Kim Bass, the English teacher, had an oval face with high cheekbones. About Holly’s age, she wore wheat jeans and a faded plaid shirt. Her sleek black hair was razored at the sides. She wore soft, beaded moccasins that looked more comfortable than Holly’s hot, stiff boots, which had raised a blister on her heel with the prolonged and irregular beach walking. Kim’s voice was husky and low, sweet as lemonade on a July afternoon. “Angie was in my British Lit survey this year. I also had her in tenth grade for Communications. Straight A’s.”
“When did you see her last night?”
She shuddered, even though the day was warm, sun streaming through the trees. A sheen of sweat broke out on her brow. Doe eyes and a faintly darker complexion made Holly wonder if she had First Nations connections. “Dinner, of course. There was a volleyball game.” She pointed to an open area, where a net was set up. A lone, deflated ball sat to one side. “We were all playing.
Angie won nearly every serve. A natural athlete.”
“And afterwards?”
“I developed a headache and went to my tent for an early bedtime. Smoke from the campfire maybe. Kills my sinuses.” She gave a small cough into her hand. “Not that I expected to get much sleep with all these teenagers, but I took a sleeping pill.”
Holly’s eyebrow rose. “I see.”
“My head was throbbing like a jet engine.” She levelled her gaze at Holly and gave a weary sigh. The sclera were pink and inflamed. “You remember slumber parties. Girls can yak all night. The boys keep it down.”
“Lucky you brought a supply, then.” Had the woman been unconscious? Was she on a medication with unusual side effects like sleepwalking?
“Just generic stuff. They were in my personals bag from a trip to England a year ago. I always take a couple on the plane.”
* * *
Having been told that Jeff had been Angie’s former boyfriend, Chipper directed the young man to a bench under a massive Sitka spruce with its trademark cracked bark. “Do you carry one of those cool daggers?” Jeff asked, unable to take his eyes from Chipper’s uniform.
Chipper’s soft smile hid an internal eye roll at the naïve question, but he refused to answer directly. “Actually, it’s called a sword, though the use is purely ceremonial. It’s a very old custom dating back over four hundred years.”
“Wicked. I’ve seen a few. Way better than crucifixes and rosaries.” Jeff awarded himself a congratulatory snort on the joke.
Chipper explained the interview process to the young man. “And your relationship to Angie?”
Jeff straightened his broad shoulders and completed a bullish neck roll. “We were dating.
Were.
Not this year.”
“What happened between you, if I may ask?” Chipper made a point of writing neatly. It was one of his trademarks.
Jeff blew out a contemptuous breath. “That’s no secret. Everyone used to see us arguing.”
Chipper’s pen poised. The boy seemed more angry than wounded by the death. On instinct alone, he didn’t like the teen. Cocky and immature. Interested in immediate gratification. Disciplined about his sport, but accustomed to the accolades as a birthright. Jeff wouldn’t have had to fight for anything. Chipper found himself listening to his inner voice instead of his subject and gave an internal shake. “Arguing about what?”
“Hey, man, you know chicks. Teasing you. Gets to be a hassle.” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
“We need to be clear. Are you saying that she wouldn’t... have sex with you?” One ebony eyebrow arched into a question. His stomach rumbled faintly, and he shifted.
“Don’t spread it around, man. I had all the guys thinking I’d been into her pants for months.” Then his eyes narrowed, and he turned away, miming a cigarette toke at a friend raising a pack. “Almost finished, dude,” he called.
“Were you trying to get back together with her last night?” Chipper asked, annoyed that Jeff seemed to have his own agenda. He needed to take back the interview. A small muscle in his neck started aching from tension.
Jeff turned to him with a worldly-wise curl to his full lips. “Just some fun. Why not? Didn’t work out, so I blew her off. We were going off to different universities anyway. Who cares? Follow what I’m saying?”
“Oh, I follow completely, sir.” Chipper snapped his notebook shut.
* * *
Last on Holly’s list was Janice Mercer. A short, wide girl with blocky glasses came over. Instead of the revealing shorts that most girls wore, her denim pair hung nearly to her knees, topped by a Save the Rainforest sweatshirt. Her eyes were beady and swollen, and she sniffed at intervals. “I was her tent partner, but honest, I conked right out around nine. Mom says I sleep like a log. I never saw her after dinner at all. She just, like, vanished.”
Holly let her talk for a moment. Janice hugged herself and gave a shiver. “Brr. I’ve been going all hot and cold, but I’m not sick. Do you think it’s shock?” She blinked at Holly, an innocent calf-like creature at first glance, but with crafty intelligence behind the pose. She reminded Holly of someone who sought small advantage by talking behind a person’s back. A sneak.
“Very likely. If there’s a regular soft drink around, try that. Or coffee with sugar.”
“Yuck. I never drink caffeine. Just herbal tea. Chai.” Her cautious diet hadn’t helped a serious case of acne. Having skated clear herself as a teen, Holly could only imagine the humiliation.
“Please tell me what happened. Anything you remember.”
“Not that she was my good friend. I’m not very popular. That’s ’cause I believe in hard work, not fooling around like some of these...kids.” She waved a stubby hand in their general direction. Her nails were short and serviceable, without a hint of polish.
“It’s tough. I was kind of independent, too.” Holly revised her strategy. Here was a girl on the edge of the crowd, quiet, paint on the wall, but perhaps a conduit for information. On the other hand, sometimes these types sucked up extra attention, embellished their stories or even lied to attract a rare spotlight. She moved closer, locking eyes as if they were confidantes. “What’s everyone saying?”
Janice gave a humph. “I don’t pay them any mind. They’re all so stupid. The boys show off like gorillas, and the girls talk about nothing but clothes and make-up. And they read
Teen
magazine. My parents gave me a subscription to
National
Geographic.”
Holly had to smile. “So did mine.”
Despite the years gone by and the addition of boys, not much would have changed at Notre Dame. In Holly’s day, even the lunch tables had status levels. She gave Janice an understanding nod. With a more flattering hair-do, a touch of natural makeup for those zits and some less intrusive glasses, she might be a late bloomer...if she got a personality transplant. “High school is an artificial world. I tried to forget it as fast as I could. And you’re a senior now.”
The girl leaned closer. “They’re all losers. They just don’t know it yet.” Her tone was bitter, with an undercurrent of strange confidence. She saw someone in the crowd and brightened. “Do you have any more questions? I need to ask Mr. Gable something.”
Holly set her free and reviewed her notes. She couldn’t see Chipper.
Gable walked toward her a few minutes later. “Have you talked to the students you mentioned? I’ve been making some calls from the restaurant phone. The parents will be at the school in an hour and a half to pick up their teens.” He brushed a hand through his hair and sighed. “God, the place will be buzzing. At least, that’s what happened when we lost two boys to an auto accident last summer. Alcohol was a factor. And speed.”
Holly turned at the diesel rumble of an elephantine motorhome in blinding chrome entering the campground. She was hardly aware of the fact that she spoke aloud. “Now’s the worst part.”
He cocked his head, a concerned smile on his lips. “I don’t follow.”
“Telling the family,” she said, turning to a fresh page. “Do you have an address, offhand? Nate’s the father, you said? Same last name as Angie? I have to ask these days.”
He touched her arm, an honest plea in those grey eyes. “Listen, could I come along? Nate and I have been good friends since I moved to the island. We’ve both raised money for the Lions Club.”
She thought for a minute. This should be her task and hers alone. No shortcuts to this heart-tugging ritual. But Gable knew the man. The father might need someone to stay with him. People often said that of women, but men were equally, if not more sensitive. A man was more likely than a woman to commit suicide after a love affair gone bad, partially because his choice of weapon was more fatal, a gun rather than pills. The romance of death supped from the blood and bone of the young and impressionable.
“I’d appreciate it.” Gable would be the first contact person should more information be needed. There was nothing suave or smooth about him, just an earnestness that proved he cared about his charges. The stereotypical job of vice-principal put him in control of discipline, a dull but necessary job outside of the inner city. Presumably he had his eye on a principalship, either at Notre Dame or another Catholic high school. Even now, were there any woman principals in the parochial system?
He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a thoughtful gesture. This would be a brutal assignment for him, too, she imagined. “Maybe I should call Nate first. Normally we’d be watching the Major League playoffs together. Boys’ night out. Pizza and beer.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the ground.
“Thanks, but we prefer to tell the family ourselves.” Not only was it a courtesy, but in the odd case where the parents might be involved in a crime, it was necessary to gauge their reactions.
Gable paused for a moment, then blew out a breath in frustration. “But I—”
“Protocol.” She gave him a sincere but professional smile. Her vocabulary was beginning to assemble a category of helpful terms which made an officer sound efficient but still human.
“Okay, I guess that’s best.” He pressed his palms together. “Can we meet at the Grant Road turn at four? They live on Rhodenite. Nate works as a senior manager at Costco in Langford, but he has weekends off.” He paused as if something else bothered him. “Sure I can’t even call him? Give him a minute to prepare for the bad news.”
Holly closed her notebook. “Think about it. That would be even worse. Letting the man stew for an eternity, wondering about the details. We’re counting on you to help us do things the right way.”
As they returned to their respective vehicles, she could hear him mustering the youths to pack up. Clearly, the entry of civilian personalities could compromise even the most straightforward situation. She remembered how Ben Rogers had played a distraught family like a sweet piano until he got the necessary information. An older boy had been molesting the neighbourhood children, often through his sessions as a babysitter. The fact that he worked cheaper than the girls had made him popular. Avid churchgoer and boy scout, he was the last person to suspect. The children adored him and his gifts of candy. Apparently he was quite gentle, convinced that his affections were welcome. Recalling that sad monster gave her the shivers.
“I’m going to call in,” she said to Chipper. When the radio failed to work, she added, “I thought we were on West Coast Repeater west of Sooke.”
Chipper fiddled with the controls and shook his head. “It’s in and out like a yo-yo.”
Cells also out of range as expected, they found a pay phone at a service station. Holly didn’t like the feeling of being hung out to dry. What if something went seriously wrong? The techies had been working on the problem for years. At the end of the line, Port Renfrew was stricken when their phone lines went down in storms. Last week a car rushing a patient to hospital had crashed, leaving two victims to the failures of telecommunications along a rocky, forested coast.
Back in Fossil Bay, she and Chipper completed their paperwork at the detachment. Late reports were an officer’s bane. This would be a good test of the man’s determination... and his grammar. Careless errors which emerged in court cast doubt on the investigatory skills of an officer and could toss a case into the garbage can. Ann had left on their arrival, taking her aching back to an early bed.
A few hours later, she rendezvoused with Gable at the busy corner of Grant Rd. Noticing that he drove a venerable VW bus with large flowers painted on the side, she couldn’t help but comment when they parked on Rhodenite Drive in a tidy suburban enclave. “I know,” he said with a grin as he bumped the rusty door with a hockey hip block. “Got it from the collection of an aging hippie draft dodger. Runs an organic farm in Duncan. As old as the Vietnam War, but it still ticks like a Timex. While the weather’s still good, I plan to do some exploring on the island. Strathcona Provincial Park, Cathedral Grove. Come winter, I might get over to Whistler for some skiing.”
The Didricksons lived in a pink stucco storey-and-a-half home, judging from the rounded brown shingles, probably built in the early nineties. A towering monkey puzzle tree grew on the front lawn. As they walked along the bricked path, Holly gazed up at the heavy fruits ready to fall. Late-blooming azaleas and plump rhodos added riots of pink and purple to the tropical effect. Greater Victoria benefitted from the Japanese current, which moderated temperatures. Neither too hot nor too cold. The perfect porridge. A glossy black vintage Mercedes sat in the drive, ready for a Sunday parade. Islanders pampered their classic cars, freed from the salt and wear of winter driving. Forty-year-old Mustangs mingled with Gremlins, Bonnevilles, Pintos and the odd Studebaker Golden Hawk.
More nervous as they approached, Holly reviewed her courses in Interpersonal Communications, Crisis Management and Grieving. What had she learned about breaking bad news? Empathy. Eye contact. No box of tissues to replace the charming but unhygienic handkerchief. She hoped she wouldn’t stutter.
“Ready?” Gable gave her an encouraging look. For a moment, she thought he was going to squeeze her hand.
She knocked firmly, and the door was opened by a large man with broad shoulders. He had a slight beer belly, but the fitness genes announced themselves, and so did the aromas of bacon and fried potatoes from a late breakfast. In comfortable jeans, he wore a polo shirt and carried a copy of the
Times
Colonist
under his arm, a welcoming smile on his round face, thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing her uniform, he furrowed his brow, then looked at Gable, a question in his cool blue eyes.