“C'mon, Joan. ” He slurred with the composure of a practiced drunk. “I came to apologize.”
She didn't believe him and didn't want to engage in an argument.
“Please, Joan, just listen a minute. I'm sorry about tonight. I really am.”
She spoke through the hollow-core door. “You're drunk, Roger. Go away.” There was silence for a moment then mumbling. Joan put her ear to the door and realized that he was still talking but his voice had slid lower. He was sitting on the pavement, leaning against her door, continuing his monologue.
“The liquor kills the pain, Joan. I'm seein' ghosts here.”
“Ghosts?” she asked. “You're hallucinating.” What was she doing? Now he knew he had an audience.
“Not like that. My own ghost. You think I don't know how stupid I look? Leaping around on stage like an old billy goat, with that smart-ass eighteen-year-old rock star laughing from the footlights?” He paused and Joan thought he had gone. Then he started again.
“I don't know what hurts more, my back or my fucking ego. Coming back to Madden like this, just shows what a loser I am.” He was just getting started. Joan sat on the floor beside the door and listened as he described how, after high school, he'd scraped by playing rock ân' roll in clubs up and down the California coast. When heat from US immigration got to be too much, he married one of the girls who hung with the band.
“You had groupies?” This surprised her even more than the fact that he'd been married.
“Funny, hey? Oh, we thought we were hot. We travelled in an old VW van with my picture painted on the side. I saw a photo of it later, the van. I looked like a fucking girl in a shampoo commercial.” He was silent a moment, finding the thread of his thoughts. “The bitch of it was that we weren't all that great. The kids that followed us, they were as lost as we were.” He continued quietly. “Crystal should have known that the marriage was a big sham. I just did it for my green card. We were living in a motel in Yakima. We were both so strung out. When we did sleep, it was coma-land, the sleep of the dead. One morning, I just slipped out the door. I made sure I left her enough smack for a morning hit and cash for the Greyhound back to Oklahoma. If I'd woken her, she would've made a scene. You know what I mean?”
“You're a coward,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, c'mon. It would've been hard on everybody.” His voice became a mumbling whisper as he momentarily drifted. “Little Crystal. Last I heard, she was hooking in Seattle and surviving downtown. She'd be in her forties now.” He paused. “If she's still alive. But, hey, s'not my problem. I have a hard enough time holding my shit together.”
At that, Joan heard him get up and stumble away. He hadn't come to apologize. He'd just wanted an audience. She gazed at her hand to confirm that she was trembling, and wondered if it was more anger or fear. Roger had had so much going for him. He was an adored only child; his dad was the kind but befuddled town doctor, and his mom had always stayed at home, always fussed over him. And he'd been undeniably handsome. How could somebody who had been handed so much make such a mess of it?
Finally, Joan crawled into the hard motel bed and pulled the covers over her head, but sleep didn't come as easily this time.
A scream woke her. As though to confirm that it wasn't a dream, another scream punctuated the silence. And another. They sounded close, from the trees outside or from one of the nearby cabins. She didn't know how long she had slept but it was still dark. Her head was clearer than it had been. She wiped the raccoon circles from under her eyes and threw her coat over her shoulders. By the time she stepped outside there were lights on in a couple of cabins, with others flicking on as though a sequential switch had been flipped. The screaming was coming from a figure outside of the farthest cabin. Joan recognized Marlena as the slight woman collapsed into a fetal crouch. Slipping mud-caked runners onto her bare feet, she rushed to Marlena's side as others appeared in the parking lot. Blood was streaked across her high-heel sandals: so much blood. Joan put her arm around Marlena's shoulders, but the panicked woman pulled away.
“You,” she hissed. “You did this. You killed Roger.”
Joan slowly rose to her feet as Marlena continued with a string of loud, hysterical accusations.
G
ABE SETTLED INTO HIS FAVOURITE CHAIR
with a mug of tea and a signed, first edition of Robertson Davies'
The Cunning
Man
. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep right away. All the way home he had thought about Joan and even now couldn't keep the grin off his face. She was the one who didn't live here anymore, yet he felt as though
he
'd come home. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had such an easy conversation with anyone. At work there was always a hint of formality. The other cops liked him fine, but there was always a distance, possibly because of his time in the city. He had a solid relationship with his son, but never completely revealed himself. And Betty â well she'd be happy if she never had to speak to him again. Tomorrow he would let Joan know how happy he was to have a real friend back in his life. He was about to put his book away when the phone rang.
“Gabe, it's Des.” The corporal sounded shaken. “There's been a homicide.”
Joan looked at her watch. It was two-fifteen in the morning. As soon as the RCMP car pulled into the motel parking lot, Marlena ran up and screamed at the husky young officer as he climbed out. “I saw them making out in the hallway,” she screamed. She pointed at Joan. “Her! Her and Roger!”
If Joan had swilled four G and Ts, Marlena had soaked in a bathtub of rye. Would anyone believe her accusations?
Through the rain she saw Marlena's husband, Ray. He'd joined the growing circle of onlookers, but didn't do anything to stop his wife's ranting, nor did he offer her any sort of comfort.
Gabe's SUV pulled up, splashing through the pitted gravel. He climbed out, nodded in Joan's direction but didn't stop, didn't smile, and went directly to have a word with the young cop.
Marlena immediately draped herself over him like a sodden rag. “It was awful, Gabe. I walked in, there was blood all over the place. All over the bed.”
“I gotta take a look around, Marlena. We'll take your statement in a bit.” He gently peeled her from his arm, handed her back to Corporal Des Cardinal, then headed to the cabins. The door to number 23 was hanging open. As with all the motel units, there were signs of forced entry from years of drunken parties. Bikers, rig workers, and high school kids, they'd all left their mark: old damage, painted over, but not completely erased. The clientele of the rejuvenated Pine Tree Resort was more upscale: convention delegates coming for the upgraded facility, families enjoying the close proximity to the lake, faculty visiting Lakeview College that had been established in Madden the previous year. Inside each one-room cabin were a bed and dresser, a kitchenette area with a microwave and small fridge, a table and a sofa. Entrances faced the parking lot, but each unit also had a sliding patio door leading to a picnic area by the woods.
Gabe braced himself before crossing the threshold. The smell of new murder blasted him as he entered the room. He was accustomed to the iron scent of blood. Although homicides were not all that common in Lakeview County, death came regularly by way of accidents and suicides. This, however, was different. He had never investigated the murder of someone he'd known since childhood. That their relationship had been such an emotional one made it even stranger. Roger lay slack-jawed, with his head hanging over the end of the bed. A butcher knife protruded from his chest. Forensics would identify the exact number of wounds, but Gabe instantly knew that someone had savagely stabbed Roger multiple times. All he had on was a worn pair of boxers decorated with cartoon reindeer. Pale and skeletal, the rocker looked impossibly old. His famous curls appeared more white than blond in this light, at least the locks not soaked crimson did, and his outstretched arms were etched with the road map of drug abuse that had spanned his adult life. The amount of blood sprayed on the wall above the headboard and over the bedside lamp was startling, even to a seasoned cop. Somebody had been angry with Roger, angry enough to kill him over and over again. Or afraid, wanting to make certain that he wouldn't get up again. It didn't look as though he had struggled. Whoever it was had surprised the rock star. But he'd been awake when the knife went in the first time.
Marlena was slightly more sober a half hour later when Gabe questioned her in the lobby of the resort. Her statement would have to be weighed against her inebriation and her tendency to exaggerate.
“It was open when I got there,” she said.
“Open, as in âwide open'?”
“No. Open as in it sort of opened when I knocked, like it wasn't closed tight.”
“And what did you do next?”
“I called, quiet, you know, like: âRoooger'. Like that.”
“And?”
“I went in.” She shuddered. “And saw him there on the bed.”
“Did you hear anything?”
Marlena shook her head.
“Or see anybody?”
Her eyes snapped toward him. “Of course I did. Don't try to get her off the hook, Gabe. I may not have seen her in his room, but I know bloody well that Joan did it. I saw Roger come out of her room. And I saw them making out in the hall by the bathrooms when the band took a break.”
Gabe talked to Joan next. She stood looking out of the large lobby windows. But there was little to see in the darkness. More likely, she'd been watching his mirrored reflection as he questioned Marlena. He handed her a coffee.
“She says you and Roger were . . . ” She was watching him as he groped for the most delicate words. “Being intimate in the hallway by the johns.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“That you had your hands all over each another. Listen Joan, I'll end up questioning dozens of people. Roger had a lot of friends and even more enemies. Could you just tell me what happened?”
“When I went to the washroom, Roger followed me. He came on to me in the hallway and he wouldn't back off. I left through the emergency door. That's what set the alarm off last night.”
Gabe remembered that she'd done the same thing when they had gone to a Led Zeppelin concert in Vancouver. They had tried to be cool but couldn't stand the crowds and smoke. Escaping through the exit door, the blaring alarm had exposed them. They'd been seventeen years old. This time the escape had been more serious.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you're his friend and it was nothing. He'd been drinking and I'd handled it. At least I thought I had. Just after 1:00 am. he knocked on my door.”
“Why?” he asked.
“He was drunk, he didn't need a reason although he said it was to apologize.”
“That possibly makes you the last one to see him alive.” They were both silent.
She looked at the Styrofoam cup in her hand. “I better not finish this. I doubt that the reunion dinner will happen now.
I'll need a nap before I head for home.”
“Peg Chalmers is head of the organizing committee. She won't let a little homicide mess up her plans.” His effort to make it less awkward landed badly. “Besides . . . ” He felt the line between them shift. “It would be better if you didn't leave town just yet. We can't officially ask you to stay.”
“You mean I'm a suspect?”
“Hell, Joannie, we're all candidates. Someone killed Roger.” He took the cup from her hand. “You better get some rest. Do you want me to walk you to your cabin?”
When they reached her door, Gabe simply put a hand on her shoulder, gave her a sad, lopsided smile, then walked away. She bolted the door and added the chain latch for extra measure. She checked the patio door to make sure it was locked then looked in the bathroom and under the bed. She changed into her yoga pants and a sweatshirt in case she had to make another instant appearance. As she was crawling under the covers she noticed the message light on her phone blinking. Had it been on when she got in last night? She followed the recorded instructions for retrieving voicemail.
“Hey, babe.” It was Mort. “Checking in on my favourite gin tanker. I tried your cell. Hope you're not too bored out there in the boonies.”
“Bored,” thought Joan. As she closed her eyes the early morning sun was already cutting a razor of light across the ceiling.
T
HE COFFEE MAKER GURGLED AND HISSED
while the hot water dripped through a generic pre-packaged coffee filter. Joan was accustomed to a rich dark Italian roast brewing, but the scent of any coffee was better than none and essential to the beginning of her day. She sat on the edge of the bed and searched the impossibly thin Madden phone book for Peg Chalmer's number. After four rings, a young woman answered.
“Peg?”
“I'll get her,” was the response. The phone clattered onto a hard surface.
After a long wait the receiver at the other end was picked up. “Hello?” Peg sounded quiet and tired. She explained that she'd been hit hard with the flu and a blinding headache. Normally wild horses couldn't have kept her from the reunion. She'd been heading the planning committee for three years. Peg was beside herself over Roger's death. Never in a million years had she expected anything so horrible to happen. She'd braced herself for a fist fight or two but never death, never murder. “And it's totally my fault.”
“Your fault?” asked Joan.
“The entertainment committee didn't think we should spring for a motel room, that he should stay with his parents,” said Peg. “We're running on a skeleton budget. I agreed with the committee at first, but Roger wouldn't let up about it. Let him feel like a star, poor guy. That's what I thought. If I hadn't caved at the last minute, I bet he'd still be alive.” She'd already said that to the police. Corporal Cardinal had called first thing this morning to ask her to pull together a list of reunion participants, but she didn't have an actual list of who had shown up. The women at the registration table weren't certain that everyone had signed in last evening. They knew for sure that some people had arrived late.