Tumbled Graves (18 page)

G
undersund
parked on the side of the road behind two police cars and waited for Fiona to get out of her SUV. He'd seen her in his rear-view mirror pull in behind him.

“This is tragic,” she said. She wore a black leather jacket and grey slacks, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She carried her medical bag in one hand and her cellphone in the other. It rang as they started up the driveway and she spoke a few words into it before tucking it back inside her pocket. They walked up to the house, past the ambulance and fire truck parked next to each other in the driveway.

“Have you heard if he left a note?” Gundersund asked.

“No, but I haven't heard that he didn't.”

He held onto the hope as the officer standing outside the front door greeted them. Two firemen came out of the house and headed back toward their truck. Gundersund and Fiona stopped and put white suits and boots on over their clothing and shoes before stepping inside the front hallway. The light was greyish and damp, dust visible in the air. A second officer directed them upstairs.

Stonechild was already in the bedroom, standing next to the photographer, both also dressed in the protective white suits. Two paramedics stood talking in quiet voices next to Ivo Delaney's body, which they'd lowered to the floor between the bed and the window. The remainder of the rope still hung from the beam, but a length of it was wrapped around Ivo's neck and trailed on the floor next to him. A chair lay on its side not far away. His face was white and his eyes bulged from their sockets. His body looked big and awkward even in death. He lay on his back with his arms at his sides, palms upturned. He was wearing a plaid shirt and beige pants and he smelled of urine and sour body odour. It took all Gundersund had to keep looking. Fiona crouched to begin her inspection of the body.

Stonechild moved over to where Gundersund stood. “No note,” she said. “Catherine Lockhart is in the kitchen waiting to be interviewed.”

“I'll come with you. I'm not much use here.”

Fiona looked up. “I'll see you before we leave.” She had on her professional face but he knew suicides always upset her. Her sister had killed herself when she was sixteen. They'd formed a bond over dead siblings. In the end, it hadn't been enough of a reason to keep the marriage going.

“Yeah, I'll check in with you before we head back.”

Stonechild didn't say anything on their way downstairs but he knew that she'd overheard the exchange with his wife. They found Catherine in the kitchen with Sammy. He was colouring on a pad of paper with a pack of crayons. He looked up at them as they entered, but went right back to colouring. A female officer was refilling Catherine's mug with tea and she smiled gratefully at Gundersund as they took seats at the table.

“I'll just take Sammy out to play in the backyard, shall I?” she asked.

“Don't wanna,” Sammy said without looking up.

“Go with the policewoman, now, Sammy. I mean it.” Catherine spoke without her usual energy and Sammy stared over at her. He looked puzzled but obediently put down his crayon and got up, racing ahead of the officer and yanking open the back door. “You can push me on Violet's swing,” he said.

“If you like.” The officer gave Gundersund one last smile before following Sammy outside, shutting the door behind her.

“What am I going to do with that boy?” Catherine looked at Stonechild. “Luckily, he was behind me and didn't see Ivo hanging. He's already having nightmares. All I need is for him to have walked in on that. I keep thinking, a whole family dead in the space of a week. Happy and alive last week at this time and now.… The speed and cruelty of their deaths has been truly mind-boggling.”

“This must be very painful for you. We're sorry to have to ask you more questions.” Stonechild's voice was kind and Catherine reacted with a loosening of her shoulders and the tight line of her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.

“That's okay.”

“When was the last time you saw Ivo alive?”

“Yesterday. Sammy and I've been coming by to keep his spirits up. I brought some soup and homemade bread for supper around eight o'clock because I was working on a story and time got away. Anyhow, I found him cleaning up from a break in. He was quieter than normal and seemed, I don't know, just empty. Drained. I helped him tidy for an hour before I had to get Sammy home to bed. I left him with the soup on the stove and he promised he'd eat.”

“Did he say anything at all about Adele or Violet?”

“Nothing specific. He talked about them as if they were still alive, I remember that.”

“How so?”

“Oh, you know, Adele likes this photo and Violet always takes this stuffed giraffe to bed, that kind of thing. I thought it odd but decided it must be part of his healing process. I think in hindsight that he'd already decided to kill himself and join them.”

“But he didn't say anything that gave you cause to worry.”

“No. He only said that the detectives who came to check into the break-in didn't believe him. They thought he'd made the mess himself to have them think someone else had killed his family.”

Stonechild sat back and looked at Gundersund. He signalled her not to react before taking over the questioning.

“Let's go back a bit further. When was the last time you saw Adele and Violet?”

“I've already told the other officers.”

“Perhaps going over it again might trigger things you forgot the first time.”

“It was a week ago Tuesday. We went on an outing to Green's Plant Nursery on Highway 2, about half an hour from here. We made a day of it. Adele drove and we stopped for lunch at Country Kitchen, which is a family restaurant a few miles down the road. We got to Greens' around two o'clock after we stopped at the market to buy apples on the way, because Adele wanted to bake some pies for Ivo. Apparently, apple pie was his favourite. It had stopped raining for once but was chilly enough.” She paused and stared at the floor. “We were going to stop for ice cream at the same restaurant on the way back but Adele said it was getting late and she wanted to get home. It wasn't even three o'clock but she seemed tired and complained of a headache. Then she cancelled playgroup the next three mornings, so I guess she'd been coming down with something. When she dropped us off, that was the last time I saw her. It's not like I didn't try to contact her all week. God help me, I thought because she kept not showing up at playgroup and didn't return any of my phone calls or emails that she was avoiding me. Finally, she took my call the day before they went missing. She said that she'd been sick all week but that she and Violet would meet us at playgroup the next day. When they didn't show up, I came to see for myself if they were okay. That's when I found her car in the driveway and the front door wide open.”

Stonechild said, “Ivo didn't say that she'd been sick.”

“Then maybe she really was mad at me for something. We don't have many friends living this far out of town and Sammy was missing Violet. Maybe I pushed too hard to get us together. I still don't understand why …” Her voice trailed off. She picked up the mug of tea.

“Could Adele have thought that you had an interest in Ivo?”

By her reaction, Gundersund's question caught Catherine by surprise. She'd taken a sip of tea and spit it back into the cup, coughing and laughing at the same time. “You've got to be kidding me. Have you seen pictures of Adele? She was stunning and so full of life. Believe me, she did
not
look at me as competition for her husband. The idea is beyond ludicrous.”

“People can imagine all kinds of things, whether true or not.” Gundersund kept his voice non-
judgmental
. “And you've been here a lot since she's been gone.”

Catherine reddened and opened her mouth without any sound coming out. “God, I could use a smoke,” she said when she finally become capable of speech. She took a deep breath. “Look, Officer, I was just being kind. I had no designs on Ivo Delaney and we had nothing, absolutely nothing, going on between us. I was friends with Adele, not Ivo, and even that friendship was mainly because of our kids.”

“We have to check out every possibility.” Gundersund wouldn't apologize for doing his job. He looked at Stonechild. “Any other questions?”

“Not at this time. We're sorry again for all of this.”

She was playing good cop to his bad but that's what made them an effective team. Keep the witnesses off balance with a soft touch before the hard questions.

Stonechild stood and they left the kitchen together, leaving Catherine as she pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket. In the front door hallway, Stonechild stopped.

“She seemed genuinely shocked by your last question, but she protested a bit too much, did you notice?”

“Her protesting was rather vigorous. Maybe she feels guilt for stepping in to look after him with Adele so recently gone. She's been doing a lot of cooking for the guy and seemed to be here a lot.”

Stonechild checked over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone. “She strikes me as lonely. It could just be that she's embarrassed that her acts of generosity were interpreted as cold-blooded self-interest. She's not at the top of my list for being a killer in any case.”

“Nor mine.”

“What do you make of her saying that Woodhouse and Bennett told Delaney they believed he ransacked his house to divert suspicion because he killed his family?”

“Hard to believe either of them would do that, even Woodhouse. Delaney might have come up with that on his own, especially if he did kill his family.”

“Should we tell Rouleau?”

Crap.
Gundersund hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I meant to tell you but we've been so busy. Just before this suicide call came in, Rouleau called. Frances died this morning and he's staying on a few more days until the funeral. I'm really sorry she's dead, and sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“I guess we knew that was coming but it's never easy. Did he sound okay?”

“Tired but holding up, I'd say.”

“Don't worry about the delay in telling me. I know this case took over.”

“Thanks.” He looked upstairs. “Say, I have to check in with Fiona. Can you hold on a few minutes?”

“Sure. I'll have a quick look in Ivo's office and then I'll wait for you outside.”

“It's just that,” Gundersund paused, “Fiona hates suicides. They get to her even if she doesn't show it.”

“No need to explain to me.” Stonechild gave her unreadable smile and started walking down the hall. “She's your wife after all.”

He let her go without responding. He wanted to say wife in name only, but that somehow felt like a betrayal to Fiona. She still wanted the marriage to work, or so she was insisting. Until she agreed to the divorce, he didn't want to discuss their relationship, even with Stonechild. Maybe he and Fiona went so far back that they could never completely untangle their lives. They'd be friends eventually he hoped, but knew they couldn't live together anymore. He was going to have to be patient until Fiona came around to knowing this too.

Kala finished her search in Ivo's office and re-
entered
the hallway. She'd heard Gundersund's feet thump up the stairs and knew the coast was clear for exiting the house without running into him. He'd be up talking to Fiona and probably making plans to see her after work.

The same officer was outside and media had gathered in the driveway. A young blond reporter in a red trench coat was talking into a handheld microphone while a guy holding a TV camera on his shoulder filmed her. Three other media types hung around smoking cigarettes and chatting several feet away.

Kala started down the driveway, sticking to the side farthest away from the reporters. She was approaching the road when she heard her name being called. She turned to see the new reporter from the
Whig
running toward her. She'd seen the woman at the station but couldn't recall her name. Her copper-coloured hair was distinctive.

“Marci Stokes,” she gasped as she stopped in front of Kala. She rested her hands on her thighs and bowed her head as she took a few deep breaths. “Whew. I need to get to the gym.” She straightened up and grinned at Kala. “I'm with the
Whig-Standard
. I wonder if you could tell me what's going on inside the Delaney house. I'm hearing rumours of suicide.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't comment.” Kala took a step sideways to go around her.

“Officer Stonechild, isn't it?”

Kala hesitated. Marci Stokes's brown eyes were friendly, but Kala never trusted a reporter. They were always after a story. Media training had taught her that nothing was off the record. Ever. She said, “That's right.” One more step and she was by.

“I've found an article in the
Sudbury Star
about your life before becoming a policewoman. I was hoping to have a conversation with you for my article.”

Kala stopped and stood stock still. She turned slowly to face Marci Stokes. “What did you just say?”

“I'm writing a profile about you and wanted more background to flesh out the story. I was hoping you could share more about your history.”

“You can't be serious. My life is not news.”

“The
Star
article has a photo. You were homeless and somehow pulled yourself up to become a cop. Readers would be very interested to know your life story and the way you changed everything around to get to where you are today.”

“I don't suppose I could talk you out of writing this?”

“Not likely.”

Kala's mind was scrambling at a hundred miles an hour. A great feeling of dread filled her. Tamara Jones had placed Dawn with her because of her upstanding character. A role model — that's what the social worker had called her. Now Marci Stokes was going to spread her sordid past all over the news in the name of a good, uplifting story. She had to think how to stop this woman from digging any deeper.