She closed her fist as the wind rose and a flurry of rain smashed the window like bullets. Somebody knew where that meth came from. Suddenly she felt as if they weren’t in Kansas any more. With drugs knocking at the door, even Toto wasn’t safe.
S
he drove down West Coast Road through corridors where massive Douglas firs had fueled life for over a century. Now that the rains and cooler weather had arrived, the smell of wood fires filled the air, despite B.C. Hydro’s fourth cheapest power in North America. Many retired neighbours, who had long careers in the forestry industry and enjoyed access to the scrap lots, appreciated the free heat. Suddenly a clear-cut broke the sylvan dream, a few token trees left standing amid the wreckage.
Long rows of power poles marched by the roadside, fragile nineteenth-century technology. After every storm in which lines were taken by falling trees, calls came for the wires to be buried. In new subdivisions, they were. Otherwise, the cost was prohibitive.
The microcosm of the timber industry on Vancouver Island continued. On one side, like a miniature graveyard with tiny white stakes for monuments, were acres of trial seedlings. On the another, a forest planted in 1948. Trees a foot and a half in diameter for six decades of growth. Her mother had been born that year.
On Otter Point Place at last, she crested the sloping driveway and parked her car behind her father’s toy-sized Smart Car, bright red with a bumptious attitude. A muted bark caught her attention. The hillside overlooking the strait resembled a bandshell, reverberating with sounds from all directions. Next door lived Katie, a black lab. Up the hill on the next parallel street, Randy’s Place, were several dogs and a new litter of puppies. She pushed open the back door and found a furry head in her groin. A border collie, young and agile and ready for play. White paint seemed to have been spilled down its ebony head in perfect symmetry. Strange to see a dog in the house after all this time. Bruna had been part of her childhood, followed by Nikon. He’d gone to Rainbow Bridge a month after her mother had vanished. After that, closing himself off to all comforting connections with the excuse that any dog was too much expense and trouble, her father had lived a solitary life.
“What’s going on?” she called as she ruffled its silken fir and traced its ribs ever so slightly, a sign of fitness. “Where did this guy come from? Is it a stray? It looks too healthy to have been on its own for long.”
Her father came through the TV room with a dishcloth in his hand. The smell of liver and onions made her stomach lurch. Doing the shopping for him, she had stocked Chef Boy-ar-dee ravioli in the cupboard, her default meal.
“He’s a rescue. Got him today,” he said. “And he’s been neutered already. A bonus.”
“Why have you been keeping this a secret?” she asked with a nervous laugh. It was his house, and he could do what he wished. His occasional sadness worried her, though he always seemed to pull himself together. Company might smooth things out. As for the comical but shallow breed, there was no accounting for tastes. On the island, border collies could do no wrong. They had free passes for any mischief.
His lean and serious face seemed to relax as he petted the animal. His eyebrows were growing fuzzy and unruly, another sign of an old man. “Suppose I have. Just wanted to think it over. I’ve seen him over by Wink’s at the soccer field. There’s a rescue place on Sooke River Road. Run by a lady called Shannon.”
“Why a border collie?” She didn’t like to discourage her father, but everyone knew that breed was high energy. This wasn’t a farm. It wasn’t even fully fenced, with the front open and one side a hedge of cedars.
“Thanks to the wise breeding of working dogs, their health is excellent and their disposition generally good. I know you loved our sheps, but their health problems cost a fortune. And this man doesn’t eat more than two cups of kibble a day. A few quality treats like bison sticks are allowed. Very economical.”
“But what about exercise? Aren’t they pretty demanding?” Watching her watch him, the dog wheeled, grabbed a rope tugger and presented it to her.
“Depends on the individual. But Hogan/Logan can settle down quickly, and he’s already house-trained, so that’s another plus. I’d never take on a new pup. Bonnie always kept each shepherd in bed with us and trained them in two weeks flat. She’d get up at all hours of the night to take them out.” He reached over and pulled out a bag with tennis balls and Chuck-it wand. “Shannon suggested running him off his feet with this device. Modern version of the atlatl.” He mimed a toss, and she ducked as she laughed.
“Hogan/Logan? Did a poet wannabe name him? Or does he have a split personality?” She succumbed and gave the rope a tug up and down and from side to side. The dog fixed her gaze with the same insane focus that genes had given him for sheep. Was he one hundred per cent nature, or would nurture play a role?
Her father sighed. “He’s had a sad history. His first owner wanted a rescue dog to help her train for marathons, but was refused because she worked long hours. She got a pup from a breeder.”
“Marathons. It’s a dog’s dream. Plenty of exercise.”
“Shannon said that pups shouldn’t run those distances.
And the rest of the time she left him alone in a yard in Esquimalt fourteen hours a day. He barked his brains out.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Though not warming to the animal, she felt sorry for his bad luck.
“So she gave him up. Points for one good decision. For the last six months, he’s been in foster homes. They changed his name to Logan.”
“Enough already.” Holly snapped her fingers at Hogan/ Logan and pointed away. To his credit, the dog stopped pestering her, picked up a ball and turned to the other human. “Logan’s even worse. Any ideas?”
Jackie and Bryan’s diesel truck chugged up the drive next door. The dog dropped the ball and gave a roaring bark. Thirty pounds of attack dog. “Small guy, big voice. Doesn’t he sound like a warrior, like...a Shogun?”
But when she tried to pet him, the dog growled and veered away. “What’s that about?” she asked.
Her father waved his hand. “He’s talking. Mumbling. Typical. Means nothing. I’ve been on-line at a rescue site.” True enough, Shogun picked up the tug again and presented it to her.
“Who’s going to walk him?” She passed her father a questioning look. He had far more free time than she did. Ivory tower perks.
“I am, of course.” He gave her an impish smile. “Unless you want to take a turn. Now and then. Be some company for you. Take him to work.”
“I don’t think so. He’s not a service animal, and he’s too small to be a protector. On a good day, I could tuck him under my arm.”
Excusing herself, she went upstairs. On the bedroom wall were pictures of Bruna at sunset on the beach, her noble head posed in profile like Nefertiti’s. Then Nikon, a puppy gazing up from the green leaves of a salal bush, his floppy ears a comical beret. In his handsome youthful vigor, leaping over a log with a determined look in his eyes. She’d always remember those shepherd eyes, deep and sober, penetrating and wise, retaining that connection even when old bones creaked and flaccid muscles flagged. Not foxy like this young man’s but full of purpose, asking, “What serious matter will we attend to today, mistress?” Not what can I pull, tug or chase to please myself? It’s all about ME. No wonder border collies didn’t appear in the ranks of guide dogs and other selfless creatures. They were too frivolous to be soulmates. Though she admired the sleek coat, white shirt and ruff with matching paws, handsome is as handsome does. Shogun reminded her of Jeff Pasquin, a shallow pretty boy in youthful plumage. She didn’t trust either one.
A
t ten the next rainy morning, Lindsey Benish appeared at the station with her mother in tow. The girl wore hip-hugger jeans exposing a flat belly with a red jewel in the navel. Her skin was clear and luminous, but her eyes were heavy with mascara and glittery eyeshadow. The liner-defined lipstick was charcoal. She wore blue plastic clogs, an island touch. Ann had provided them with coffee and a soda, and they perched like two hawks, their noses a genetic road map. Mrs. B had seventy pounds on her daughter and wore a bright, floral-print dress. Holly was sure she’d seen her at the Village Market, loaded up like a pack mule with chips, popcorn, soda and a bale of frozen chimichangas.
“You’re early. Thanks for coming,” Holly said, offering a stand for their umbrellas, ushering them into her office and hustling another chair from the lunchroom. She felt like a stage manager operating under an absent but demanding director. Whitehouse was overdue, perhaps due to the rain. He’d burned her ears over the phone when he’d called her back to discuss the new meth development. Obviously he preferred the case dead and buried, flawed or not.
“Are
you
going to interview my daughter?” Mrs. B asked. Lindsey took a lurid graphic novel from her backpack and began flipping pages as she popped dark brown gum. The air filled with chocolate. Her eyes fat slits, Mrs. B gave her daughter an elbow.
Holly managed an official smile. Had the crystal meth issue not arisen, she might have handled the girl alone. Whitehouse had been furious about having to reschedule his appointments. “Inspector Whitehouse should be here any minute. He’s coming from the
city.” That in itself sounded impressive.
While she was checking a list of questions, she heard a car roar up and a door slam. A few mutters from the main office, and Whitehouse came into the room. He wore a drenched beige raincoat spattered with mud. Puddles seeped from his shoes, and his pants were soaked to his knees. When he took off his hat, droplets fell from his dishevelled hair to his nose and down his jutting chin. “Flooding at Gillespie. I had to push a stalled cab. How does anybody commute from this no-man’s land?”
“We all just got here anyway,” Holly said. Maybe Chipper had some spare pants in his locker. Then again...she rather enjoyed Whitehouse’s predicament.
With a shake of his head, he left, presumably for the bathroom. Five minutes later, he took his seat at the head of the interview table. Clearly he was unused to looking the least bit unkempt.
Holly composed herself and practiced a neutral look. Whitehouse was her leader, like it or not, and she needed to fall in behind him. There were no I’s in TEAM, a platitude flourishing for good reason. So far she felt merely TAME, but she needed to toe the same line everyone did. Even her father had jumped through many hoops getting tenure. Suck it back or set up your own private-eye business like Boone had.
Introductions made, Whitehouse sifted a few papers and levelled his icy grey eyes at Lindsey. She presumed he’d read the statements, including Chipper’s short interview. He wasted no time. “Where were you the night that Angie went missing?”
Lindsey turned another comic page. Whitehouse repeated himself. “Lindsey. Are you hard of hearing, girl?”
Her swollen feet crossed in cruel sandals, Mrs. B shifted in her chair, waves of a cloying vanilla perfume wafting across the room. She nudged her daughter. “Put that down.”
“Where was I?” She sipped from the soda and wrinkled her nose at the bubbles.
”The whole night. Don’t play coy. You’re wasting our time.”
Whitehouse raised his voice another notch. Holly could read the anger in his eyes as a gauge neared the red zone.
“I don’t see why I have to talk to anyone
again.
Been there, done that.”
“We’re not designing T-shirts here. Something new has come up. You’ll find out on a need-to-know basis.”
Holly approved the joke but not the jargon. This vacuous girl seemed a perfect match for Jeff. Babe and the Ox.
His face purpling and his breathing speeding up, Whitehouse added an ominous touch to his timbre, nailing each word. “So get to the point. A girl is dead. We’re no longer sure it was an accident.”
Lindsey sat up straight, the cogs of her brain finally turning. “So like you think she was...murdered? Get out.”
A black storm cloud crossed his features. Whitehouse remained rigid, but Mrs. B flapped a placating hand and assumed an apologetic tone. “She says that all the time. It’s just silly slang. No offense. Sometimes she says ‘shut up’, if you can imagine. Same thing. Kids. Go figure.”
Whitehouse gave the mother a withering stare. She folded her chubby arms defensively and watched her daughter. Was Whitehouse married? He wore no ring, and he did not seem able to handle women except to bully them.
Cornered, Lindsey explained that she had sat around the campfire with the gang. Then she’d gone to bed around eleven. Jeff came to her tent...at this point she had the wisdom to look a bit flustered in front of her mother...and spent the night.
Her mother tried to cross a leg and failed, so she sat up, mustering her dignity. “Lindsey’s old enough to know the facts of life. She’s on the pill and always insists on con...oh I hate that word...I mean protection. What can a mother do these days? Mine always said, ‘Forewarned is forearmed’.”
“Did Jeff tell you about us?” Lindsey’s beady eyes narrowed, and she stuck out her pointed chin.
“You’re a bright girl. What do you think?”
“Well, he was there. I’m not saying he was himself, though.” She tugged on an earlobe. A
tell,
Holly thought. But what was the message?
“Explain that,” Whitehouse asked.
She gave an annoying, tittering kind of laugh. “He was wasted. He passed out before...anything happened.”
Her mother placed one hand on her ample chest and took a deep breath. “Lindsey, you told me he was a nice young man. When he came to dinner, he even volunteered to wash—”
“Mother, please. They don’t care about that.” Lindsey swung her flat face back to Whitehouse. “Jeff didn’t go anywhere. Had a super headache the next morning, too.”
Her mother assumed a hurt tone. “Were you drinking, too, Lindsey? You promised after the last—”
Lindsey lifted one finger. Like its fellows, it was long and pointed, a gel job in fluorescent green. Holly had had her nails done once. The next day, three broke off when she had to change a tire in the bush. “One beer. I swear. It’s no big deal. How many margaritas do you pack away before Dad gets home?”