promised Gibbsie he could do the interview while she kept quiet and observed reactions. It had been either that or he'd take her home, and she'd been too wiped out to argue. But a short snooze in the car on the way over had revived her, and she couldn't restrain herself.

Norah's gaze flicked from Gibbs to Sue, probably trying to figure out who was running the show. She shrugged. “Maybe she sent Meredith to talk to that great-uncle. Lives all alone in a big house on the Circle with a creepy servant with a black belt in karate. He's sitting on the Longstreet family fortune, and he's scared off more than a few kids who wanted to marry into it.” Gibbs scribbled in his notebook at top speed so he could get back in the conversation. “Has anyone contacted him about your daughter's disappearance?”

“That would be up to Elena. Not too many people are on speaking terms with the old goat.”

“Meredith's not going to be scared off by a crazy old man,” the father said. He'd been fidgeting, building up a head of steam.

“No matter how nasty he is. Brandon's the one she's marrying.”

His wife swung on him. “Well then, maybe the old man threatened to disinherit Brandon and the boy got cold feet. That would be like our Meredith, to go charging in to set the old man right.”

“Norah, Brandon would never do that. These are modern kids out to save the world, for Pete's sake.”

Believing love conquers all, Sue thought, suddenly aware of the nagging twinge in her shoulder that was held together by pins. “What about her grandmother?” she asked.

Norah's eyes widened. She shot her husband a look of alarm.

“What about her?”

“Could Meredith have gone to see her?”

“Unlikely. My mother's in a home. Most of the time she doesn't even recognize Meredith. Even me she confuses with her sister, who's been dead twenty years.”

“But she might still have gone to see her. Maybe she felt a duty. Were they close while she was growing up?”

“I've told Meredith not to go. Mom gets agitated and upset at the sight of her because she thinks she's a stranger out to trick her with lies. It's not worth it to get the poor old lady upset.”

That didn't mean anything, Sue decided. Meredith might have paid a secret visit despite her mother's wishes. Weddings could make people act all mushy inside. If the visit had gone badly, it would explain Meredith's mood on her return. “Maybe we should call the nursing home, just to doublecheck.”

“I did,” the father said. Seeing the flicker of surprise on Norah's face, he mustered a sheepish smile. “I was trying to spare you, dear.

They didn't think anyone's been to see her in a month.”

“We'd like to follow up anyway,” Sue said.

Norah flushed. “I don't want my mother upset.”

“How will speaking to the nurses upset your mother?”

“Because the nurses will ask her, remind her, maybe even tell her that Meredith is missing!”

Sue felt Gibbs's hand on her arm. He leaned forward, an envelope in his hand. “Can you describe M-Meredith's winter clothing? Her coat, gloves, hat?”

Norah blinked, the flush slowly receding from her face. “Why?

We've already told you people that. Over and over.”

“All the same. To s-save me having to search all the notes.”

Norah described the red suede jacket and leather boots. “I don't know what kind of hat she might be wearing. She doesn't like hats.” Hope crept into her face. “Has someone seen her?”

“Does her coat have a hood?”

The hope grew. “Yes. Why?”

Gibbs withdrew two photos from the envelope. Sue guessed they were probably the best images he was able to glean from the shadowy ATM video. “Do you recognize this person?”

The photos trembled slightly at the edges in Reg's hand as he and Norah bent over them. The silence was broken only by their breathing. Slowly Sue saw their hope fade, until finally Norah shook her head. She looked questioningly at her husband. “Do you think it's her?”

“Do y-you recognize any of the clothing?” Gibbs pressed when Reg shrugged.

“No. She doesn't have a parka like that. But—” Norah raised her head. “She could have bought one, right? I mean, if she is trying to hide? She'd know everyone would be on the lookout for a red suede jacket. It's pretty distinctive. Whereas this parka—it could be anybody in there! Where was it taken? When!”

Gibbs slipped the photos back into the envelope. He didn't answer for a moment, and Sue knew he was trying to decide how much to reveal. The first rule in crime detection was always to look first at those nearest and dearest. Were these just desperate parents entitled to the latest information on their missing daughter's investigation, or were they two more on the growing list of suspects in her disappearance?

“Just following up every lead, Mrs. Kennedy,” he said, unfolding his tall, lanky body from the chair. “We'll keep you posted if anything comes of it.”

EIGHT

F
rankie Robitaille leaned on his shovel and wiped sweat from his face. He was starving and remembered that he'd left his plate of bacon and eggs barely touched on the coffee table in his TV room. He had dug half the length of the snowbank where the dog had been pawing but still hadn't turned up anything.

He was surprised the police hadn't shown up yet. Maybe they were too busy with the search to respond to a suspicious lady complaining about a stranger on her fancy street.

After catching his breath, he plunged his shovel into the next chunk of snow, dreading every new move. Dreading the idea of a young woman freezing to death on a dark, cold night, dreading the idea that he might have hit her, knocked her out and left her to die. Dreading the trouble he'd be in. Nightmare scenarios flashed through his mind. Charges of speeding and reckless endangerment, leaving the scene of an accident, vehicular manslaughter, what the hell else? His livelihood, his licence, his kids and mortgage...all gone.

Just when he was beginning to hope there was nothing, he hit something soft and solid. He yanked his shovel away, his heart rate spiking. Cautiously he began to explore the area with the tip of the shovel, scraping away the snow from the object that emerged. Something red. Leather. He swallowed and fell to his knees, pawing with his gloved hands to uncover the object. Not a body, not an arm. He worked it free and pulled out a frozen, misshapen lump that he finally identified as a woman's purse. The zipper was half open and the contents scattered in the snow.

He tugged at the frozen zipper to open it the rest of the way and looked inside. It was nearly empty. No wallet, no cards, nothing to show who it belonged to. He gathered up the keys, scraps of paper, lipstick and breath mints and stuffed them back into the purse. He was almost afraid to dig further. Maybe this flash of red was all he'd seen. Maybe it was a discarded purse that had nothing to do with the missing woman.

But he remembered the jolt to his steering wheel and the dog pawing excitedly. This red purse, big as it was, would not have caused that. Reluctantly he picked up his shovel and began another careful probe. Ten feet farther on, he encountered more resistance. This time, as he cleared away the snow, a hand appeared.

Bare, waxy white, and frozen stiff.

He sank down in the snow, sick at heart. Pulled out his cell phone and with tremulous fingers, punched 911. He had just pressed the final digit when he snapped the cell phone shut and dropped it from his nerveless fingers into the snow. He clutched his head in his hands, hyperventilating. Glanced up and down the street. No sign of the cops, nor the dog lady. He snatched up his phone and shovel and raced back to his truck, his large work boots scrabbling on the ice. He had to get out of here. To use his own cell phone and make himself known to the police was to invite the ruin of his life. He could just as easily call from a pay phone and leave an anonymous tip.

He flung himself into the cab of the truck, revved it to life and spun its wheels in a U-turn back towards Beechwood Avenue. But just around the corner, he stomped on the brake. He had probably left a dozen footprints and tire tracks the cops could trace, and who knows how many eyes had been watching him through the fancy curtains of those houses? Watched him pick the spot and start to shovel. If the cops ID'ed him, it would look even worse for him if he fled the scene a second time. If the dog lady had called the cops, he might even meet them on the road out, giving them a perfect make on his truck.

He started the truck again and headed deeper into Rockcliffe Park. He would take a roundabout route out so that he'd be less likely to meet the cops, and if anyone noticed a black pick-up leaving the area, it would be from a different direction altogether than the suspicious black truck noticed at the scene. He drove through the maze of streets, trying to act slow and calm like a workman going to a routine job site.

By the time he reached Beechwood, he had a plan. He parked the truck in the middle of the grocery superstore parking lot and headed in through the automatic doors. Inside, he wandered up and down one aisle, grabbed a bag of chips and a chocolate bar and went through the cash before exiting the store farther down and walking away from his truck. He tucked the grocery bag in his pocket and kept a sharp eye open for surveillance cameras, but he spotted none. He only had to walk to the corner to find a pay phone outside a gas station. No cameras there either. Maybe they were hidden or miniature, but he could only hope.

Holding the phone with one leather glove, he took the other off and wrapped it around the mouthpiece. Using his scarf over his fingertip, he punched in 911. When the operator came on, he spilled out the first line of his carefully rehearsed speech without even having to fake the tremor in his voice.

“There's a body! I think I found a body!”

“What's your name, sir?”

“In Rockcliffe, on Maple Lane. Hurry!”

He heard some clicking and then, “Can you tell me exactly what you found, sir?”

“In the snow! Oh God, I'm going to be sick!” he gasped and slammed down the phone. He almost was, had to swallow back bile as he shoved his hands into his pockets and strode purposefully away from the phone. He knew 911 would already have located the pay phone and dispatched a cruiser. He needed to be nowhere in sight when it arrived, but he couldn't afford to draw attention to himself by running.