Indiana Pulcinella Page 7
Fibre walked over to the cab of the van. Lane and Nigel couldn’t hear what he said to his colleague over the rattle of the diesel engine.
The cab door of the van opened. Fibre approached the detectives. “The store owner’s inside waiting for you. Use the front door.”
“How are the kids, Colin?” Lane worked at keeping his voice calm. The woman’s voice at the funeral. ‘But I saw you there that night.’ It was Megan Newsome.
Fibre smiled. “Good. How is the baby?”
Lane looked at the doctor. “How did you know?”
Fibre tapped his nose with a forefinger. “I have my sources.” He walked to the back of the van, opened the door, and pulled out a toolbox.
Nigel and Lane walked east along the alley, turning left and then left again at the lights. They walked past restaurants and the Plaza Theatre before entering via the front door of Pages Books. They stepped into the warmth. The hardwood floors creaked as Lane took in the rows of books and the stairway to the second floor.
Two women sat behind the counter. One had dark-brown hair and wore a black-and-red shawl around her shoulders. The other had shoulder-length grey hair and sat behind a computer screen. They eyed the detectives with a combination of annoyance, interest, and distrust.
“Which one of you discovered the bodies?” Lane took off his gloves and toque.
The grey-haired woman looked at the other woman, who said, “I did. Wouldn’t it be easier if we started with names?”
“I’m Detective Lane, and this is Detective Li.” Lane waited.
The brown-haired woman took a long breath. “Simone.”
“Sarah.” The grey-haired woman sitting behind the computer screen stood up.
Lane looked at the women, thought for a moment, looked out the back window, then turned to look across Kensington Road. “Anybody want a Rolo?”
“Took the words out of my mouth.” Simone went to the back of the store, grabbed two coats, and handed one to Sarah.
“Any sign of a break-in?” Nigel asked.
“None.” Sarah pulled on her coat, stepping out from behind the counter. She wore tan leather boots reaching her knees. Her black slacks and top looked stylish and practical.
Simone pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of her red coat. She lit up as she opened the door, waiting outside for the detectives to follow. Sarah locked the door.
They picked their way through the snow piled alongside the road by a passing snowplow, waiting for a gap in traffic, crossing the road, and climbing the stairs to Higher Ground. Simone carefully stubbed out her cigarette on the stone railing. Inside they found a fire burning in the centre of the room, light streaming through the glass ceiling to the left, various conversations at the tables, and a line-up for coffee. Nigel took the orders, then looked at Lane. “I’ll get this. You see if you can find a table.”
They found a pair of leather chairs near the back under the glass roof. Lane borrowed two chairs from other tables. He found himself sitting across from Sarah and Simone.
Sarah said, “I got to the store first. Didn’t notice anything wrong.”
Simone hung her winter coat over the back of her chair. Lane got the distinct impression Simone had a poor opinion of police officers. “I parked at the back of the store and saw the couple on the stairway. We get all sorts of neighbourhood regulars around here, but they didn’t look familiar. I got out of the car, called out to them. When they didn’t answer, I went closer and saw the man’s eyes were open. Then I saw the third eye.”
“She came in the back door and called 911.” Sarah crossed one leg over the other.
Lane sat back in his chair. “Do either of you recognize the victims?”
They looked at each other and turned back to face him, shaking their heads.
Nigel arrived with a Rolo for Simone and tea for Sarah.
“Thank you,” the women said.
He returned with a Rolo for Lane and a cappuccino for himself, then sat down next to his partner. For a few minutes they all sipped their drinks, wrapping their fingers around the warmth radiating from the ceramic mugs.
Lane focused on Simone. “What does your licence plate mean, exactly?”
“The King lives forever.” Simone took a sip of coffee.
“She’s an Elvis fan.” Sarah put her tea down on the pizza-pan–sized coffee table.
Nigel asked, “Any customers stick out in your memories this last little while?”
“You think this has something to do with my licence plate?” Simone looked at Lane with disbelief.
Lane shrugged. “At this point, we’re looking at any and all variables.”
“Variables?” Simone made no attempt to mask the sarcasm.
Lane said, “Someone put the bodies on your steps. They were placed facing each other.”
Simone pointed a finger at Lane. “They weren’t killed at my shop.”
Be careful. She’s quick. She could still be a suspect, Lane thought. “I’m just saying we’re looking at all possibilities so we can track the killers and not get sidetracked looking at the wrong people.”
Sarah picked up her tea, watching both detectives over the rim of her mug. “The fact is neither one of us committed the murders. I’m trying to think of any reason why the bodies were placed where they were and coming up with nothing so far.”
Simone took a sip of Rolo. “For the last half hour or so we’ve been trying to figure out why the bodies would be left at the back of the store. It’s obvious to us the bodies were intentionally placed facing each other. There’s no blood on the snow, so they were killed elsewhere. But why pick Pages?”
Sarah leaned in closer to Lane. “You’re that Detective Lane, the one who took down Smoke.”
“How’d you know about that?” Nigel asked.
We’re along for the ride now. Probably best to just go with it, Nigel.
“There’s this retired cop who likes to read crime novels and tell Sarah how the writers got it all wrong. And he talks about what’s going on behind the stories in the newspapers.” Simone stopped with her cup halfway to her lips. “You think this case is connected to the Randall murders, don’t you?”
Nigel looked at Lane, who asked, “Who’s your source?”
Sarah said, “People come to buy books, look at books, and some of them like to talk. You’d be surprised how much they tell us.”
Simone stared out of the window, then turned to Sarah. “Do you remember that woman who asked about Homolka, Olson, Pickton, and Colonel Williams?”
Sarah looked at her boss. “You mean the Lulu Lemon bitch?”
Simone smiled, nodding.
Lane concentrated, filtering out the chatter from nearby conversations.
Sarah said, “She came in looking for books on Canadian serial killers. She was pretty upset when we didn’t have them on the shelves.”
“Did you get a name?” Lane asked.
Sarah shook her head. “She didn’t leave a name.”
“Just bad air,” Simone said.
Lane looked at the women, raising his eyebrows.
Sarah frowned. “Most of the quirky people we get who won’t leave their names are tinfoil-on-your-head-paranoid kinda people. They’re regulars. She was a make-the-hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck-stand-up kinda person.”
“Can you describe her at all?” Lane asked.
Simone pointed at Sarah. “About Sarah’s height and weight, and she wore tight yoga pants, running shoes, and a jacket.”
Lane waited.
“Are all of the pictures downloaded?” Lane stepped into their office with a coffee in each hand. He set one down on Nigel’s desk, holding on to the other while waiting to see the pictures from the funeral.
Nigel reached for his coffee. “Almost. Which ones were you wanting to look at?”
“I’ll know when I see them. Let me sit, please.”
Nigel got up so Lane could sit in front of the computer. He began to work his way through the pictures until he got to the photo of the group of women entering the doorway to the reception. Megan Newsome’s face was caught by the camera’s flash, as were the faces of three other women. Only one had her back turned to the camera. Lane pointed at the back of the woman’s head. “Have you got a shot of her from the front?”
“Just this.” Nigel took the mouse, clicking on a photo taken in front of the building. The woman walked out front of the funeral home. She wore a silver fur coat with a hood covering all but her nose. She held her left hand up to keep the camera side of the hood against her face.
“She knew you were there.” Lane sat back in the chair.
“Apparently.”
“We need to see the Randall family again.” Lane sat up straight.
“When?” Nigel backed away from the computer.
“Now. Can you run copies of both pictures?”
Nigel nodded. “It’ll take a couple of minutes.”
Nigel parked half a block away from the Randall home. He and Lane got out of the car, zipping up their winter jackets. The northwest wind froze the nose and ears first, then attacked whatever exposed flesh remained even as the sun shone low in a clear blue sky. Lane looked at the cars and SUVs parked in the driveway leading to the grey two-storey. Then he looked across the street at the newly empty Newsome house. There was a fresh skiff of snow filling in the tracks on the driveway. An evergreen tree hid the front windows. White smoke rose from the chimney to warm the house while the bodies of husband and wife chilled in the morgue.
“Lane?” Nigel waited at the bottom of the stairs leading to the Randalls’ front door.
Lane shook his head and followed his partner up the stairs. Nigel knocked. They stood waiting for thirty seconds before David’s daughter Beth opened the door. She eyed the detectives, opened the door, then closed it quickly behind them. “Thank you.” Lane tucked an envelope of photographs under his armpit as he took off his gloves and toque.
Beth said, “My dad and Aunt Melissa are upstairs packing.”
Lane unzipped his jacket and bent to untie his laces. He stepped out of his boots and stood up. He saw Nigel staring at the empty front room where the air shone with disinfectant.
“We had the house cleaned. You’re the first one to take his boots off. The floors were a mess from the boots and . . .” She held out her hand. “Can I take your jackets?”
Nigel stepped out of his shoes while Lane took off his winter jacket and handed it to Beth. She continued. “We’re just looking through my grandparents’ stuff before donating everything else. There’s a family in need at the women’s shelter. We got rid of whatever was in the living room.” She took Nigel’s jacket, folding their coats over the back of a kitchen chair. They followed her upstairs to a hallway leading to four bedrooms. “Dad’s in there.” She pointed at the master suite.
Lane poked his head inside a bedroom larger than his family room. He could see the door to the master bath off to the left. There was a Jacuzzi tub at the bottom of a wall made of opaque glass bricks. He saw the back of a tall woman picking through a jewellery box and recognized Aunt Peggy, who was dressed in a pair of stretchy jeans and a black blouse. Lane saw her face reflected in the glass of the mirror atop a dresser made of rosewood. She was intently inspecting one piece at a time. He saw her stuff a gold necklace in a nearby purse the size of a Third World economy. What happened to her cane?
Lane stepped inside the room, hearing a sound to his right. His feet silently crossed the carpet until he stood outside of a walk-in closet. Lane saw the wall safe over David Randall’s shoulder. David had his back to Lane as he reached up, pulling a box down from the shelf. Lane said, “Anything in the safe?”
David turned. “Just the will.” Sweat rolled down the side of his face. He looked past the detective, frowning. “Peg, please leave Mom’s jewellery alone.”
Peg turned, picking up her purse and tucking it under her arm. “She was my sister!” She insinuated outrage in every syllable.
“I told you the jewellery would be distributed to Melissa and Beth first. Then you will have your turn.” David eased past Lane. “Sorry.”
Should I tell him about what she’s got in the purse?
David looked at her purse, waiting.
Peg asked, “What?”
David lifted his eyebrows.
Peg reached into her bag. She pulled out a broach, gold necklace, three rings, a string of pearls, and an antique Love Story dinner plate. She set each piece on the bed.
David said, “Thanks for all of your help. You can go home now.”
Peg glared at him. “I am grieving.”
David crossed his arms.
“My sister died. I need to grieve.” Peg began to wail, wiping at her eyes.
Lane looked for evidence of a wet shine on Peg’s fingers. There was none.
Melissa appeared in the doorway. She looked at the haul on the bed, then at her brother. Lane saw David’s reflection in the mirror. He’s exhausted and finally had enough of Aunt Peg.
“Please leave, Peg.” Melissa began to weep. Her tears darkened the front of her white blouse.
“You never liked me. I changed your diapers when you were little!” Peg stepped through the door. A pair of lacey black underwear hung from her back pocket.
“What’s that?” David pointed.
Melissa caught a glimpse of the dangling undies before Peg disappeared from view. “Mom’s underwear.”
They looked at each other. David shook his head. “She had the same parents as Mom.”
“And apparently the same taste in underwear.” Melissa leaned her head back and howled. At first Lane thought she was crying. Then he heard David’s laughter. Sister and brother pointed at each other. Melissa gasped, “She stole Mom’s underwear!”
“Remember how Mom would just shake her head at the things Peg would do?” David pointed at a picture on the nightstand. Their mother stood between her grandchildren. She wasn’t much taller than Beth. “Remember how she would say, ‘Oh, Peg.’?”
The pair began to laugh louder. The uncontrolled, long-bottled-up laughter was some weird combination of release and incredulity. Their spouses arrived in the room, followed by Nigel and Beth. She looked at Lane with confusion.
“Peg stole Mom’s underwear!” Melissa managed to say.
The laughter bounced against the frosted glass. It ricocheted off the ceiling and walls.
A few minutes later Lane had the photos set out on the bed. Nigel was entering the names of people identified in the pictures.
“Anyone know who this is?” Lane pointed first at the woman in the hooded fur coat, then at the back of her head in another photo.
Melissa shook her head. David frowned. Beth said, “Looks like one of the hairdressers where Nanny got her hair done.”
“Know her name?” Nigel asked.
“Sure. Cori. She works at a place just off of Macleod Trail. Platinum or someth
ing like that. Nanny took me there last month for a trim.”
Melissa made eye contact with Lane. “You think she’s the one who killed our parents, don’t you?”
The question sounded rhetorical to Lane’s ears so he didn’t answer. “What about the other people in this photograph?” He pointed at the clutch of women walking into the reception area.
Melissa reached out and touched Lane’s forearm. “I don’t sleep much. My mind won’t shut down. I keep going over conversations I had with my mom. At night I put on my warmest clothes and go out for a walk. I remember Mom telling me about a group of women she knew, and how they were worried because there were five of them left when there used to be nine. They called themselves the Nine Bottles, because they got together one night and drank nine bottles of wine. They asked Mom to join, but she told me she didn’t want to be part of some small-minded clique. Mom hated that kind of shit. She and Dad joined the Rotary Club only after they saw what kind of work the organization did. Anyway, Mom’s hairdresser moved into the shop where the Nine Bottles got their hair done. She talked about how she was glad she didn’t have to have her hair done by the same person who did the hair of the Nine Bottles. She and Donna used to have a lot of talks about it.”
Lane thought, Roll with it. She may be on to something. Sarah at Pages described the hair on that woman’s pants. “Like what?”
“You should really talk with Donna. I just remember general things she said.” Melissa looked at Beth.
“Nanny thought they were losers. The Nine Bottles had to have a girls’ night out every week. They went to the same places for clothes. They went on holidays together. They were always talking behind their hands with one another. When Nanny took me to get my hair trimmed, she and Donna started to laugh at something Donna said. She wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but I heard anyways. Donna said, “They should have their own reality show. Real Housewives of Mount Royal.’ ” Beth looked at the pictures on the bed. “That’s Donna.”
Lane studied the image of a woman with black shoulder-length hair wiping tears from her eyes. She stood apart from the clutch of women gathered around Cori. “Donna’s last name?”