“Go on.”
“One time, when Hazel was in town, she asked me to watch out for him.”
“Hazel? But she loathed Roger.”
The incident that had brought them to a boil over Roger and had tied the three outcasts even closer as friends had been an offence directed at Hazel. She had been the star center on the girls' high school basketball team. After the Madden Rockets had won the Regional Division tournament, their team picture had been posted outside the school office. Steve Howard, who had just joined Rank as bass player, had drawn a penis protruding from Hazel's shorts. Sweet Hazel, who'd never hurt anyone, spent a weekend in tears.
Joan had called Gabe and together the three of them had plotted. On Monday, Hazel led the charge. In her firm, controlled manner, she marched into the school office and demanded that the principal deal with the incident. It was as much a political statement about tolerance toward gays and lesbians as anything else. The school administration balked at her demand so the three of them had banded together in protest, refusing to leave the front office until justice was served.
Eventually Mr. Fowler and one of the bachelor trustees came forward in support of Hazel. The principal had no choice but to confront Steve. The teenager caved, revealing that Roger had forced him to do it, had threatened to find another bass player if he didn't. Steve wasn't a bad kid and had been wracked by guilt. Roger never denied any of it. He made a mocking apology that just reinforced that he had minions to do his bidding. That was all the administration expected, and it was never spoken of again.
“Roger became a project for Hazel. In the past few months he had been coming to town more often and seemed to be straightening out. He was excited about playing with Rank again. Couldn't get enough rehearsing in. They'd jam up at Ray and Marlena's.”
“Were you close?” asked Joan.
“I'd stop to chat when I saw him on the street. We played a few games of pool. Truthfully, that's as close as I wanted it. Then it got complicated. Earlier this month I was called over to Mountain View. You remember the seniors' home?”
She nodded.
“Roger was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. At the front desk there's a box to pay for raffle tickets. It's an honour system. You put five bucks in the box and write your name on a ticket stub. There's a monthly prize, dinner for two at the local pizza joint, handmade quilt, that kind of thing. I guess Roger couldn't resist all those fivers staring up at him.”
“He was caught red-handed?”
“He tried to bullshit his way out of it, said he was putting money âin' the jar.” Gabe sighed. “Maybe I should have brought him in. None of this would've happened.”
“Why didn't you?”
“There was a lot of pressure to let it slide. Roger may not have had a lot of friends, but his father is still a pillar here. There was a time when Madden wouldn't have had a doctor if Tom Rimmer hadn't stuck around. He and Laura could've been soaking up the winter sun in Mexico rather than shovelling snow. There's a sense around here that he's owed.”
“So Dr. Rimmer applied pressure?” asked Joan.
“Oh no, never. The doc didn't expect Roger to get special treatment. Didn't want it either, if you ask me. That's just how it is here.”
“What was Roger doing at the seniors home?”
Gabe shrugged. “He wouldn't say.”
As they sat in weighted silence, the waitress came to their table. Young, hip, and svelte, she could have been serving in any downtown Vancouver restaurant. This pleased Joan. She was developing an odd sense of pride in her old hometown.
“Hey there, Gabe. Someone named Hazel left a message for you. She can't make it for dinner. She said something's come up.”
As the young woman took their orders, Joan realized that she was pleased that Hazel wouldn't be joining them. Every moment alone with Gabe felt delicious, like stolen time.
They ate their dinners in easy companionship. Gabe fed her a sample bite of his dinner and smiled as she confidently identified the tastes. His beef tenderloin was seasoned with a delicate mix of ground peppercorn, black, green, and red, but the sauce had been prepared with an artificial beef base added to the fine masala, which to her seemed a culinary crime. He parted his lips to taste her mango salsa, and she felt a sensual thrill run up her back and into her breasts as she slid her fork into his mouth. She could hardly get the words out to describe how the salt of sun-dried tomatoes and the bite of the fresh cilantro combined in perfect harmony with the ripe fruit.
By the time dessert arrived, they were laughing happily at their teenaged antics and sharing anecdotes about what had happened in the intervening years. Although both told stories of funny and horrific dating disasters, neither spoke of their spouses. Before coffee arrived, Joan saw that Gabe was glancing at his watch every few minutes. Their time was coming to a close.
Gabe sat up straighter and his voice became more formal as the conversation turned to work. He talked about the many interviews he still needed to do and the paperwork that would keep him up until late. When he tried to wrestle the bill from her, insisting that she was on his turf, she argued that Madden belonged to both of them.
She'd spent so many years feeling as though she were faking it, as though luck had been the essential element in her success, whether at university in the chemistry faculty “pretending” to be a scientist or at work posing as a team leader. During the past thirty years her memory had filled with grey clouds when her thoughts turned to Madden. But now she knew that this town, with Gabe and Hazel, was the last place that she'd really felt she belonged.
She was disappointed when he stood up to leave. A corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile that pleaded “don't go.”
He bent down. Instead of repeating the brotherly kiss on her cheek, this time he touched his lips to hers and held them there for the briefest moment.
“See ya',” he whispered in her ear before standing.
As he walked out she was sorry that she'd driven downtown. If she'd begged a lift it would have given her an excuse to be alone with Gabe in his truck, driving down Main street at his side, parking at the Twin Pines . . .
God, she laughed to herself. I really am an emotionally stunted juvenile.
The young waitress cleared Gabe's coffee cup with a clatter and Joan noticed her abrupt critical glance. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. So this is how it happens. She'd trespassed into illicit territory. This could mess things up big time, for Gabe's reputation, for the investigation. She didn't understand what was behind his public show of affection, but next time she'd control herself.
G
ABE PARKED HIS SUBURBAN BETWEEN TWO
RCMP cruisers in the Twin Pines parking lot. The crime scene squad was busy at work. It was hard to believe that only twenty-four hours earlier Roger had been prancing across the stage under a pulsating light show. Although it was almost eight o'clock on Saturday evening, it was still broad daylight. At this time of year, a month before summer solstice, it wouldn't get dark until almost eleven. The long, hot summer evenings were something Gabe had missed during the years that he'd lived farther south, and the barely dark night skies would always bind him to this place.
Pulling on a pair of translucent latex gloves, he walked toward Roger's cabin and considered how Roger's choices had been responsible for determining this fate. The singer had known that the reunion committee was trying to save money, but he'd insisted they put him up at the Twin Pines so he wouldn't be forced to stay with his parents. Undoubtedly, he'd hoped to score â women, grass, coke, something â and his parents had laid down the law years before. Although Mrs. Rimmer doted on him, the doctor was hard as nails. Making up for past leniency, Gabe figured. At any rate, if Roger had been in bed up on the hill on Friday night, he'd probably still be alive.
Gabe stepped over the threshold and surveyed the room. A team member, wearing white coveralls, knelt on the floor, scraping up one of many blood samples. On the other side of the bed, Corporal Pam McFarlane was slowly tracking a light over the carpet, checking for blood splatter. She was a scrawny little thing who looked as though she should still be in high school, but she was the most thorough and dedicated cop he had, destined to climb the ladder quickly if RCMP politics didn't fail her. Gabe went to the bedside table where two glasses sat undisturbed. The first, a typical motel waterglass, held a bridge of four front teeth. Obviously Roger wasn't expecting company when his killer arrived. It ruled out a date gone bad.
“McFarlane,” he said, “could you please make sure these get checked out before the funeral. Can't let his last appearance be without his famous smile.”
She nodded solemnly as she took the glass. “When will that be, Gabe?”
He sighed. They both knew the answer depended upon their investigation. “Let's hope it's soon, Corporal.”
She nodded and went back to her task.
Gabe lifted the second glass with his gloved hand. It was a highball tumbler from the lounge. As he waved it under his nose, he recognized aged single-malt scotch. Roger would have been drinking the best since the tab was on the Grad Committee. On the dresser, several items were secured in labelled plastic bags laid out in tidy rows. One item in particular caught his eye. He raised the bag to examine the contents. Inside was an eight-by-ten colour print that had been ripped down the middle then taped back together. Holding it to the overhead light, he recognized the faces. It was a group photograph taken on the afternoon of their high school grad, thirty years before.
The graduation ceremony had been held in early May. After certificates had been handed out, a formal prom had allowed parents either to revel in the glow of their bright lights or to sigh with relief that barely literate offspring had the paper to prove they'd made it through twelve years, or more, of public school. The evening after-party belonged to the kids and was a tribute to debauchery. Designated drivers and dry grads wouldn't be introduced in Madden for another ten years. Seat belts hadn't been mandatory and were usually ignored. Parents waited at home in fear. They listened for the sound of sirens, and were thrilled when drunken sons and vomiting daughters staggered through the door. This photograph, though, was taken at the beginning of it all. Fresh-faced girls, long-haired boys, all in their best outfits, posing for the camera, daring the world to come at them.
Gabe shook his head at the tall beanpole in the back row, pimples glowing orange in the faded colour of the old print. He felt sorry for the awkward youth he'd been. Joan, of course, was absent. There, in a tall, stiff shirt collar, head slightly cocked, was Roger, the best looking of the bunch. With curls hanging in golden ringlets to his chin, he had a feminine quality that had always appealed to the girls. Had he tried to destroy the photograph or had it ripped by accident?
Joan left her car on Main Street and walked the few blocks to the Couch for Mr. Fowler's games night. It was a beautiful evening. The rain shower earlier had washed the sand and salt from the streets. Ancient, twisted lilac trees crowded the stone steps leading to the front door of the old brick building. The bold scent of the white and mauve blossoms announced that the valley was on the brink of summer.
As soon as Joan entered the hallway, she saw that the interior of the building had been entirely renovated. It barely resembled the school where she had lived out long days for almost three years. Vibrant murals covering the halls from floor to ceiling had replaced institutional pink and green paint. Entire walls had been knocked out, resulting in an open lounge in the middle of the building. One door was propped open and she was drawn to the sound of the party. Her first impression was that she was entering a teepee. Three classrooms had been combined to create a large, informal space that was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Hanging lights with colorful paper shades gave the impression of a lower ceiling and made the room warm and intimate.
Mr. Fowler appeared to be in his element. He roamed the room with his glasses pulled down on his nose, chattering away to his guests, providing instructions and advice. There were four card tables set up around the room and a game of chess was in session on a coffee table over by a worn couch. Rank guitarist Rudy Weiss and his wife Monica were playing Monopoly with two other couples at one table. Undoubtedly it wasn't what they had imagined themselves doing on this Saturday night, but they probably welcomed the chance to get out of their hotel room. Their drive home to Prince George would be long and monotonous. Although the police couldn't officially hold anyone, most alumni were staying out of courtesy, or curiosity. There were a couple of others she vaguely recognized, people who as kids had been bussed in from farms and smaller towns to attend high school.
When Mr. Fowler caught sight of Joan, he came over, hooked his arm into hers, and led her to a table occupied by Daphne, Candy, and the stern-looking woman with salt-and-pepper hair who had intimidated Joan at the registration desk the night before.
The woman was introduced as Tracey. She had moved into town at the beginning of grade twelve so their paths had hardly, if ever, crossed. Ed Fowler happily crowded in with the four women.
The only game they all knew was blackjack. Joan wasn't much of a card player, and was relieved: blackjack was something she could bail out of easily. She planned on staying no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. It had been a long and stressful day and she was determined to get a good night's sleep.
Once the cards were dealt, Candy pointed out some of their former classmates in the room. Sarah Markle, whom Ray had dumped for Marlena, was seated with her handsome husband who looked several years older than his wife. Sarah was round, stylish, and comfortable looking. Candy whispered that they were both in the Foreign Service and spent a lot of time in Paris.