Once she was safely in her car, Joan debated calling Gabe. She had little to offer him. How seriously would the Elgar RCMP take her when she explained how a few million molecules wafting through the air could give her information very few others would be aware of? The simple action of moving the drapes would have dispersed the scent to a level where even she might have trouble identifying it again. No normal nose could possibly detect the smell. Besides, she had a clue, but didn't know where it led yet. She wouldn't be doing Gabe any favours by sending him on a wild goose chase. She needed to figure this out on her own.
The day had started to warm as Joan drove into the parking lot of the Mountain View Lodge. She veered to avoid a pair of elderly women pushing walkers, both of whom stopped and stared before they continued on their way, shaking their heads. Joan admitted to herself that she was distracted and had been driving too quickly. Time and space were collapsing on her.
Mountain View Lodge was a three-storey brick-and-siding structure built in the Sixties. There had been expansions since then. A glassed-in dining room and lounge protruded from the front; this gave the place a more contemporary feel, yet the fragrance of the traditional flower garden, of its geraniums and hollyhocks and lily of the valley, transported Joan back to her grandmother's welcoming cottage.
The resident manager, Theresa Milton, was a tall, warm-mannered woman in a pale yellow business suit. She led Joan past the front desk and into her office, leaving the door open so that she could keep one eye on the reception area.
“We usually have more volunteers than we can schedule. People enjoy coming here.” Then she added with a smile, “And we feed them well in exchange for their time.”
Joan got right to her question. “Was Roger Rimmer a volunteer here?”
The happy glow deserted Ms. Milton's face. She shook her head slowly. “No.”
“But he did come here?”
“If you're referring to the theft, I was the one who caught him. The jar was full of bills and coins in the morning that he was here, then gone right after he left.”
“So you didn't actually see him do it?” asked Joan.
“One of our residents did. He denied it, of course. Tried to charm his way out of it, which was, to say the least, unappealing.”
Joan imagined time-ravaged Roger playing the lady's man with this centred, much younger woman. “There was nobody else who could have done it?” she inquired.
Theresa went on to explain that everyone else who had been at Mountain View that day had a clear reason.
“He wasn't visiting anyone?”
“Can I ask why you're interested? I do have to protect patient confidentiality.”
“Was it Mr. Pyle?” continued Joan, “Harold Pyle?”
Theresa Milton hesitated then nodded. “Mr. Rimmer came a couple of times the week before he died. Tragic, just tragic,” she added.
Joan explained that she had known Mr. Pyle when she was a girl. “How's he doing?”
Ms. Milton said that life at the lodge agreed with Harold Pyle. Since moving here he'd transformed. When he first arrived he wouldn't play cards or dance and he criticized most of their movie choices, but after getting over his wife's death, his religious fervor died. “Now he teaches the two-step class. But,” she warned, “he still has outbursts. When you're a control freak all of your life, it doesn't desert you completely. But, a good brisk walk and he returns a new man.” She wrote a room number on a slip of paper and slid it across the desk to Joan.
“He goes out on his own?” asked Joan.
Theresa Morton smiled kindly. “It's their home, not a prison.”
It was past lunch and the sunroom was crowded with residents playing cards and socializing. Joan continued down the hall until she came to room 107. The door was partly open but she knocked anyway.
A voice called out, “Hold your horses, hold your horses. I'm just getting my specs. Deal me out of this hand if you're so impatient.” He came around the corner from his closet and saw Joan.
She pointed above his brow. “There, on your head, your glasses,” she said.
He patted his head, looking confused. Mr. Pyle's clothing was faded. His pants were threadbare. When his hand touched his glasses, his eyes lit up. “Thank you, dear. You're new here.
You'll like it. All the volunteers do.”
“Oh, I'm not a volunteer.” She held out her hand. “My name is Joan Parker and I'm a friend of your daughter's.”
Harold Pyle glowered at her. “Daphne?” he asked. She nodded. “What d'ya' mean âare a friend'? She's dead. My girl is dead.” He whispered the last part then looked at her with a flint-hard gaze.
She wasn't sure what he meant. Was he confused? Most likely, she thought, he had disowned Daphne and she was dead in his books. She apologized for upsetting him, but he just waved her away.
After a moment he eased himself onto the bed then sat looking at the ground. “I'm tired now,” he said gruffly. “Go. Just go.”
As Joan pulled the door closed, he made one last comment for her benefit. “She had a baby, you know, a little girl. Cute little thing. Head full of curls.”
On the way out of the building, Joan stopped by to see Theresa Milton. She wrote a cheque as a donation to Mountain View Lodge and asked that it be contributed to the fund for clothing and incidentals. As she handed it over, she asked one more question.
“Did Mr. Pyle's daughter ever come to visit?”
Ms. Milton looked surprised. “I didn't know he had a daughter.”
Staff Sergeant Smartt didn't, or couldn't, hide his contempt. “Why don't we just put the entire town under house arrest, eh Theissen?” He sneered from behind the desk reserved for visiting officers.
Gabe turned his back on Smartt and did a slow count to five. The spacious office had been vacant since cutbacks had reduced the detachment by three personnel. When their Commander, Lou Takahashi, had retired, he hadn't been replaced. Once the reshuffling was complete, though, everyone knew that Gabe would be offered the title, and he was currently the de facto head of the unit. Until it was official, though, Gabe had decided to keep his old office. It was smaller than this one but it had a better view, taking in a sharp bend in the river and a copse of elms. This visitors' office, Smartt's temporary digs, doubled as a storage room. File boxes were stacked against two walls.
Gabe turned around again. “All I'm suggesting is that we ask some of the key witnesses to stay a few more days if it's convenient. Once they're gone from here, we have no choice but to open the investigation nationally.” Then he corrected himself, thinking of Sarah Markle and her husband. “Internationally. Time's running out.”
Des Cardinal, standing in the open doorway, added, “They're packing now. Most of them I talked to are leaving in the morning. We can thank Candy Dirkson for holding them here for the memorial this evening”
Smartt ignored Des and addressed Gabe. “Have you got anywhere on this case? Do you even have any suspects?”
Gabe produced a list and placed it on the desk in front of him. “Right here.”
Smarrt responded curtly. “This is one long list.”
“They're all people who have had some sort of conflict with Roger. None stands out more than another.”
“And Mrs. Chalmers death, are there suspects?' asked Smartt.
“We're working on Peg's case,” confirmed Gabe.
“And you've got nothing else?” Smartt was pointing to the folder Gabe was clutching. Reluctantly, Gabe withdrew another sheet from the folder and handed it to Smartt. Writing the report about Roger's two attempts to rape Joan had stung him deeply. If she hadn't made him promise, he wasn't sure he would have submitted it. Smartt's brow furrowed as he studied the report. Halfway through, he glanced sharply at Gabe then continued reading. When he finished, he spoke at a low boil. “How long have you known this?”
“I just found out,” answered Gabe.
Smartt's eyes bore through him. “You're aware that if you knew any of this prior to Rimmer's homicide it makes you a suspect as well?” Smartt's tone was official.
“You have no grounds to make that statement,” Gabe protested.
Smartt just sniffed and Gabe stifled further argument, knowing that the cop from Kamloops held the upper hand. Smartt looked down at the page, contemplating his options. “Theissen, you may think you're irreplaceable, but we have good men in the Major Crimes Unit in Kamloops; men I've worked with in the past and trust. I'm making some calls. In the meantime we're faced with time pressures that give me little choice but to keep you on this case. It might be one day, maybe two, before I can get more men here, but if you step one foot, one inch out of line, you'll be pulled off the case immediately.”
“Parker volunteered the information.” Gabe knew that he sounded defensive.
“We've never resolved the issue that she might have connived to have her name added to the invitation list,” said Smartt. “I've been doing a bit of digging. Turns out that this is the first time she's come back to this town in thirty years. Don't you ask yourself, âwhy now”?”
Before they could get into that argument again, Des meekly interrupted. He addressed Smartt but kept glancing at Gabe. “I'm sorry, sir. When Candy Dirkson called this morning and I told her that we were advising the reunion guests that they could go home . . . ” Des left it hanging.
Smartt grew impatient. “Yes?” he growled.
Des looked at Gabe. “She was calling, Gabe, to tell you that she'd remembered something. Peg Chalmers told her that Daphne Pyle had contacted her. She had called out of the blue about a month ago when word started getting out about the reunion. Ed Fowler had created a Facebook page for the reunion and posted it on craigslist and Ms. Dirkson thought it might have been Daphne Pyle who put the idea in Peg's brain to add her and Ms. Parker to the invitation list.”
“For God's sake,” Smartt interrupted. “That's not proof of anything.” But Gabe knew that Des had just bought Joan a “get out of jail” card. Smartt lifted his large frame from the chair. “I'll go talk to Candace Dirkson myself. Enough of this touchy-feely, old-home-week style of investigation.” He pulled his jacket from the back of his chair. “And you may not request anyone to stay in Madden any longer. Once they're gone, I'm moving the case to Kamloops. I don't believe you're focused on this case. “
“What do you mean?” Gabe felt the hair rising on his neck.
“Joan Parker. Has anyone told you that it's inappropriate for a cop to chase after a suspect? Not to mention plain bad taste.” Smartt strapped on his gun and left the office.
Des piped up. “I never told him, Gabe, about, you know.”
Gabe knew that Des was embarrassed about the incident before the Stanfield party, when he'd seen his boss making out with a woman who was not his wife.
“I didn't realize I was under investigation,” Gabe said wearily. Then he left the building.
Joan knew that something was seriously wrong as soon as she heard Hazel's voice on her cell phone. She raced from Mountain View Lodge directly to the hotel and pulled into the parking spot reserved for check in. She watched the elevator numbers slowly light up in descending order. When it stopped on the third floor for what seemed like an eternity, she decided to take the stairs up the six flights. She was out of breath by the time she reached room 610. Hazel opened the door at the first knock. Her grey hair stood on end and she wore the long, tent-like dress that she'd been wearing when she arrived at Joan's motel room the previous night. Her eyes were red.
“Her purse and coat are gone and that's it. I just got off the phone from housekeeping. They haven't been to this room yet. That means the bed hasn't been slept in.”
The last time Joan could remember seeing Hazel this distraught was when she'd told her and Gabe that she was moving to the city with her mom and brothers.
“Who does Lila know in town?” she asked.
“Nobody. Not really. She's been here with me a couple of times but usually keeps to herself. She's met Roger's parents and had dinner over there, and I've introduced her to folks this weekend, but that's it. Except for Gabe, and you've seen how she reacts to him.” She looked at Joan dolefully. “What if something's happened to her?”
The only comfort Joan could provide was reminding her that Lila was seriously pissed at her the previous night. Hazel admitted that it had been bad judgment, abandoning her and staying at Joan's, but then pointed out that Lila hadn't taken the rental car. Joan began to worry too. What if Hazel's partner had become a third victim? Unlike the others, he wasn't a member of the graduating class of 1979. Did Lila have something else in common with Roger and Peg? She didn't have a cache of bad blood going back three decades. Could they be dealing with a psychopath who didn't need a logical excuse to kill? Joan convinced Hazel to phone Gabe, but the call went directly to voicemail.
While Hazel waited for Gabe to call back on the landline, Joan went out to look for Lila. A woman with a big purse and a bagful of resentment had the means and motivation to disappear. Death was only one possibility.
M
ADDEN WAS SMALL ENOUGH THAT ONE
could cover the streets by car in a half hour. When Joan found herself on the outer edge of town, she kept driving down the highway, whizzing past the sign indicating that Elgar was sixteen kilometers further on. Perhaps Lila had returned to the motel where she had spent Friday night arguing with Hazel. The hefty wind was sending clouds sailing across the sky, and occasionally a fierce gust forced Joan to hold tightly to the steering wheel. Aside from her visit with Gabe yesterday, she couldn't remember the last time she'd been to Elgar. As a kid, she hadn't had much reason to come down the road to the neighbouring town. Back then it had been considered Madden's rougher sister. None of her miniscule circle of friends had lived there, and the only school was elementary so there'd been no exchange in extramural activities.