Bleeding Darkness Page 17

  “I heard you come in late,” he said, voice slightly accusing.

  “I needed some space.”

  Adam was staring at her with a look on his face that let her know he thought her behaviour was substandard and a let-down for the family. She stared back but didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t understand how close she was to cracking. He’d never backed down from anything. “Will you be home for dinner tonight, then?” he asked.

  “I’ll try.”

  “We need to support each other,” said Mona, her words an echo of Adam’s and Lauren knew that they’d been discussing her while she was out of the room. She was saved from searching for a retort when Evelyn’s footsteps sounded in the hall. They all looked toward the doorway. Lauren had successfully avoided her mother since the scene in the hospital. She steeled herself for what was about to happen.

  “All together then,” Evelyn said. Her voice lacked its usual volume and her movements were slow. Tired.

  Mona leapt up from her chair. “Sit here, Evelyn, and let me get you some tea and toast.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  Since when? Lauren thought as she met Tristan’s eyes. For a moment, she could tell that he shared the same thought and she looked down at the table before anyone noticed.

  “Of course you’re not a bother.” Mona’s voice swelled with forced gaiety and Lauren admired and hated her chirpy outlook in equal measure.

  “Well, I could use a cup of tea.” Evelyn ignored Mona’s offered seat and settled herself at the head of the table. She looked at Tristan and Adam, but not Lauren. “Are you getting any sleep at all, Tristan?” she asked, her voice as soft as it ever got.

  “Some.” He paused and seemed to realize that more was expected. “How are you feeling today, Mother?”

  “The grief comes and goes but I’m comforted that your father is not in pain any longer.”

  “I haven’t seen Antonia around,” said Mona, reappearing from the kitchen with a mug of tea that she set down in front of Evelyn. “Is she well?”

  Lauren leaned forward to listen.

  “I suppose I must get over to see her.” Evelyn sighed and picked up the mug with both hands. “She has these sick spells once and a while. She’s had them since I’ve known her. Her constitution is poor but the doctor hasn’t found a root cause.”

  “How terrible,” said Mona.

  “Was she married to Boris before she came to Canada?” asked Lauren. Everyone looked at her with surprised expressions on their faces. Lauren shrugged. “I realize how little we actually knew about the Orlovs growing up and I’m curious.”

  “Yes,” said Evelyn, her voice tightening. “They came from Romania after the revolution as a newly married couple.” Her eyes flicked across Lauren and back to Tristan.

  “How fascinating,” said Mona. “What did they do in Romania?”

  “Do?”

  “For work.”

  Evelyn drank from her mug and set it down. “Boris had a job as a clerk in the government. Antonia cleaned office buildings at night and looked after their home during the day. That was the normal life for women back then although I’m sure you young people today find it hard to believe. We cooked and cleaned and did laundry and that was enough for us.”

  “Goodness, I sometimes wish we could go back to those days!” Mona laughed. “With all I have to do juggling work and Simon, well, it’s not easy with Adam away so much. Did something happen to them in the revolution that made them leave … Romania, was it?” Mona was edging back toward the kitchen for the toast.

  “All these questions.” Evelyn’s voice was cross. “I suppose there was something that went on. The Orlovs didn’t speak of it and I never asked. Boris might have confided in David.”

  “We’re going to Brighton for a drive and lunch,” said Adam. “All of us except Lauren. Would you like to come with us?”

  “I could do with a change of scenery, so yes, thanks for asking. Why aren’t you coming, Lauren?”

  “I have a conference call with my office in an hour.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll be staying home tonight for once and out of the bar.” Evelyn stood as Mona set down a plate of toast and the jar of strawberry preserves from the fridge. “I’ve changed my mind about the toast since we’ll be having lunch soon. I’ll go put on some clothes for the outing.”

  Lauren took a grim satisfaction watching the looks on her brothers’ faces when Evelyn swept from the room. Even sunny Mona looked dumbstruck as she looked down at the uneaten toast and full cup of tea.

  Lauren knew her brothers hadn’t expected their mother to accept the offer of an outing but now they were stuck with her. So much for being the dutiful sons. “Well, if Mom doesn’t want it …” She reached for the toast and jam and pulled it across the table. “No point letting good food go to waste.”

  Lauren had only just wrapped up her conference call with Salim and two others in her Toronto office when she heard the family leaving downstairs. She glanced over at the bedside table. Eleven thirty. She walked to the window overlooking the driveway and watched the car pull away. Adam was at the wheel with Evelyn in the front passenger seat and Mona and Tristan in the back. For as long as she could remember, Evelyn never sat in the back.

  The sky was overcast and a wind had come up that rattled the glass and buffeted the house. No snow falling yet, although the wind lifted sheets of it from the ground and off the rooftops, giving the illusion of snow drifting down. The top tree branches were swaying back and forth in the wind, clumps of snow encrusted on their feathery boughs. The day had a gloomy, grey cast to match her mood.

  She went toward the stairs and stopped halfway down to look out the window in the direction of the Orlov house. She remembered her conversation with Antonia in her bedroom and felt the hum of disquiet start up again as she thought about the old woman lying in the semi-dark. Lauren had thought at first glance that Antonia was drugged but believed now that she’d only been groggy from sleep and flu. Yet, had she been disoriented enough to call Boris her brother in the first photo? Lauren had to admit that, on closer inspection, he had resembled Boris the man: same big ears and icy stare. In the second picture, Antonia had definitely been the woman posing with another man and two children. How could they be her family? Her mother had sounded certain about Antonia and Boris being married at the breakfast table and she should know the truth. Lauren hadn’t detected any sign of obfuscation in her voice. Was Antonia simply crazy in the head or muddled from being feverish and ill?

  She reached the bottom of the steps and entered the dining room, crossing to the side window that looked out over the Orlov property. A half circle of light spread in a yellow glow across the snow outside the basement window, but the rest of the lights in the house were off. Antonia should be in the kitchen by now preparing lunch for Boris as she did every day, according to Evelyn. Lauren smiled when she remembered her dad teasing their mom about neglecting him whenever he made their lunch those times she was off to the hairdressers or a PTA meeting. He’d wink at Lauren and they’d be co-conspirators buttering bread and stuffing as much as they could between the slices to eat in the living room in front of the television. “Don’t tell Mum I let you eat in here or we’ll never hear the end of it,” he’d say.

  God, I miss you, Dad.

  As she stood lost in thought, the Orlovs’ basement light snapped off and a few moments later, the light by the back entrance came on. The door opened and Boris stepped outside, pulling on his black toque with his one good hand as he carefully negotiated his way down the walkway toward the street.

  Her father and Boris had been friends when she was growing up. Better friends than her mother and Antonia even though Antonia spent an hour or two every day at their house. Boris and her dad liked to build things and go fishing. Franco Delgado had a boat and the three of them would spend part of every decent weekend in the summer puttering around a lake or river north of Kingston. Sometimes, they’d sit in the Delgado backyard drink
ing whisky in the evenings, playing horseshoes, smoking cigars, telling jokes. All that ended with Zoe’s death. Oh sure, her dad and Boris still spent time together, but sadness replaced Franco as their third companion. Sometimes, she sensed guilt hanging over the two men for a reason that she couldn’t pinpoint.

  She craned her neck as far as she could before walking into the living room and standing in front of the window. She kept close to the heavy gold curtains, uneasy about Boris finding out that she was watching him. He stood, an old man hunched into his parka, looking down the street and checking his watch two times before a cab drew alongside. The driver got out and helped Boris into the front seat. They sped past her and turned left onto Sherwood. Boris was looking straight ahead and the cab driver was speaking into his headset.

  Lauren watched the taillights disappear and stood still, thinking this might be her only opportunity. Boris would likely be gone half an hour at least. She took one last look down the street and went in search of her boots and coat.

  She decided to approach the Orlov house from the road rather than crossing the lawn where her fresh footprints would stand out in the snow. Uneasiness was making her cautious but she didn’t want Boris to know she’d been by when he was away. She remembered the intensity of his stare whenever he would look at her even when she was a teenager. He was a man who missed nothing. She walked up the side of their driveway, keeping to the shovelled section. The path to the back door was trickier, but she tiptoed in the boot prints left by Boris on his way to the taxi. She hoped the drifting snow would fill them in before his return.

  She rang the bell and knocked several times, trying to peer past the lace curtains into the house. She wasn’t surprised when her pounding went unanswered and after a suitable wait, reached down to turn the doorknob.

  Locked. Damn it.

  She struck the door again with her fist before giving up. Antonia was likely upstairs in bed asleep. Wasn’t this getting odd? She’d been in bed since the day after Vivian went missing. Surely, if she was that ill, Boris would have taken her to the hospital. She’d always seemed like the one soft spot in his prickly personality.

  Lauren trod carefully in his footprints back to the driveway and was happy to see the blowing snow fill in the crevices behind her. By the time she reached her mother’s front door, she’d put away the seeds of worry by promising herself that she’d visit Antonia when Boris returned home from wherever he’d gone. Hopefully, Antonia would be lucid this time and clear up the mystery of her family, including her relationship with Boris.

  chapter twenty-five

  Kala spent the day researching the Ceauşescu years, perhaps sparked by Dawn’s discussion the night before about a book she was reading on the Dakota. “Did you know that the Dakota were advanced in agricultural practices when they fled up north into Canada from the U.S.?” Dawn had asked. “The Dakota also were instrumental in defending the Canadian border against the invading armies in the War of 1812.”

  “Did not know that,” said Kala, “although I’m not surprised.”

  “Why is that, Aunt Kala?”

  “Because we’re a resourceful people.”

  Dawn had dropped her head back to continue reading but not before Kala saw the ghost of a smile that looked a lot like pride. Their conversation had gotten her thinking.

  She needed to learn more about the people in Zoe’s life, starting with the neighbours and the Delgado family. The Orlovs and Franco Delgado were both first-generation immigrants. Franco and his wife would have come to Canada from Italy in search of a better life, but they hadn’t been running away from war. The Orlovs were another story. They were fleeing a tyrannical, harsh regime. Their similar yet distinct experiences contributed to who they were, how the Delgados raised their children, how the Orlovs interacted with their neighbours. She needed to dig deeper to understand the relationships amongst the three families.

  She was unsettled by the knowledge that David McKenna had moved Zoe’s body from his backyard onto the Rideau Trail, the information now supported by Boris Orlov. The murder site ruled out the killer being a stranger in her mind. According to Franco Delgado, the three men had been fishing buddies up until Zoe’s murder. He continued to believe that Tristan had killed his daughter because she’d broken up with him. Zoe had been best friends with Lauren, pulling the Delgado and McKenna families even closer. If for the purpose of this exercise, she went with the premise that Tristan was not the killer, who else had motive and access? Who would have followed Zoe into the McKenna backyard with a knife?

  Kala clicked through some sites and landed on one that gave the history of the Ceauşescu Communist dictatorship in Romania from 1967 until his Christmas Day trial and execution in 1989. His wife Elena was tried and executed alongside him.

  Savage. Brutal. Paranoid. Repressive.

  The words used to describe Nicolae Ceauşescu’s control over the country. Said to be more Stalin than Stalin. She clicked on the video of Nicolae and Elena in front of the tribunal on the day of their deaths and watched with increasing apprehension as the events unfolded.

  Locked forever in time, Elena stares severely into the camera, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, small but defiant-looking in her winter coat with a dark fur collar. Next to her, Ceauşescu looks drawn and tired in his black overcoat and tie, the last clothes he will ever put on.

  Kala leaned closer to the screen.

  An army officer in navy uniform and thick glasses reads out the charges in Romanian. The room is bursting with men in uniform, all standing while Nicolae and Elena sit on white chairs at a table. Ceauşescu gets to his feet, argues, sits again, argues, and is silent. The army brass leaves moments later and Elena and Nicolae stand up. She picks up her purse and an envelope from the table, straightens her scarf, adjusts her coat. He stands next to her, hat in hand. Officers in sepia uniforms move in and tie Elena and Nicolae’s wrists while Elena yells in anger. Nicolae’s voice joins hers as they struggle to stop what is about to happen. The camera work is blocked by the backs of the officers as they hustle the Ceauşescu couple outside. Moments later the sound of automatic gunfire, and then the camera passes over their lifeless bodies in the courtyard. Just over six minutes from sentencing to execution.

  Brutal.

  “What’s that you’re watching?” asked Woodhouse from behind her right shoulder.

  She jumped and tried not to let him know that he’d startled her. She minimized the picture on the screen. “Nothing important.”

  “Looks like you’re wasting time on the job.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I’m doing research.” She hated feeling the need to explain herself to him.

  “What kind of research?”

  She rolled back her chair and turned so that she was facing him. “I’m checking into the neighbours. The Orlovs.” She paused. “Do you want me for something?”

  “Someone has to go to Edmonton to talk to Tristan and Vivian McKenna’s neighbours, friends, and co-workers. I’m going to tell Gundersund that I’m sending you.”

  She thought it over while they locked eyes. His were daring her to contradict him. To put up a stink. She smiled. “Makes sense, although I haven’t actually been working on your team.”

  “The reason we can spare you for a few days.”

  “You make it sound like I’ve been sitting around doing nothing.” He made a face as if to say if the shoe fits that she ignored.

  He asked, “Have you got anything for me that links the Delgado murder to Vivian McKenna’s?”

  “No.”

  “Well …” he let his voice trail off. “Be ready to leave in the morning. Vera’s booking your flight and hotel. Sunday should be a good day to hold interviews since most of the people you need to talk to won’t be working.”

  “As long as Gundersund clears it.”

  “He will.”

  After Woodhouse went into Gundersund’s office, she tried to get her mind around two days away. She didn’t feel right about leaving
Dawn alone and would have to think of something. She got up and walked to the coffee machine to centre herself following Woodhouse’s interruption. Rouleau entered the office as she was pouring a cup and he crossed the room to join her. She poured a second cup and handed him one.

  “Haven’t seen you around much, stranger,” she said, sipping from her mug. “We miss you. I came by your condo last night to talk to you about something but you were out.”

  His eyes surveyed the room as they walked back to her desk. “I miss you too, and this office. How’s it going?”

  “It’s going. I thought I should broaden our background checks on those close to Zoe the summer she died and was doing research on why the Orlovs came to Canada in 1990. Apparently, in Romania during the Ceauşescu era, the secret police were keeping tabs on just about everybody. They kept files that indicated eavesdropping and surveillance of most of their citizens. They were called the Secretariat.”

  “You’re wondering if files were kept on the Orlovs.”

  “It’s possible, don’t you think? I don’t know how we’d ever find out, though.”

  Rouleau rubbed his chin. “I worked overseas on a task force for a couple of years after Frances left me. I made friends with a cop who works in Bucharest and we’ve kept in touch. I could give him a call.”

  The intangible tingling that came when she knew she was on to something travelled up her spine. She had to keep herself from being too hopeful. “It’s a long shot,” she said.

  “Sometimes the long shots are what pay off.” He studied her and said, “I’ll make this a priority.”

  “You never spoke about working overseas.”

  “I was part of a tribunal looking into war crimes. Heartbreaking work that took my mind off my own broken heart.” He gave her a wry smile.

  “I admire you for taking that on.”

  “The experience was eye-opening. The Orlovs could have suffered a past that they’d like to forget. The Romanian regime under Ceauşescu was increasingly repressive as it went along. Many people who spoke out disappeared into prisons where they were tortured and quietly killed.”