Forever Dead (25 page)

“My dear girl!”

“No, it's not as crazy as it seems. I was talking to Don Allenby. He was very evasive, but he said something about sardines, and then he said something like, ‘Why would I bait him?' At first I thought he meant ‘bait' as in ‘taunt,' but I'm not so sure now. How did he know about the sardines? It wasn't public knowledge, was it?”

“No. It was never considered important enough to be reported as anything but fish oil. The public was given reassurance that the fish attracted the bear and if they're just careful in the woods, it won't happen to them.”

“Don was scared, Duncan. His comment made me think someone could have deliberately used Diamond as bait. The sort of thing bear hunters do in the spring. They set out bait in the bear's known haunts and then they sit behind a blind and wait.”

“You're talking murder, girl,” he said, and when I didn't respond he said more forcefully, “You're talking gibberish, Cordi. Even if what you say is true, how would
they ever be sure the bear would be there? You've got to admit that it's a very unpredictable murder weapon to choose.”

“I don't know, Duncan. I haven't yet worked that part out.”

Duncan was silent. I wanted desperately for him to agree with me, or at least to think my theory was possible.

“Don used the word
murder
before shutting up. But there's no way I can prove it even if it were true and I found out who was responsible. It makes the fumigating of my larvae and the stealing of my disks make a lot more sense, though. Whoever did it wanted Diamond out of the way but for some reason didn't want his body found where he died, most likely because it would incriminate whoever it is. That could be just about anybody, but my bet's on Don. He has the strongest motive of all: his child's welfare.”

“And he knew about the sardines, a fact I never released publicly. You be careful, girl. I'd hate to lose you now that I've found me a forensic entomologist.”

I pulled the receiver away from my ear and looked at it. “I beg your pardon?”

“I've decided you should become Dumoine's first forensic entomologist, girl, on a consulting basis whenever we need you. You have most of the criteria, and it wouldn't take you long to get the hang of it. We'd just need you to help pinpoint time of death and stuff. You see, there is a dearth of qualified people willing to do this work. I know I'm being a little presumptuous, and you don't have to say a thing right now. Just think about it and we can talk later.”

He was being unbelievably presumptuous, but before I could say anything there was a loud clanging juddering noise over the lines and I jerked the receiver away. Through the noise I could barely hear Duncan's voice:
“Gotta go! They're drilling holes for a new fancy-dancy telephone line. Think about it.” And the line went dead.

Since I was still in the building I wandered back to Diamond's lab, hoping Patrick would still be there so I could ask him some more questions. Transparent reason, but better than none. The door to the lab was open, and I hesitated before I knocked and walked in. I heard a quick breath, a rustle, and a book or something falling.

“What are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same of you,” I said as Lianna moved out from behind a bookcase and stared at me. She said nothing at all, and the silence became uncomfortable. I folded first.

“I was looking for Whyte. Thought he could tell me more about Diamond's role in the logging issue. Maybe you can help me.”

Lianna still hadn't blinked, still stared at me with her carefully made-up eyes, and it unnerved me.

“You were there. I saw you on the film. Sitting with the loggers. Isn't that an odd thing to do? Supporting the loggers when your husband was so against them?”

“Look, lady. I'm my own woman. Just because I was married to the guy doesn't mean I have to agree with everything he did. In fact, I actively disagreed with most of his ideas. I own a cottage up in the area. There's no road access, no hydro, but it's a beautiful spot. I'd love to get a road in there. I hate rustic living, but I love the country. Go figure. The loggers claimed they would put in a road. Besides, it annoyed Jake to see me there and that made me feel good.”

“You hated him that much?”

“Hate isn't the word. I resented him. I resented all that he did to me. I resented his work. It took him away
from me, and even when it didn't he'd bring his damn work home.”

“Is that why you left him?”

She looked at me, tilting her head to one side, and I thought she wouldn't answer, but instead she spat out, “Yes, that and his continuous string of mistresses. He paid more attention to them and to his goddamned study animals than he ever did to me. He started bringing his bloody cats home six years ago. The first one was a little three-month-old cub. It was pretty cute and it didn't stay long, but then there were more and most of them needed to be bottle fed at all hours of the day and night. They'd mew and puke and pee and the house smelled awful all the time. I couldn't bring anybody home it was so bad. We couldn't even make love when the damn things were around. If they mewed he'd be gone in a flash.”

She looked at me defensively as if wanting my support. I nodded in sympathy, not because her life had been invaded by cats but because of the string of mistresses. Even if I didn't like her I could feel sorry for the pain he had caused her and the hatred that had resulted from it.

“The last straw,” she said, “were two ugly, naked cubs, so young their eyes weren't even open. He and Jeff had brought them in one night a few years ago after returning from New Brunswick to pick up some sperm for Jeff's artificial insemination project. You know about Jeff?”

I nodded and she continued.

“They only stayed a night, I made sure of that. I threw them all out the next day. I guess he went up to Jeff's, but we didn't talk to each other much after that. It was over even then, you see. I just hadn't wanted to admit it. But then that little bitch Shannon appeared and I couldn't take the humiliation anymore. I'd given
him so many chances. I threw his stuff out in the yard six months ago, changed the locks on the door, and filed for divorce.”

“Why did you lie about the little black book?”

She looked at me and smiled. “So you've been talking to Shannon, have you? I wondered how long before you'd find out from the bitch. You suspected right from the start that I was lying, didn't you? I know that now, but I thought my act had convinced you.”

When I didn't answer she continued.

“If I'd told you I was looking for something that belonged to Diamond, as his bitter ex-wife, what would have been my chances that I would have got a straight answer from you?”

“But how did you know Diamond had written his will in it?” I said, evading the question.

“My lawyer told me Shannon was claiming there was another will. She's not very bright, you know. She told my lawyer it was in Diamond's diary. But she could-n't come up with it, so I knew she didn't have it. I hoped the police did. I figured he owed me and that the bitch didn't deserve a thing.”

“Didn't you get anything in the divorce settlement?”

She laughed again, a sad, sorry little laugh.

“Oh sure, but not my fair share, never my fair share. I'm just lucky he forgot to change his will in time. I deserve to get something out of his death. I got nothing out of his life.”

Ihad a lot of time to kill before my meeting with Don so I cruised around Dumoine looking for a park to walk around in and then I went hunting for a nice little restaurant. I settled for a little cafe that had only one waitress for eight tables — and they were all full. My nose was so plugged up that the food was tasteless, and I regretted that I hadn't gone to buy some antihistamine. I didn't get away from the restaurant until 7:ffl and I was afraid I'd be late for my appointment with Don. It took me a while to find his house, and it was just past 8:00 when I finally pulled the car up in front of it. The house was a small, rundown two-storey affair squished between its neigh-bours and sporting a postage stamp–sized front lawn. There was no car in the skinny driveway and the garage door was tightly closed.

I parked the car on the street, collected my box of Kleenex, and walked up the front walk. The lawn was
neatly cut, but there were no flowers at all. The screen door was a marmalade colour and the bilious green paint of the inner door looked like some terminal disease. There was a sheet of paper taped to the door. I opened the screen and looked at it:

Sorry I'm not here. Come on in and make yourself at home. I'll be back at 8:30 or so. Please don't leave. Beer in the fridge. Sorry. Don.

Feeling like an intruder I cautiously opened the front door and called out, just in case he was back and had forgotten to retrieve the note. But there was no response, so I went inside and closed the front door behind me. I found myself in a tiny foyer crammed with a neat row of boots below an equally neat row of old jackets, each on its own peg, totally at odds with the outside of the house.

I moved into what appeared to be a living room, tables neatly stacked with magazines, nothing out of place, and the curtains drawn even though it was still light outside. The house was stuffy and incredibly hot, not a single window open and no air conditioning. I wondered how Don could stand it. I was sweating already and I'd been inside for only thirty seconds.

A large oil painting of a hare took prime spot above the mantelpiece that framed a bricked-in fireplace. There were two pictures on the mantel. One was a family photo of Don and his wife and their little girl, who looked to be about four years old in the picture. She had blonde hair like her mother's and dimples, but her eyes were deep brown like her father's, whose hand rested proudly on her tiny shoulder. Don was looking down at his daughter with such an expression of raw love that I
was momentarily dragged into his tragedy, until I forced myself to turn and look at the other picture.

There was very little left of the four-year-old in the scarred face and vacant eyes of the girl securely strapped into the wheelchair. I looked at the picture, wondering about the depth of the pain and guilt to which Don's little girl had taken him. Had it poisoned his mind and dragged him down into desperation in his need to provide some sort of life for her? Had it driven him so far as to turn him into a cheat? Had it perhaps driven him even further than that? Had he been involved in some way with Diamond's death to prevent the fraud from becoming public — from ruining his life and destroying his ability to care for his little girl?

I continued on through the living room to the kitchen, which was immaculately clean, from the gas stove, with two brightly coloured pots sitting on the front burners, to the tiny refrigerator. No microwave, no dishwasher, no frills here, and the dishes were mismatched. There was a sort of hissing sound, coming from the basement near the stove, and the fridge's motor suddenly leapt to life and made me jump.

A door led out of the kitchen into a back room, which Don had turned into a study of sorts. Unlike the other rooms this room was messy, as if someone had been in a great hurry and been interrupted or something. I put my Kleenex box down on the desk and glanced over the papers, but there was nothing there except some unpaid bills. One was huge — a third and final notice for $20,000.00 from a private nursing home.

I put it down, feeling suddenly dizzy, and gripped the chair back, my stomach heaving. The wave of nausea passed, but my head was feeling heavy and achy. I thought about what I had eaten at the restaurant and wondered about food poisoning. At least I knew I couldn't be pregnant.
It had been months since I'd left Luke. I hoped Don would come soon. If I was getting sick I wanted to get home and be sick in private. I went back to the living room, not wanting him to surprise me in his private study. A car door slammed and I jumped. Guess my nerves were on edge along with my queasy stomach.

I moved to the window in the living room and parted the curtains to see if it was Don. But it was an old man carrying some parcels up his path. Another wave of nausea slammed into me and I grabbed hold of the curtains to support myself. As I did something tumbled out from the curtain box above my head and fell to the floor.

When the nausea passed I stooped to pick it up — a small black book with a bright orange slash — Diamond's diary. So Don had the black book! How had he got hold of it? I remembered the day I had met him. So concerned that the body was Diamond's. It had been Don who had insisted Ryan and I could leave and that he would lead the police to the scene. Could he have found a chance to pocket the diary before the police searched the tent? Maybe there was something in the diary to implicate Don in the fake data?

I was sweating now and feeling very weak, so I sat down in a chair and flipped through the diary. No will, but then several pages had been torn out, and in the centre was a folded letter from Diamond.

Don:

Unless you can come up with a damn good explanation I have no choice but to fail Roberta at her defence next month, unless you postpone it until we've sorted this out. I have no way of knowing whether Roberta was involved in what appears to be wholesale data faking or
not. You can understand my refusal to pass a student without knowing the truth. I have also put the publication of our joint paper on hold until this is all settled to my satisfaction.

Jake

So Roberta was involved too? Diamond's death had certainly made things easier for her and for Don. Maybe they had conspired together in some way that had led to Diamond's death, either premeditated or accidental. Maybe Don had gone up to reason with Diamond and had failed. The bear had appeared and he'd taken advantage of that. It was obvious Don couldn't afford to lose tenure. He was barely scraping by as it was, and it looked from the unpaid bills as if he would have to find another, much cheaper, place for his daughter. I wondered what that would do to him. I suddenly felt tremendously uneasy as another wave of nausea gripped me.