“Good morning, sweetie. It’s going to be a lovely day.”
“It’s going to be a lovely day for sleeping. Bye, Molly.”
“Hold on, Chris. I have something I want to talk to you about. Let’s have breakfast.”
“I don’t want breakfast.”
“How about George’s?”
“George’s?”
“Ten o’clock?”
Christa eyed the bedside clock. It was nine now. That would give her forty-five minutes to snooze and fifteen to get dressed. “Ten fifteen.” Then she could have an hour to snooze.
“See you then.”
Christa gathered her duvet from where it had bunched up around her feet and pulled it to her chest. Her upstairs apartment was too warm for cuddling under the blankets, but she didn’t mind. She needed to feel warm and cozy. Protected. If only by a Wal-mart duvet.
She was still sleeping when Molly Smith pounded on the door.
“Aren’t you going to get that buzzer fixed,” Smith asked, following her friend’s pajama-clad butt up the steep stairs to the second floor apartment.
“I told the landlord.” He’d brought a bunch of white carnations, browning around the edges, to the hospital. The bad-tempered downstairs neighbor, who made Christa’s life a constant misery, had complained about the noise that day, police breaking down the door, paramedics trampling the flowerbeds. The landlord had told her if she wasn’t happy she could move. The neighbor hadn’t moved, but neither had she stuck her head out of her window to yell at Christa since. For about a week, the landlord had been around all the time, asking if there was anything she needed. Then life returned to normal, and he hadn’t fixed the doorbell.
She left Molly looking out the window and went to get dressed. Christa’s bedroom was barely large enough for her double bed and an old dresser with broken drawers piled high with cardboard boxes used for storage. The closet doors didn’t open fully. She reached in and grabbed whatever came to hand. Beige capris with a tomato stain on the lap and a black T-shirt bought at a concert by the popular tribute band from Nelson, BC-DC. She ran her fingers through her hair and avoided looking at herself in the mirror over the dresser.
Molly was scratching at a mosquito bite when Christa came out. “Don’t do that. It’ll scar.”
“I’d settle for amputation if the itch would go away.” A droplet of red blood rose on the inside of Molly’s arm, and she pulled a tissue out of her pocket.
Christa turned her head away. They’d taken the clothes she’d been wearing when Charlie attacked her because they were covered with blood. Her blood. She thought she remembered seeing blood spraying out, drenching the walls of the entranceway. But perhaps that was only in her dreams.
“Your pants are dirty,” Molly said.
“So what? You’re not buying me breakfast to congratulate me on my fashion sense. Let’s go.”
Molly looked hurt. As Christa planned. Molly was a cop, wasn’t she? If she’d done her job better she, Christa, wouldn’t have been beaten up, would she?
She scooped her keys off the side table. In the back of her mind she knew it wasn’t her friend’s fault. Molly couldn’t have followed Christa everywhere, gun out and at the ready. And only that would have stopped Charlie. But someone had to be held accountable. She had to blame Molly. Otherwise the only person Christa had to blame was herself.
Yesterday, Christa’d added an extra course to her next term’s load: the psychology of survivor’s guilt.
Lucky’s old Pontiac Firefly was parked at the bottom of the street.
“I love this car,” Christa said, climbing in. It was the first words they’d spoken since leaving the apartment.
“
This
car? It’s a wreck.”
“It is so your mom. If Lucky was a car, this would be her. Do they laugh at you at the police station when you come to work in it?”
“Tell you the truth,” Molly said, “they do. Dave Evans wants to use it for target practice. Practice stopping a fleeing vehicle. He has images of himself in a car chase a la
Bullitt
and bringing down the bad guys in a hail of gunfire. Oops. I shouldn’t have told you that. Really, Chris. Don’t repeat it. I could get in real trouble talking about a fellow officer like that. And he’s higher up the food chain than me.”
“I’ve no one to repeat it to. What’s
Bullitt
?”
“An old movie. One of my dad’s favorites. Starring Steve McQueen, the bad boy of his day.”
George’s was a popular place. They got the only empty table, in the back corner next to the kitchen door. One of their school classmates was waiting tables. He threw menus in front of the two women and took coffee orders, with a muttered “How ya doing?” his eyes sliding away from Christa’s face in embarrassment.
A red fist closed around her chest. “Jerk,” she said to herself.
But Molly heard. “Who? Kyle? What’d he do?”
“He’s still here, isn’t he? He’s been working here since we were all in Grade nine.”
“His dad owns the place. You know that.”
“So. He’s a no-account.”
Molly concentrated on the menu, although she probably knew it by heart. Christa scanned the price list. Crab cakes was the most expensive breakfast item. So that’s what she’d have.
“How’s things with the baby?” Christa asked. Talking about Lucky seemed to sooth some of the anger always threatening to choke her.
“The same. It screams instead of sleeping. Mom doesn’t sleep. I don’t sleep. Her friends from yoga class came around the other day, wanting to help. All they did was pace around with the screaming kid, one after another.”
Christa looked at her friend. The delicate skin under Molly’s tired blue eyes was dark.
“Dad’s sorta getting into the parent thing a bit. He was feeding the monster this morning so Mom could have a long soak in the bath. It’s just plain weird.”
Kyle brought plates piled high with crab cakes and
huevos rancheros
. He smiled at Molly, who was always pretty no matter what sort of night she’d had, and avoided looking at Christa.
Idiot
.
“This coffee isn’t very good. Take the cup away, and I’ll have a cappuccino instead.”
“Sure, Christa.” He picked up the unwanted mug.
Molly applied salsa liberally to her food. “I have something to tell you, Chris.”
“I knew it. Charlie’s out, isn’t he. He’s coming back to town. Back to me. To finish the job.” She pushed her plate away.
“No. It’s good news. Sergeant Winters called me this morning. He asked if I wanted to tell you what’s happening rather than him. And I do.” Molly smiled at her, a mess of tortilla, beans, egg, and cheese speared on her fork. “The prelim was yesterday and Charlie pleaded guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Yup. Guilty as sin.”
Tears rose behind Christa’s eyes. A great weight lifted off her chest and for the first time in weeks, she felt that she could breathe. “That is so great.”
“He got six months.”
She should have known it was be too good to be true. Her burst of enthusiasm shattered as if someone had popped her birthday balloon. The tears dried up. “Six months?”
“Hey, that’s good, Chris. Good.”
“He’ll be back in six months?”
“He’s got no reason to come back—he doesn’t have any family here, and no job to speak of. But listen to me. Sergeant Winters told the judge Charlie’s an ongoing threat to you, and that if he was released on bail, the Trafalgar City Police had reason to believe he’d be back after you. So no bail. I’d guess Charlie’s lawyer told him it would be six months to a year before his case came to trial, so he might as well do the time straight up.”
Kyle brought the cappuccino. Cinnamon had been sprinkled across the top. “I hate cinnamon,” Christa shouted. “Take it away and bring me another. Fast.”
The people at the next table looked up.
“Who anointed you belle of the ball?” Kyle said, picking up the cup.
“Christa, listen to me, and stop taking all your anger out on Kyle,” Molly hissed across the table.
Christa pushed her chair back. “I don’t have to listen to you.”
“Don’t you dare walk away until you’ve heard me. John Winters went to bat for you, Chris.” Molly waved her fork in the air. “He fought, hard, to keep Charlie behind bars. Six months for an assault that did not result in permanent injury or disfigurement is not a bad sentence. You don’t like that, take it up with the Justice department, but don’t take it out on Kyle or on me. Six months isn’t a lark. You used to watch
Prison Break
on TV, right? Well six months in provincial jail isn’t like that for sure. But it isn’t a Girl Guide picnic either. After six months guarding his ass, or maybe not, Charlie’ll have forgotten all about you.”
Christa felt as if she’d been stung by a wasp. Molly was genuinely mad. She was keeping her voice low, but the anger was so close to the surface that Christa would have preferred it if she were yelling and screaming and making a scene.
Molly threw her napkin on the table. The end dipped into a puddle of refried beans and soaked up sauce. Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood up. She pulled two twenties out of her pocket and threw them on the table. Far more than the meal cost. “Finish your breakfast. You’ve made enough of a scene over the coffee, you might as well be here when it comes. A nice thank you note to John Winters would be the polite thing to do. But I won’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen.”
She walked out. The entire restaurant, staff and diners, watched her go.
Kyle put a fresh cup of cappuccino, without cinnamon, in front of Christa. He nodded toward Molly’s unfinished plate.
“Guess I can take that away, eh?”
***
“This interview is being recorded. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll begin. This is Sergeant John Winters of the Trafalgar City Police with Julian Armstrong. It is August the 31st at 11:00 am. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Can I say something?”
“Say whatever you like.”
“This is a farce and a travesty of justice. I’ve done nothing at all to have been brought here.”
“Which is what this interview will determine, Mr. Armstrong. Tell me about the woman known as Ashley Doe.”
“You don’t even know her last name, and you’re trying to pin something on me.”
“I’m not trying to pin anything on anyone. And it’s because I don’t know her last name that I have to resort to bringing you in, Mr. Armstrong. Because I think you know more about Ashley than you’re telling me. Do
you
know her last name?”
“I do not.”
“Tell me what you do know about her.”
“Ashley is, was, a client of the Trafalgar Women’s Support Center. I volunteer there on a casual basis to provide counseling, particularly but not exclusively addiction counseling, to women who request it.”
“Did Ashley request counseling?”
“She did not. And I did not provide counseling to her. But she was a client of the center and so I saw her there sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Sometimes.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t remember. Once or twice. No more than twice. I’ve only just arrived in town. She had a baby, a young baby, and so she came to the center. They provide formula, diapers, that sort of thing. Plus support and education for new mothers. A most worthwhile endeavor.”
“I’ve no doubt about that. So that was your only contact with Ashley? When she was a casual visitor to the center?”
“Yes.”
“Since Vancouver?”
“Huh?”
“That was your only contact with Ashley since you were both in Vancouver?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s no secret that I moved here from Vancouver in July.”
“Did you have contact with Ashley in Vancouver?”
“No. I would have told you if I had.”
“When was the first time you met Ashley?”
“I can’t remember. I don’t keep a log of every person I meet. Do you?”
“When was the first time you met Ashley?”
“Let me think, will you? I got here, to Trafalgar, on July 21st. I went to the support center almost straight away to volunteer my services. That was maybe the 23rd or 24th. I don’t remember what day it was that I saw Ashley for the first time. A week after that, maybe? Hey, you know who might remember? You can ask Mrs. Smith. Lucky Smith. Ashley and her baby were with Mrs. Smith when I came in one morning. I remember now. Mrs. Smith introduced us. Lucky and I knew each other when I lived in Trafalgar a number of years ago.”
“I’ll check with Mrs. Smith. That was the first time you met Ashley? I don’t mean the first time in Trafalgar, or the first time since the moon was in the seventh house. The first time, ever?”
“On my mother’s grave.”
“I don’t care about the state of your mother’s health. Was that the first time you encountered the woman we know as Ashley?”
“Yes. Yes. Sometime in late July in the presence of Lucky Smith.”
“Okay. Can you think of any reason Ashley told a friend she knew you in Vancouver?”
“What the hell is this? I told you how it happened. I don’t care what some addle-brained, drug-soaked, purple-haired friend said. Maybe Ashley confused me with someone else. You of all people should know what the minds of these druggies are like. Mush. Pure mush.”
“Ashley was not a druggie. By all accounts she was a sober, clean, responsible mother.”
“Whatever. Can I go now?”
“Soon as you’ve told me about your involvement with the Vancouver police. I gather you’ve come to their attention before. Something about inappropriate advances in your professional capacity.”
Sound of a chair falling to the floor.
“What the hell? That has nothing to do with anything. The bitches pulled back, soon as court and judge and proof and all that legal stuff were mentioned. Women of a certain age, they get, well, I hate to say delusions, but they’re seeing a counselor for a reason, you know. Risk of the job. Come on, John, you must know how it is.”
“No, I don’t know how it is. I’ve always trusted middle-aged women more than I do most people. You’re saying these women made up the accusations against you?”
“Proof is in the pudding. Did it go to court? No. Were charges laid? No. That’s all I need to say.”
“Tell me once more about your relationship with Ashley.”