Does Your Mother Know? (2 page)

However, over the past few years the contacts had become fewer and fewer, probably because of my undisguised hostility. For the past two years I had had almost nothing to do with her, didn’t even know where she was. Then, about a month ago, I received a phone call.

“
Can we get together, Chris? There is so much to talk about. I’ve joined AA. I’m up for a special award
.”

“
Let’s see, that’s the revolving-door record isn’t it?
”

There was silence at the other end of the line. “I know I haven’t been that reliable in the past. But this time it’s really going to work. I’ve been seeing a wonderful therapist for almost a year now... ”

“I thought you had no time for shrinks.”

“Oh, she’s not one of those. She’s a psychodrummer... ”

“Surely that isn’t what it sounds like?” A little sigh but exasperation under control.

“Charlene is a student of ancient Native healing rituals. The people of the First Nations understood the primitive power of the drum. Our first sound was a heartbeat.”

“And as I understand it, so was the gurgle and swoosh of the intestines. Do you fill bottles and shake them to get that sound?”

That drew blood, and her voice lost its conciliatory tone.

“Why are you always so sarcastic, Chris? I can’t do anything right. Mothers are human beings too, you know. If you had children of your own, you’d be more forgiving.”

Touché and blood.

Then she said,
“
Charlene and me are working on a plan of healing. She says I have to exorcise some ghosts. Send me good energy, Chris. I’ll call you when things are clearer. I know I have a lot of bridges to repair.”

She hung up. Perhaps this latest summons was to mark her celebration of successful engineering.

I slipped the plastic card in the door lock, got the green go-ahead, and entered my room. The message light on the telephone was flashing red. I dropped my briefcase by the bed, took a drink of water from one of the bottles provided by the hotel, then sat down at the table.

The message wasn’t from the police department but from Paula, a colleague now, but chiefly friend and soul sister since we were seven years old.

“Chris. I just wanted to tell you there’s a Scottish police officer trying to get hold of you. He called the department and they forwarded it to me. I gave him your hotel number, so by now you may have heard from him. If not, expect to. I’m afraid it’s Joan again. He wouldn’t say what it was about, except that it concerned your mother. I hope it’s not too bad. Please call me as soon as you can. It’s nine o’clock here and I’ll be in the office till six. The Brampton case is still a bitch. Why people who should know better blab nonsense on national television is beyond me. Ugh. Call. Hope the con is going well. Love ya.”

I decided to get some concrete information before I called her back, and dialled the number on the piece of paper. The phone was answered immediately. A male voice, deep and impatient, as if the last thing he wanted to do was answer the bloody phone.

“Harris here.”

“This is Christine Morris. I have a message to call you.”

A pause and the sound of paper being shuffled.

“Name again?”

“Morris. Christine Morris. I received a—”

“Och, ay. Got it here. Miss Morris, I understand you are the daughter of Joan Morris of 202 Penryth Avenue in Toronto, Canada.”

I actually hadn’t known that was my mother’s latest address, but I said, “Yes.”

“We are anxious to get in touch with Miss Morris, and I wonder if you know of her current whereabouts?”

That was a surprise. “No, I don’t. As far as I know she can be located at the address you have just given. But why, may I ask, do you want to talk to her?” I made a clumsy joke. “Is she in trouble of the criminal nature?”

That remark crashed like a glass on cement. I could practically see the fragments flying.

“I am not at liberty to disclose the circumstances of the case, Ma’am.”

Whoa. What case?

“Inspector Harris, I realize we have never met but I am a police officer myself. I’ve heard the word ‘case’ before. What are you referring to?”

He cleared his throat. It was hard to tell his age, but he certainly sounded old school. I was already carrying two strikes against me. I was female and a foreigner.

“There has been a car accident. According to witnesses, Miss Morris was the driver of the car, but she left the scene.”

I could feel the familiar clenching in the intestinal area. “Where was the accident and how much damage was there?”

“The accident took place on the west side of the island.”

“Sorry, Inspector, I don’t wish to sound obtuse, but what island are you referring to?”

“Here. The island of Lewis.”

I started to ransack my sketchy geography file. “That’s in the Hebrides?”

“It is. Sometimes referred to as the Western Isles.”

I got the tone but ignored it. “Hold on a minute. You’re saying that Joan Morris was in an accident here in Scotland?”

“Yes, it occurred on Friday night but was not discovered until early this morning.” I heard a beep on his phone that indicated another call had come in. “Excuse me a moment, Ma’am.”

He put me on hold and I waited, drumming my fingers. The telephone table was underneath the window, and I could see out onto Princes Street, where the double-decker buses were plying up and down and normal people went about their normal business.

“Back. Sorry about that, we’re awful busy just now.” He didn’t explain why, but he was obviously in a hurry to get off the phone.

“How did you get my name?”

“The car was hired and she had left a next-of-kin name and phone number on the waiver. I telephoned and was told you could be reached at the hotel.”

“So you already know I’m with the Canadian police?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I did know that.”

But you weren’t going to give me the time of day, were you?

“Was anybody injured in the accident?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there was a fatality. The passenger.”

“Good Lord! What passenger?”

“The person’s name was Sarah MacDonald.”

“Who was she?”

There was another beep.

“Just a minute.” He put me on hold before I could protest. He was longer this time getting back and my annoyance was mounting. I reached for one of the tourist brochures on the desk to see if there was a map of the Western Isles.

“Sorry, Ma’am. You were saying?”

“I asked who was Sarah MacDonald, the woman who was killed.”

“I don’t know the point of that question, Ma’am.”

“Surely my point is obvious. Was she a hitchhiker? A Canadian?”

“Och no, she is a resident of Lewis, Ma’am. Lived here all her life.”

“And she was a passenger in a car that supposedly my mother was driving?”

“No supposed about it, Ma’am. We have witnesses who saw Mrs. MacDonald get into the car and Miss Morris was the driver.”

I took a deep breath. “Are you at liberty to give me more details?”

More sound of papers shuffling, or maybe he was just turning the pages of the
Scotsman
.

“It appears that the driver lost control of the vehicle at a sharp curve in the road and the vehicle went over the side. The passenger was thrown out and killed. The drop is quite steep.”

“And now Joan Morris has left the scene and you can’t find her?”

“That is so, Ma’am. Have you been in contact with her?”

“I didn’t even know she was in Scotland. It’s bizarre.”

“She did no tell you she was taking a trip?”

“No.”

“Would she be visiting relatives or friends here?”

“No. She has no family that I know of. ”

He didn’t say anything, but even over the silence I could tell he didn’t believe me. How could anybody not know such basic facts about their own mother? But it was true. Joan had insisted her family was dead, and even though as I grew older I begged her to tell me about her past, she refused.
Let sleeping dogs lie with their own bones.
Joan had a quaint way of turning a saying, but it was clear what she meant and she had never broken down, even when mired deep in the maudlin molasses of booze.

“Well, if she does get in touch with you, Ma’am, please have her call me at the number I gave you. Do you still have it written down?”

“Yes. But Inspector Harris, one question: was there alcohol involved?”

“We will be getting a report from the coroner, but the two women were together in a local hotel and, according to the bar-keepers, they were both drinking substantially.”

I wasn’t surprised, of course, but even so, a stab of disappointment hit me in the gut. So much for building bridges.

“Right! Did you search the area? Perhaps... is it possible she’s injured and unconscious somewhere in the vicinity?”

“The car came to rest partway down the hill. Mrs. MacDonald was flung out, which was why she died. She wasna wearing a seat belt. Of course, we’ve done a search, but so far there is no sign of a body. We have to assume Miss Morris has gone somewhere under her own steam.”

“If she does contact me, of course I’ll have her call you. And perhaps likewise you will let me know further developments. I’m here at the conference until Monday.”

“One of my lads asked about going on that one. I told him there were better ways to spend our money. Higher wages, for instance.” The beep came again and I beat him to it.

“You have another call.”

He said goodbye and we hung up. So she had finally done it, the ultimate self-destructive act. She’d come close many times before, but this was without a doubt the worst. The least charge that would be brought against her would be vehicular homicide. Add drunk driving and leaving the scene, and she could be facing some serious incarceration time. For a moment I felt like a kid again, not knowing what to do or how this latest escapade was going to affect my life. I went back to the telephone to call Paula, which is what I always did, but the phone rang first, and I picked up the receiver at once.

A woman with an English accent said, “May I speak with Miss Christine Morris, please? It’s concerning Mrs. Joan Morris.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Speaking,” I said to the caller. “Miss Morris, my name is Emily Waring. I have a bedand-breakfast establishment here in Portree on the Isle of Skye. One of our guests is Mrs. Joan Morris, who is, I believe, your mother.”

She had an arch British way of speaking that sounded artificial to my ears, as if it were lately acquired. But then, what did I know? She could be a duchess who found running a B&B more lucrative than keeping up the manor.

“Yes, Joan Morris is my mother.”

“I do hope you won’t think my call an impertinence, Miss Morris, but I was rather anxious to speak to her.”

“Has she left without paying the bill?”

I was too abrupt.

“Oh my goodness gracious, no. Nothing like that. She has rented the room until next Saturday and has paid in advance. It’s just that I had asked her if she would move to the room I have at the front of the house, the Rose room. It’s a very nice room but a little smaller. I have guests coming in from America to whom I had promised the Garden room some time ago. I did apprise Mrs. Morris of this fact and she was quite agreeable.”

“Yes?” I said, wishing the hell she would get on with it.

“She told me she was going on an excursion and would be back in plenty of time to move her things. However, she has not yet returned. I was frankly becoming a little concerned.”

“And you do want the Americans to have the room they asked for?”

Her voice became frosty. “That is only part of my concern, Miss Morris. If one of my guests says she is returning on a certain day and has not done so, I do begin to worry. Your mother is a visitor here. Anything could have happened.”

And it has.

“Of course. I appreciate your calling me. How did you get my number, by the way?”

“I always take the precaution of asking for a next-of-kin reference. I telephoned the number in Canada that Mrs. Morris had given me and they directed me to your hotel.”

Cindy, our receptionist, was going to be wondering what the hell was happening with all these people trying to reach me.

“Did Mrs. Morris say where she was going on her excursion, by any chance?”

“No, she did not. She said there was a possibility she would-n’t return the same day, but gave no indication it would be longer than that. I assumed she was touring.”

“So she didn’t take any luggage with her?”

“Well, I noticed she did take an overnight bag, but her large suitcase is here.”

“Mrs. Waring, I should tell you that I have heard from the police, and it seems my mother has been involved in a car accident.”

I heard her gasp on the other end of the line. “Dearie me. Where did it happen? Is she injured?”

In the stress of the moment, I thought Mrs. Waring’s posh accent shifted down a little to Coronation Street.

“The accident occurred on the Isle of Lewis, in the Hebrides. The police don’t know if she was injured, because unfortunately she has disappeared. It’s possible she is in a state of shock.”

A euphemism for running like a scared fox from the consequences of her action.

I swallowed a gulp of the Evian water, although I was starting to wish I could down the famous single malt the Scots loved so much.

“I will have to give the police your address, Mrs. Waring. They might want to come and go through my mother’s luggage.”

“Gracious me, that’s rather excessive isn’t it?”

I thought she might as well know now as when the constable showed up. “Apparently, there was a passenger, a local woman. She was thrown from the car and killed. Leaving the scene of an accident when there is a fatality is a criminal offence.”

“Oh dear.”

“I’m going to give you the telephone number of the inspector in charge of the case. If Mrs. Morris does show up will you call him or persuade her to do so? And I would appreciate it if you would let me know as well.”