Strange Things Done (15 page)

“That I don’t remember where we went that night.”

Byrne squinted into the snow. “And did he believe you?”

Not really,
Jo thought. “Yes,” she said.

“Sometimes we don’t truly forget; we just refuse to remember.” Byrne glanced at her.

“Why would I want to do that?” Jo asked.

“You tell me. Are you ashamed about what happened?”

“I have no idea. What
did
happen?” She felt a hot flash of anger. “I want to hear it from you.”

He glanced at her, but she couldn’t read the expression on his face. “It would be easier to show you than to tell you … I could take you there now, if you’re sure you want to know.”

“I think you’d better drive me home, and tell me
exactly
what you said to Sergeant Cariboo when he asked if you were on the Bluffs the night Marlo died.”

“I denied it.”

“So we weren’t there?” Jo still hoped he’d refute the accusation. Hoped it was all a terrible mistake.

“No, we were there. I lied.” Jo felt her breath catch in her chest. “Until Johnny told me what had happened. To Marlo, I mean.”

He pulled the truck over, letting it idle next to a snow bank, behind Sally’s turn-of-the-century house. The parking lot was deserted.

“Why did you lie?” Jo said.

“You really don’t know?”

“No! What were we doing up there? I need you to tell me.”

Byrne’s haunting eyes bored into her, but he declined to answer. Jo began to perspire, a cold feeling. Stupid of her to accept a ride home with him again. She had no idea who he was or what he was capable of.

“What if I told you we were doing a little old-fashioned necking?” Byrne said, his eyes smiling, but also searching hers.

Jo felt a sudden rush of emotions. Elation. Mistrust. “Were we?” She fought to keep her voice calm.

Byrne looked mischievous. “Would it please you if we were?”

“So let me get this straight: you were sleeping with Marlo and you’ve been placed at the scene of her death. The night she died.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yes,” he said, watching her carefully. “Yes, I slept with her. But it wasn’t serious. And …”

“And you may have been the last person to see her before she died.”
I should leave.
Frank was forever telling Jo in college that 90 percent of victims know their attackers. She pulled her oversized parka tighter around her body. The air in the cab suddenly felt heavy, and she began calculating how many steps it would take to get from the truck to the front door. The space between them felt electric now, and Jo was overwhelmed by a deep, primal fear. She lunged for the door handle, but his arm shot out, barring her escape. Jo gasped, ready to scream, but felt the weight of his arm as his reach retreated, brushing against her leg as he withdrew. He had only been unlocking the door. She felt heat escaping in her breath, twisting in the air around her, and betraying her emotions. Byrne’s hand lingered a moment on her forearm.

Rattled, Jo seized the door handle, thankful for its cool, solid weight. “Well. Thanks for the … I’d better go,” she mumbled.

“I gather I’m not coming in for a coffee then?” His tone was lighthearted, but Jo felt shaken just the same. “What about the reenactment?”

“Maybe another time.”

“Jo!”

She glanced at him, without committing her whole body to turn toward him.

“Do you know where Sally was?”

“What?” Jo searched the back of at the house, looking for any sign of her housemate. The bedroom windows upstairs were black, but there was a light on in the kitchen. “Why?”

“Maybe you should ask her. That’s all I’m saying.” Byrne’s face was solemn now.

“Good night,” Jo said. She refrained from glancing back or waving as she walked away.

15

As Jo hastened to close the front door, she was met by a fiery blast of air, the squeal of a kettle, and the disturbing vision of Sally dressed in head to toe black PVC leather.

The faux leather glinted at every deadly curve as though Sally had just polished her entire body. She glanced up, snipping a little piece of thread on her sleeve. She picked up a riding crop and examined her reflection in a gilded, full-length mirror in the front entry, looking pleased. “Giddy-up,” she said, tapping the crop against her shiny backside.
Thwack, thwack.

“What the hell?” It was all Jo could think of to say as she rushed through to the kitchen to take the blackened kettle off the wood stove.

Sally glanced at Jo in the mirror from the entry room. “We’re hemorrhaging tourists—in a few days freeze-up will be here. Have to have an alternate business plan, so I’m gonna make myself a sweet website.” As though that explained everything.

“And here I am without a Halloween costume.” Jo headed back to the boot room to remove her jacket, now damp with melted snow.

“You’re in early. How was your date?”

“Strange. And it wasn’t a date.” She leaned in the doorframe.

“Hmm. You be careful with that one.” Sally gave Jo a look that was difficult to decipher. It might have been concern, or it could have been something else.

“Why? He seems … I can’t quite figure him out.”

Sally pointed the crop at Jo. “Which is ex-
actly
what makes him so dangerous,” she said.

“Dangerous?”

“Oh, he’s fabulous. Those
eyes
, right? He’s just not everything he seems.” Sally contemplated her reflection. “Then again … who is? Speaking of which …” She grabbed some tissue and stuffed it into her bra. The result seemed to satisfy her, as she put her shoulders back and smiled at herself. Her breasts were robotic and pointy, like some kind of deadly femmebot that might at any moment gun you down with her mammary glands.

“Hmm. Better,” Sally remarked.

“That’s funny, he seems to be saying the same thing about you.”

“Ha!” Sally looked surprised, but not displeased. “Touché!”

“Did you have something against Marlo?” Jo said, shrugging off her wet parka and tossing it onto an already cluttered bench.

“I had very little interest in Marlo at all. She was quite dull.” Something hardened in her expression.

“Did Marlo McAdam think Christopher Byrne was dangerous?”

Sally stared at herself in the mirror for a moment without saying anything. Without meeting Jo’s eyes. “That I don’t know.” She turned to look at herself from another angle, turning her back on Jo a little more.

“Do you think Byrne had any reason to kill her?” The heat of the wood stove in the kitchen made Jo’s wool sweater feel even itchier. She longed to tug it off over her head, but she didn’t want to take her eyes off Sally’s reaction for even an instant. She felt snow melting in her hair and trickling down her neck.

“Just because someone has a
reason
to do something doesn’t prove that they actually
did
it.” Sally raised an eyebrow at Jo.

“Meaning?” Jo tried to sound casual as she reached down to yank her Wellies off. Her cheeks and ears were burning now as they warmed up.

Sally sighed and clattered on high heels back into the kitchen, opening a peeling cupboard and pulling out a tin of Ghirardelli’s dark chocolate drink mix and two mugs. “
Meaning
that it’s common knowledge that Marlo and Chris had an argument a few weeks back, at Gertie’s.” Sally rummaged around in a drawer for clean cutlery and then began spooning decadent heaps of chocolate powder into the cups.

“What about?” Jo followed her into the kitchen. She leaned on the counter.

“Dunno exactly, but I do know that Marlo had been following him. They were finished after that. Not that they were ever, you know,
together
together. At least, not in his mind, I don’t think.” Sally stirred both drinks energetically, then reached into another cupboard to pull out a bottle of Bailey’s. She poured liberally.

“Was it about another lover?”

Sally shrugged, but her nonchalance didn’t seem quite honest. “That you’ll have to ask him yourself.” She smiled thinly at Jo.

“What time did you leave Gertie’s the night Marlo died?”

“Pardon?” Sally looked surprised, but not particularly upset by the question.

“Byrne suggested that I ask you. Why would he do that?”

Sally laughed again. “Oh, my goddess. He really did throw me under the bus, didn’t he? See what I mean? Dangerous!”

“Why would he do that?”

Sally blew softly on the hot cocoa, the heat swirling away from her. “Because he knows that there’s an exit at Gertie’s via my changeroom, so I could have left at any time without anyone noticing.”

“And did you?”

“No. But if I had, I certainly wouldn’t tell you about it.” Sally smiled and shook her head. She took a sip of the cocoa and burned her lip. “Ouch. Needs cream.”

Jo watched her housemate. “Why do you keep a photo of Byrne in Ol’ Bettie?”

Sally’s brow lifted a little, before she snapped, “Because shiny things amuse me. I also like sparkly, pretty objects. And glitter paint.” She turned away and began fishing in a drawer for something.

Jo nodded, aware of the subterfuge taking place.

“He likes you,” Sally said, pulling a pair of stainless steel beaters from the drawer and popping them into a pink electric mixer on the counter.

Jo avoided Sally’s eyes now. “Or he wants something.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Sally teetered over to the fridge and opened the door, leaving Jo with a view of her shiny backside as she bent to look inside.

“Hey, I was wondering …” Jo hoped she wasn’t pushing her luck. She’d borrowed Sally’s truck twice already and had eaten several of her bagels. “… if I could borrow your truck again?”

“Absolutely not.” Sally emerged from the fridge with a carton of cream.

“What?”

“I’ve seen the way you drive in snow.” Sally drained cream into a bowl.

“But …” Jo was interrupted by the sound of cream being beaten into submission.

“Besides, I’ve got some time to kill.” Sally raised her voice over the appliance and grinned. “I’ll give you a lift.” The machine made a whining noise as the whipped cream was a fait accompli.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jo said. Sally spooned the cream on top of the Baileys and chocolate and passed the steaming drink to Jo. The cream was already melting in a swirling pattern. “Thanks,” Jo said, and took a sip. A dreamy burn of alcohol and chocolate set a course for her muscles while the mug warmed her fingertips.

“Why not?”

Jo eyed Sally’s pleather and stiletto outfit and tried not to laugh. “I don’t think you’ll want to go where I’m going. It may not be totally … Well, above board. To be perfectly honest.”

“Ooh, now I’m definitely coming,” Sally said. She pulled out one of the beaters and licked off a thick dollop of cream.

Finding Claim 53 a second time proved to be much more difficult than Jo had hoped. The Chevy’s headlights strained against the primordial blackness of the bush and the blowing snow. Jo caught herself speculating whether this new storm could be the beginning of freeze-up. Was it cold enough to freeze the Yukon River? It sure felt raw. Jo wondered which roads would close, and whether she would be caught out in the middle of nowhere when it hit. If Sally had concerns, she kept them to herself, humming a little as she peered into the inky nothingness beyond the headlights.

Jo used the speedometer to gauge their progress, rolling the windows down to keep the cab of the old pickup from steaming up while Sally drove. The air was crisp with the scent of pine and snow, keeping her alert. On edge, even. The radio was off, but they were serenaded by the desolate music of wolves in the distance. Jo hoped they didn’t run out of gas.

The big boulder marking Claim 53 was almost entirely buried in snow, but the size of the rock marked the entrance like a flag. The “Beware of Dog” sign was already submerged. Sally pulled over and killed the headlights.

“Thanks for the ride. I won’t be long,” Jo said in a low voice.

Sally was quick to reply. “Oh, no. If you’re doing something you shouldn’t be …”

Jo interrupted her, “You don’t have to …”

“Then so am I.”

Jo pointed to Sally’s high-heeled boots. “You’re not exactly dressed for field work.”

“Nonsense. I can play soccer in these.” Sally opened the door, hopped down and kicked one sky-high heel toward Jo, as if to demonstrate. Jo frowned. She objected. In the end, though, she had no choice in the matter.