Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (301 page)

Jethro had left the group again and was walking through the debris they had salvaged and spread out in the sun. They had opened all the dry bags and sifted through the contents for identification.

“Their tents are missing,” he said, so quietly that the others had to go closer. “And their sleeping bags and personal backpacks.”

“You’re right,” Elliott said. “Half the camping equipment is missing.”

Jethro nodded. “And none of it has shown up downstream.”

“They weren’t here!” Green cried. Long-abandoned hope slammed through him. “The night the storm hit, they weren’t even here. That’s it! They left their canoes and some of their heavy gear here, but they’ve gone.”

Excitedly the four of them scanned the mountains, as if certain the four small figures would be visible perched on some distant slope.

Green grabbed Elliott’s arm. “We’ve got to figure out exactly where that mine is.”

Elliott was already pulling out his phone. “I’ll call this in to SAR. They can do flyovers and start concentrating their search area.”

Jethro called his dog to his side. “I’ll see if we can pick up a trail from the perimeter. A lot will be washed away but maybe I can figure out what direction they headed.”

Juggling his GPS, maps, and phone, Elliott had headed across the rocks to the canyon top where he could get a signal. Green could see him on the phone reporting in to Bugden and tracing routes on his map. Afterward he stayed where he was, his head bent over his map. Green watched with mounting excitement as Elliott trained his binoculars on a distant peak.

Sullivan had made himself useful brewing fresh, strong coffee, and he brought a cup over to Green. “We’re closing in, Mike. We’re going to find her.”

Green fought a sudden tightness in his throat. “When I saw this mess here, I can tell you …”

“Me too. But you’re right, they’re off somewhere. Completely oblivious to the fact we’re all scared out of our wits and half the territory is looking for them. When we do find them, do I have your permission to personally strangle her?”

Green gripped his cup in two hands to steady himself. He sipped his coffee, which was strong enough to straighten hair. Shook his head. “You’ll have to stand in line.”

“How about Scott?”

“Absolutely. Although I suggest beheading. But Hannah … I think I’m just going to hug her and maybe never let her go.”

“Yeah. I hear you.”

They watched in silence as Elliott began his descent toward them, jumping nimbly down the rocky slope. He was holding his map in one hand and binoculars in the other. As he drew nearer, Green could see the excitement on his face.

“I think I know where they went!” he cried when he was close enough. He flung himself down on the gravel beside them and spread his map out on the upturned canoe. “Those words that were handwritten on the will? That we thought were directions? I think it’s a coordinate. I think Scott’s grandfather, or whoever pencilled the notes in the margin, was trying to pinpoint a location but in a way that wasn’t obvious. A clue to be deciphered.”

He held out the paper on which they had written the claim number and the mysterious code:

60 to Dawson, 20 miles to Nahanni, 128 days 30 miles to Watson.

“If we use the numbers and the first letter of the words, we get sixty degrees, twenty minutes north, by one hundred twenty-eight degrees, thirty minutes west.”

Green grabbed the map. As he traced the measurements, his hope faded. “But that’s way off! The one hundred twenty-eight longitude is close, but sixty latitude is on northern Alberta.”

“Exactly, but what if we read it as ‘sixty-two’ and ‘twenty-two’ instead? If I’m not mistaken, that coordinate is the top of that mountain right over there.” He pointed to a tall, rounded mountain inland from the river. It loomed in the sunlight, smooth, barren, and serene.

“That’s where they’ve gone.”

Chapter Sixteen

Edmonton, July 13, 1944

Mon Cher Guillaume,

I’m sorry I have not written, but I have not had good news before this. The pipeline is completed now, so they don’t have need of workers anymore. I have a plan for a new job, and if it works, I will make much more money.

I hope you are well, and the trapping was good this winter. Does all go well with Lydia and the baby? I long to see Nicolette and my new daughter, who is named Isabelle after Maman. I miss them more each day. I think I will settle in Nahanni Butte after the war. That feels more like my home than New Brunswick or Whitehorse ever did.

I promise to send money to Northern Rubies as soon as possible so we can build up the capital for a new exploration. Can you give some to Nicolette? I don’t know when I can write to you again, but I will when I can.

Try to be patient. I am doing what I can for our future. Don’t tell Maman about Nicolette.

As always, P’tit Gaetan.

Whitehorse, July 21

 D
espite a very late start to his day, Chris was having trouble mustering any sense of urgency. His body was singing and his mind a delightful, hazy mush. He’d been wakened early enough by the soft nuzzle of lips on his shoulder, moving down to the small of his back. He’d rolled over and she had not missed a beat. His navel, his thighs, his knees…. When she reached his toes, he’d wrapped his fingers in her long tumbling hair and drawn her to him.

They had not left the bed until almost eleven, when Olivia had glanced at her watch with a gasp. “I gotta go!”

“Where?”

“Another meeting. Boring academic stuff.”

He pulled her back. “It’s Saturday.”

“I know, but my prof is in town on some consultant gig and he wants me along. Corporate brunch.” She made a face. “I’m window dressing. Besides, don’t you have cop stuff to do today?”

He sighed. She was right. He had managed to persuade Sergeant Nihls that he needed another day in Whitehorse in order to follow up on Victor Whitehead. The truth was, however, that he could have wrapped up that lead yesterday and been out of town before sundown. The promise of Olivia had kept him here.

He hadn’t quite believed she would actually show up last night, so he’d had a thousand excuses stockpiled in his mind if she hadn’t. She couldn’t get the extra night off, her meeting ran late, her professor had other plans for her. That last one scared him the most. Admittedly, he didn’t know much about postgraduate school or research consultants, but he could think of no plausible reason a professor would insist on flying his graduate student all the way to Whitehorse to hold his hand during meetings. Unless he wanted to do more than hold her hand.

If so, how could Chris hope to compete?

True to her promise, however, Olivia had bounced into the hotel bar only five minutes late. When she enveloped him in a kiss, he vowed to keep his childish insecurities to himself. Even if the professor had entertained other hopes for this business trip, she had obviously dashed them.

He fought back a renewed stab of jealousy now as he watched her pull on her jeans and zip them over her flat, sexy belly. He reminded himself she had chosen him last night over the professor, who was rich, powerful, and way smarter than he was. That morning, on a scale of one to ten, Olivia was a twelve. Everything else, including Sergeant Nihls’s orders and Victor Whitehead’s meeting with the outfitter, had plummeted below one.

“I do,” he replied. “But I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Will you be still here tonight?” He had no idea how he’d swing that with Nihls, but he’d find a way.

Placing her finger to his lips, she shook her head. “But don’t worry, flyboy. Next time I’m in Fort Simpson, you won’t escape me.”

“Lunch at least?” He winced. He was whining.

She laughed. “Wasn’t that lunch? But maybe coffee later, if I can get away. What do you have planned today?”

“I have to touch base with Whitehead. I missed him yesterday.”

“Oh, right. About his relationship to Scott.”

“Yes. I talked to his mother yesterday, and it looks like he might have known about Scott all along. Looks like he might have known about the rubies too.”

Her eyes flew open. “How?”

“That’s what I have to check.” He grinned. “And if you meet me for coffee …”

She sat on the edge of the bed and slid her feet into her sandals, wiggling her toes. “You devil, you. Is that a bribe, officer?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She was out the hotel room door in a flash, her musky scent lingering in the air with the memories. He showered and dressed in a daze, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other to begin his day.

His first stop was Isabelle’s house. Sergeant Nihls had torn a strip off him for neglecting to take the red rock sample with him. “Of all the fool things, Constable!” he’d said. The phone line had practically snapped taut at the urgency of his voice. “We need to have the damn thing analyzed.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant, sir.”

“It’s relevant to Scott Lasalle’s intentions, Constable! And, as such, to his possible disappearance. I’ve got half our SAR annual budget committed to this thing, an armed forces helicopter coming all the way from Winnipeg, and if this thing is going to blow up in my face, I damn well want to know so I can pull the plug!”

Put that way, Chris could see the sergeant’s point. If Nihls dragged not only his own staff, but civilians, park staff, and even the goddamn Canadian army into this search, his ass would be in a sling if it proved a wild goose chase. Nihls might be stuck commanding remote northern detachments for the rest of his career.

So Chris put Victor Whitehead’s follow-up on hold and headed back to Isabelle Lasalle’s house. This time she didn’t offer him tea or cookies. She barely invited him in.

“I really think, if you have more questions, you should talk to my son directly.”

“And I will, Mrs. Lasalle,” he replied, trying to keep his friendly smile in place. Why was she frowning? Why was she blocking the doorway? There was no car in the drive, no sign that Victor was there. “This is not about your son. This is about the contents of that crate. I wonder if the police might borrow it for a week or so.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m just a constable at a local detachment. Our experts would like to examine your mother’s diary and her other personal effects. To see if there are any more clues about what’s going on.”

“About Scott Lasalle, you mean.”

“Yes. About his disappearance.”

She folded her arms. “You want to test the stone, don’t you.”

He didn’t reply but his expression must have given him away. “No,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“No. I won’t allow you to analyze the stone.”

“Why not?”

“Firstly, I don’t like being misled. Secondly, I don’t like being taken for a fool. And thirdly, I don’t want to know if the damn thing is a ruby, and I don’t want anyone else to know.”

A slow flush crept up his neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you.”

“Yes, you did.”

He bit his lip. There was no escaping, except through the truth. “My boss did. I’m just the poor guy delivering the request.”

He was hoping she would laugh, but she grew red. Her eyes sparked. Stepping out onto the porch, she slammed the door shut behind her.

“Think for yourself, Constable! There are plenty of powerful people in the north, people who hire and fire cops, people who would love to see this part of the country opened up. They claim there’s a fortune under the ground up here. Enough to make us all rich and maybe even save the bankrupt south too. They think the territories can be the new Alberta, pave the streets with gold and give every poor little Indian a job. I’m having no part of it.”

He’d heard the arguments before, even broken up the fist fights in the bars in Fort Simpson. One side pointed to construction and service jobs for the locals, fat royalties to the First Nations who owned the land, and taxes to the governments. On the other side, the tree huggers, traditionalists, and conservationists argued about chemical leaks, global warming, soil erosion, contaminated watersheds, and the ruined balance of nature. Chris hadn’t figured out where he stood on things himself; he only knew the world couldn’t stand still.

“The analysis will be confidential,” he said. “The results will be known only to you and to the police —”

“And to all the lab workers involved in the test. Don’t underestimate the gossip chain up here, Constable. Before the report is even typed, someone will have told their cousin, who will tell their friend. The answer is still no. In fact, frankly I think your boss’s rationale for wanting the test done is suspicious.”

She was no longer red with outrage but she looked as resolute as ever. He knew he would not budge her. Not without a subpoena, which he had no wish to pursue. Her protest and her suspicions about Nihls’s motives had struck a chord. If Nihls really wanted the ruby identified, let him take charge of it.

“Okay, I accept that. But I have to ask you, do you think your son had it analyzed? Do you think he knows whether it’s a ruby or not?”

Her shoulders sagged, and the resolute snap vanished from her eyes. “I don’t know. I honestly can’t say, because I’ve paid no attention to that crate for years. I hope to hell he didn’t, but there was less dust on it than you’d expect. But I want you to know, in case he hasn’t got hold of it yet, that I’ve disposed of it. No one is going to be able to misuse it, ever again.”

When Chris phoned in his report, Nihls wasn’t as upset as Chris expected him to be. He made a half-hearted stab at reprimanding him.

“Did you ask her where she disposed of it?”

“Well, no, sir,” Chris said, flustered. “I didn’t think she’d tell me. But the stone is less than a cubic centimetre. You could hide it in plain sight in your river stone walkway and no one would ever find it.”