And On the Surface Die (33 page)

“Calling every ten minutes isn’t going to help.” Norman was borderline obsessive-compulsive, but the classroom and kitchen profited by his character trait.

“So is your case cleared up? Everything dotted and crossed?” Paul Gable’s body had washed up two days after the storm on Weir’s Beach in Metchosin. The few full-timers left in the RV park had found a grim surprise as they strolled the seaweed-strewn sands one morning. A doctor’s exam had revealed that Janice was still a virgin, but authorities might never know exactly what had happened that night in the campgrounds. Gable had seen Janice walking and offered her a ride on the day he’d decided to flee. She had been the only one who had shown sympathy for him, and they had formed a
folie de deux,
the psychologist said, which biased the girl’s memory. Gable told her that he had witnessed Angie having sex with a boy and confronted her later at the beach, only to have her fall during a struggle. Pulled off the uneven rock shelves by a wave in the dark, she’d been lost to all rescue attempts. Holly didn’t believe it for a minute, nor did Janice’s calling Angie a “bitch” and a “slut” testify to her objectivity. Gable had probably assaulted Angie himself, frustrated by her rebuff. Whatever the case, he’d tried to distract the investigators by staging Billy’s suicide. That spoke volumes.

Her father rubbed his sore chin. “Sometimes life is like that, full of unanswered questions. Do you think that we’ll ever find out what happened to your mother? The raven pendant. Is it a beginning or an end?”

Holly didn’t know how to answer. Some cold cases stayed cold. Others were solved even decades later under the most amazing of circumstances, especially with modern forensics. One man had been convicted on DNA from dog coats collected by officers posing as groomers offering a free pet wash to anyone on the street. The long-lost remains of American’s most famous atheist and her son had been found. Could Jimmy Hoffa be far behind? She gifted her father with the present which always brightened his day, an ice cream sundae of a hug topped by her warmest smile. “Your personal sheriff ’s back in town.”

Shogun stretched and yawned. Then the lights flickered on.

Acknowledgements:

Thanks are due to the Sooke and West Shore RCMP detachments on Vancouver Island, especially Barb Cottingham. And to Jackie and Bryan Meads, our neighbours on Otter Point Place, who helped us weather the century storm with such generosity and kindness. Much appreciation goes to Antje Wagenbach, whose curiosity makes her an excellent copy editor.

Photo by Jan Warren

Lou Allin
was born in Toronto but raised in Ohio when her father followed the film business to Cleveland.

Armed with a Ph.D. in English Renaissance literature, Lou headed north, ending up at Cambrian College in Sudbury, Ontario, where she taught writing and public speaking for twenty-eight years.

Her first Belle Palmer mystery,
Northern Winters Are Murder,
was published in 2000, followed by
Blackflies are Murder, Bush
Poodles Are Murder, Murder Eh?
and
Memories Are Murder
.
Blackflies Are Murder
was shortlisted for an Arthur Ellis Award in the category of Best Novel.

Lou has moved from the bush to the beach: the village of Sooke on Vancouver Island, the inspiration for the Holly Martin mysteries.

Lou welcomes mail and can be reached at [email protected] Her website is
www.louallin.com